The next day brought 'health screenings' for all the new arrivals to the camp. Still wondering about what had transpired the day before, Frank queued up in the morning with the Murtons to be shuttled over to a field hospital set up a few minutes from the camp. A collection of around sixty large tents, trailers and vehicles, the field hospital saw to the medical needs of both the refugee camp and the military units in the immediate area. As Frank hopped off the heavy truck that had driven them over, he could see construction beginning on more permanent facilities next to the tent facility.
Well, someone was confident that the government could still hold Cincinnati, it seemed. Confident enough to start building more static medical buildings at least.
Inside one of the large tents, Frank received a check-up, including a harried looking medic examining the wound in his hip. Giving a grunt of slight surprise, the Army officer indicated the wound had received 'damn good' care under the circumstances, and just needed to be kept clean. It seemed he was a quick healer...though not as quick as he had been, of course. Frank himself would have to do his best not to exert himself. As Frank had explained he had no intention of running a marathon any time soon, the last part of the 'check-up' had come. Eyebrow arched, Frank watched as an orderly rolled up the sleeve of the red flannel he was wearing.
“Blood test,” she explained. “Totally routine. Want to check to make sure everything is okay in there, you know?”
Walking out into a stiff, cold breeze that had him lowering his knit cap over his ears, Frank gave that statement some thought. Sure, it made sense. They'd all been out on the road or in the wild for varying amounts of time, and they could have picked up all kinds of ailments. With so many people packed together, you wanted to be sure there weren't diseases being spread around.
And yet.
Was that trio of soldiers watching him more closely than usual? Frank waved slightly at them, and one nodded back, face impassive. Just his imagination perhaps?
Given everything that had supposedly taken place in the past five years, having someone bring influenza into the camp was probably not the biggest concern of the authorities.
Bringing something else in, some dangerous 'unknown pathogen' on the other hand...
Brow furrowing, Frank turned away from the soldiers to watch for the Murtons. If the powers that be were concerned about someone bringing in the Zero Point Pathogen in one of its many forms, why not immediately test the survivors upon arrival?
A smirk crept onto his face. Could they have gotten away with it when half the survivors were still armed? Maybe that was part of it. Maybe they wanted a firm grasp on the camp's new population before they started testing. Now that they felt they had the situation under better control, perhaps they were more willing to start that task.
Frank glanced around at some of the other tents at the field hospital. Yeah. Under control. Maybe the Japanese government had convinced themselves of the same at Kaidan.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets and stamping his booted feet against the chill as the hazy overcast grew a little brighter with the rising sun, Frank pondered some of the possibilities.
The authorities knew what they were up against, and had some kind of plan. And apparently that plan didn't include immediately lighting them all up with machine gun fire. Not yet at least, he thought with a frown as he watched an olive-drab Stryker IFV go trundling past on some errand or another.
Or, the authorities were still somehow ignorant after five years of occult disaster. Maybe they really were just testing for things like the flu. That seemed like a stretch at this point, in Frank's mind.
Or the worst possibility. They were still ignorant, but thought they had a proper plan.
Seeing the Murton family exit one of the tents, he started to amble in their direction.
Where did all of this leave him?
Issac greeted him with a half hearted wave and a sour look.
“Needles. Hate needles.” Jessica smiled at her husband, patting his arm.
“Everything that's happened to us and you're still bothered by a little poke. You doing okay, Frank? Look like you got some deep thoughts there.”
Frank gave Jessica a half-hearted smile.
“Yeah, deep thoughts. Deep as I ever get, anyhow.”
Those deep thoughts continued during the ride back to the camp. Unless something had radically changed in the five year he could not account for, infection by the ZPP ended badly.
Physical contamination with the 'black oil' variety of the ZPP was a death sentence for mundanes. Even for some supernatural creatures. He'd seen the effects on Solomon Island. Al-Merayah. The Carpathians. Kaidan. It was also quick in terms of overcoming its host, which led him to believe that none of those in the camp had come in contact with that particular strain. And he hadn't turned into a shit-eating monster, so Frank was going to assume for the moment he hadn't come into contact with it either.
All the talk of 'squid-heads' and the description of horrible ooze he'd heard from the Murtons and others seemed to indicate that strain was very much active in the United States, however.
There was another documented strain he knew of. As much as a dog faced grunt like him knew about anything like this. This strain had also been encountered on Solomon Island. An airborne strain.
What precisely it did seemed to depend very much on how much one trusted the science departments of the secret societies—and the word of a late conspiracy theorist. From what Frank could piece together from scuttlebutt and reports, it was an infection that made you susceptible to the 'music' being generated by some malign force off the coast of Solomon Island. It was the 'music'--be it telepathic command, occultech from another time, or whatever—that helped changed people, made them part of the Dreamers dream, made them do things they didn't want to do.
Like march into the sea and drown, to be reanimated by the vengeful draug.
If that understanding was correct a person could be contaminated and be a carrier for the rest of their life, as long as they didn't come into contact with the 'music' again. If that understanding was correct. If Frank actually had the measure of this strain. If he wasn't conflating or out right not remembering correctly, given he didn't even have a memory of the past five years.
If, if, if.
Frank looked at the faces of the other survivors who had made the trip to the field hospital. If somehow they had come into contact with the airborne strain but that second component had either been absent or prevented, they were all potential carriers—potential monsters.
None of them had been to Solomon Island though...right? None of them had come into contact with the Fog.
He glanced up at the hazy cover that prevented day from ever growing too bright, the constant overcast that had kept the world in a half-light state ever since Frank woke up in that West Virginia shack.
Unless, of course, that was the Fog.
He'd been exposed, of course. Once upon a time. During his initial deployment as a novitiate, then on several return visits.
Frank had also been exposed, sometimes heavily, to the physical contact version of the strain on many occasions. During the Long Siege in Agartha, in Kaidan, and beneath the shifting sands of Egypt. All of those times were when he was a 'Bee,' however. Anima infused. Functionally immune, at least to its ability to mutate and change. Whatever had cut him off from his transhuman nature and rendered him 'mundane' again hadn't reversed any of that.
If he ever was exposed again, however, he would be helpless.
The truck came to a stop back at the camp, and as he stood to make his way to the back of the open topped vehicle, Frank could see mobile kitchens had rolled up and people were forming lines for breakfast. Dismounting from the truck after him, Issac grumbled.
“Good. I need something after what they took.” In spite of the dark thoughts plaguing Frank's mind, he smiled at the man's belly-aching. Issac's wife shook her head, and looked down at her son.
“Andre, make a note of this for later—you're braver than your father when it comes to needles.” The curly haired boy nodded gravely.
“Okay, mom. I'm braver than dad.”
The four joined the lines as well. Some minutes later they had brought their meals back to their tents.
“Where do you think they got what they needed for pork sausage and gravy?” Jessica asked Frank, arching an eyebrow. Frank grinned back. With his status as 'mountain man' and survivalist with the Murtons, apparently he was to know everything about scrounging.
Fair enough. He knew quite a lot when it came down to it.
“I hate t' tell y'all, but they're probably workin' with MREs,” he answered, using a plastic spoon to shovel a portion of his breakfast into his mouth. Issac shrugged heavily, not batting an eye and kept right on eating.
Jessica and Andre gave each other a look, then continued with their meal as well. The likelihood of a truly fresh meal was low in their circumstances.
Later, more military trucks came by with garbage bags for the camp dwellers to dispose of their waste and to empty the many trash cans dotting the camp. As they did, individual refugees asked the same question.
Was there any word on transport? When were they being sent west?
Each time, they received more or less the same answer.
“I don't know, ma'am. I'm sure they'll send information the minute they know something.”
“No sir, I haven't heard anything. I know it's hard, but try to be patient.”
“Haven't heard a word on that. I just drive this truck.”
Rubbing his stubbled chin, Frank told the Murtons he was going for an after breakfast walk around the camp.
“Need t' stretch m'legs a bit,” he had grinned at them as he wandered off. The truth was the survivors questions had brought him back to the original plan he had had in mind after spending a few days with the Murtons.
Frank had questions, and those questions had only been answered in part by other survivors experiences. There was still a lot left unexplained, and he wasn't going to get his answers here. When Andre had shared the story of the 'Free Corps,' Frank had determined he would make his way to Iowa where they were supposedly based and seek answers in Sioux City. First, though, he'd make sure the Murtons got to Cincinnati. He was still enough of a Templar to want to do that.
Then they'd had the experience in Parkersburg, met up with the other survivors, and he'd gotten himself shot saving Maggie Chu. He hadn't been in any condition to go on his own. If he'd really wanted to travel light and fast he should have gone with the Lincolns, but that had never really been an option to Frank.
Grimacing as his early morning walk caused his side to twinge, Frank realized in many ways he still wasn't in condition to take off. As he made a circuit around the camp, under the wary eyes of the troops guarding them (or perhaps keeping them in?) he considered what he was to do.
The Murtons were safe in the camp, now. Rick, Annie and the Pattersons were somewhere in the camp as well, and as far as he knew they were in good shape.
If he could manage it, he could leave for Iowa in good conscience. Without his powers, it wasn't like they were somehow safer with him than they were with a camp full of military personnel. To find out what had happened to the world, his friends, and his abilities Frank needed to seek out the Free Corps.
But...
But what about his health? Not just his recovering hip, but whether or not he was infected? Should he wait to see if...if what?
Frank's eyes flickered briefly in the direction of a quartet of armored personnel carriers clattering by on a civilian road outside the airport camp. Should he wait to see if he got quarantined...or dragged off and 'neutralized' for the safety of others? Is that what he should do?
And what about the two he'd seen briefly during the altercation the other day? Miss Hippie Magic User and her friend? True, unlike his hip or other health considerations they weren't really keeping him here. But he wondered about them. Given how surprised camp personnel seemed to see them, he doubted they were with the government, though he supposed they could have been planted there by higher authorities to help keep the camp under control.
What if they were Bees, though? Anima infused, as he had been. Were they members of the Free Corps? If so, shouldn't he try to talk to them first? Hell of a lot closer than Iowa.
Frank snorted softly as he limped along the trail around the camp. Not that he really knew how to broach such a topic.
'Hey, so, you're probably trying not to stand out but I'm pretty sure you're a magic user and you just might be anima infused like I was, except now I'm not, and I can't remember the past five years but hey can you help me out?'
That's if he could find them. After a good twenty minutes more of walking, Frank's hip was protesting too much for him to continue, and he hobbled his way back to the tent he shared with the Murtons, waving off their concerns with a crooked grin. As he eased down onto the floor of the tent to rest, he could hear some soldiers outside. Hearing their inquiries to other refugees, Frank arched an eyebrow.
They were looking for those two as well.
No one had seen them. Or rather, no one was sure. Everyone asked about the two were slightly foggy on the matter. Even Frank found the details of what they looked like, how the woman sounded and more becoming less distinct in his head even just a day later. He was certain it wasn't just memory starting to fade from a brief encounter. He believed this too to be the effect of magic. And Frank figured the ONPSMI folks knew that it was magic also. It was probably best he not go around asking about the two while the authorities were still interested in the pair.
With another course of action stymied, Frank spent the next several weeks taking long walks. If nothing else, he could start the process of getting used to moving for moderate distances again. Not once in that time was he called back to the field hospital, and so Frank decided he probably wasn't going to turn into a squid headed monster any time soon. Life settled into a routine, with Frank keeping his ears tuned for any mention of the pair from the near riot, or for any other news.
As time went by and he healed, the Murtons asked more and more about Frank's life. He really hadn't shared very much thus far, and now that they were static once more there seemed no reason not to. So when he wasn't sleeping or out walking, Frank tried to provide what details he could.
That his family was mainly from Kentucky and Ohio, farmers and miners and factory workers more often than not. Relatively simple men and women who were hard working, dependable...and generally boring, he told them with a wry grin. Most of the entertaining family stories involved his great uncle Clancy, called 'Uncle Clancy' by the rest of the family regardless of how they were related to him. He'd managed to survive Vietnam, coal mine disasters, a serial killer, and a short but wreck strewn career in dirt track racing.
Frank didn't add that the reason Clancy had proven to be such a survivor was that he had the Calhoun family magic. Something he had possessed but now seemed cut off from just as surely as his other powers.
Over meals prepared by mobile kitchens, he told them of his sister Lauren—her talent, intelligence and shy charm. How the two had been best friends as well as siblings, and how her tragic death had changed the course of his life as he joined the Army out of grief and shame. There was no shame now as he relayed the tale, though. Frank had come to terms with what had happened some time ago, and had finally accepted he wasn't responsible. There was no condemnation in the dark brown eyes of his audience, either, which made the telling easier. Even still, there were times Frank would have to pause as emotions connected to old wounds swam to the surface of his consciousness.
Frank didn't tell them that she had had the magic, either.
Or that her psychic shade had ridden around in his head unknown until Kaidan. Echo had not spoken to him since the night before he woke up in this new reality. He tried not to think about it much. That he'd lost the last remnant of his sister in addition to possibly everyone else he had ever known was still too much to contemplate.
He'd gotten some arched eyebrows when he mentioned his job with 'Orion Logistics' as a private military contractor after he'd left the Army one night as they ate what they had been told was chicken cacciatore.
“What, you fought pirates?” Issac asked as he poked at the red brown swirl on his plate. Andre stared at Frank expectantly.
“Once. Just once,” Frank lied. All of it was a lie, really. Orion Logistics was part of the legend created for him by the New Templar spy organization ARTEMIS, and he'd kept it. In reality, of course, he'd been an operative of the Order of the Templars. And he'd certainly fought pirates more than once. He'd battled the Phoenicians on several occasions—along with the walking dead, demons, homicidal androids and denizens of loathsome dimensions.
Frank had also been anima-infused, a 'Chosen of Gaia.' A near immortal, perhaps trans or even post human being by normal reckoning. An occult dynamo, gifted to help protect humanity against threats it couldn't even be allowed to know existed. Til now, it seemed. Perhaps this is how Ages came to a close, with the great terrible picture revealing itself to all.
As with Clancy and Lauren's magic, Frank told them none of the truth about his former life as a Templar. How could he? Even if someone had managed to convince him it was somehow safe to talk about that now—and that would be a hard road to hoe indeed—Frank was just too well drilled at obscuring that life. It had meant safety for the mundanes that knew him, and had kept attention from being directed towards the Order.
So Frank told them about a version of himself. A much less exciting, much more believable version. And with his powers seemingly gone, it was more or less the version that he would live out his life as. However long that might be.
While the sky continued to be a haze of grayish cloud, the temperature started to drop with each passing day. Blankets were provided, along with heavier clothing for those survivors without enough. The 'suits' let them know that more permanent housing options would be made available soon. Many wondered, loudly, why they simply couldn't be driven into the city itself. It seemed mostly intact from where they stood, after all, and supposedly other military personnel were there. No definite answer was ever given.
Frank wondered if the city wasn't as under control as some thought. He wondered how Maggie Chu and her patchwork command were getting on. Better than him, he hoped.
During his wanderings through the camp, Frank also heard camp-dwellers guessing just how it was the new government in Cheyenne was going to get them west. Given the state of the country, a simple vehicle convoy going west seemed too hazardous. No one even considered flying, of course. Other theories were presented.
“A train,” said an older man with a hooked nose and thinning hair to anyone who would listen on one occasion. Frank had leaned against a generator and listened to him.
“A train, I tell you! Big, armored, with a prow like a battleship. Guns all over it. I've heard the soldier-boys talking about it, I swear. It'll pull up to that Amtrak station they got downtown, and whoop! We'll get loaded up and shipped west in bunches. Ain't no squid-head gonna stop that train.”
During another walk, it was boats that a black woman with a crutch had insisted upon.
“My granddaddy used to work on the rivers. Barges. I bet you that's how they'll do it. Barges on the Ohio, to the Mississippi then to the Missouri. No squid-heads on the rivers. I hear they don't like water. As long as they get moving before we start getting ice on the rivers, that is.”
Some didn't think any type of conveyance was going to happen at all.
“Doesn't fucking matter,” growled a sour looking young woman with dark yellow locks peeking out from under a knit cap. “Those folks in Cheyenne got no damned idea what they're doing. I should know; I'm here now because of how well they fixed Maine.”
That had gotten Frank's attention. The girl had grumbled and groused some more as she clutched a paper cup with coffee in it until those listening to her had moved on to find other things to do. She was cross legged on the ground on the side of a parked Army truck, using it to block the wind while it was being unloaded. Frank had crouched down next to her.
“You're from Maine?” She'd glared up at him, sipping from her cup before answering.
“Yeah, I was from Maine. What's it to you?”
“I...had some friends from there, once upon a time. We lost touch. What...what happened?”
“What the fuck do you think happened?” She snarled back, before clamping her jaws shut and shaking her head slowly from side to side.
“Listen, mister, I'm sorry about that. Really. But if you had any friends from Maine, I hope to God they decided to move somewhere else before everything went down.” Frank nodded at her, rubbing his hands together as his breath misted in front of his face.
“But what happened?”
She stared at him, rotating the cup in her hands. Finally she exhaled, her breath coming out in a white cloud also.
“I don't know why—they say the government was trying to stop something awful, something on the coast, but...okay, there's fucking chunks of Maine that are just gone. Sheet of radioactive fucking glass.” She snorted, hugging herself as Frank gawped at her.
“I guess the first few nukes weren't enough.”
It wasn't as if the answer was completely unexpected. Solomon Island had been on borrowed time all along; many had believed those on the rocky island who had survived the initial occult disaster had been dead people walking; they just didn't know it yet. And there had always been a plan by the U.S. Government to 'deal' with Solomon Island in a very quick and permanent fashion.
If that young woman was to be believed, E.X.O.D.U.S hadn't worked out quite the way it was supposed to.
Still, he felt a numbness inside that had nothing to do with the cooling temperatures. Frank had always held out a small sliver of hope that something could have been done for those there. Now that sliver dissolved and drifted away with the wind. They were gone.
Shuffling around another tent, Frank jerked to a surprised halt as he was suddenly in front of the ONPSMI man he'd met during his first week in the camp. Woods. That was his name.
“Hey there,” Woods said cheerfully. Frank fought the urge to narrow his eyes at the man.
“Afternoon,” he replied in a neutral voice. Woods carried on with that same dipshit used car salesman smile anyway.
“So, I couldn't help but over hear you had some friends in Maine. Well, while I don't agree entirely with that young lady's assessment...things did go pretty badly there. Still, I know some people...I could try to find out what happened to your friends, provide some closure at least. Just let me know what their names are...?”
Frank blinked a few times. It was all he could do to not start blurting out names.
Names like Sandy Jensen and Andy Gardener. Old Joe Cajiais. Annabel Usher. And more besides.
He couldn't. He couldn't say those names. The government had quarantined that island; ONPSMI in particular had been on the ground there. Frank had a feeling that no one was supposed to really know those names any more. Or if they did, they'd better have some connection to adjacent parts of Maine they could prove.
Woods was still smiling, expectant.
“Mayweather,” Frank said finally, folding his arms and putting his hands in his armpits for warmth. “Mike and Dottie Mayweather. Lived in Bangor. I appreciate anything you can do for me.”
“Of course! Anything to help, Mister...it's Fred, right? Fred?”
“Frank.”
“Sorry, Frank! Right. I'll let you know what I find out.” He'd then excused himself and moved on. Frank rubbed a hand over his face. Was he being too paranoid?
Was he not being paranoid enough?
Whether or not Woods suspected him of being more than he claimed to be became a less important point for Frank a few minutes later. Over loudspeakers, it was announced that the way west for around eight hundred of them was coming to the camp.
Tomorrow morning.
The next day brought 'health screenings' for all the new arrivals to the camp. Still wondering about what had transpired the day before, Frank queued up in the morning with the Murtons to be shuttled over to a field hospital set up a few minutes from the camp. A collection of around sixty large tents, trailers and vehicles, the field hospital saw to the medical needs of both the refugee camp and the military units in the immediate area. As Frank hopped off the heavy truck that had driven them over, he could see construction beginning on more permanent facilities next to the tent facility.
Well, someone was confident that the government could still hold Cincinnati, it seemed. Confident enough to start building more static medical buildings at least.
Inside one of the large tents, Frank received a check-up, including a harried looking medic examining the wound in his hip. Giving a grunt of slight surprise, the Army officer indicated the wound had received 'damn good' care under the circumstances, and just needed to be kept clean. It seemed he was a quick healer...though not as quick as he had been, of course. Frank himself would have to do his best not to exert himself. As Frank had explained he had no intention of running a marathon any time soon, the last part of the 'check-up' had come. Eyebrow arched, Frank watched as an orderly rolled up the sleeve of the red flannel he was wearing.
“Blood test,” she explained. “Totally routine. Want to check to make sure everything is okay in there, you know?”
Walking out into a stiff, cold breeze that had him lowering his knit cap over his ears, Frank gave that statement some thought. Sure, it made sense. They'd all been out on the road or in the wild for varying amounts of time, and they could have picked up all kinds of ailments. With so many people packed together, you wanted to be sure there weren't diseases being spread around.
And yet.
Was that trio of soldiers watching him more closely than usual? Frank waved slightly at them, and one nodded back, face impassive. Just his imagination perhaps?
Given everything that had supposedly taken place in the past five years, having someone bring influenza into the camp was probably not the biggest concern of the authorities.
Bringing something else in, some dangerous 'unknown pathogen' on the other hand...
Brow furrowing, Frank turned away from the soldiers to watch for the Murtons. If the powers that be were concerned about someone bringing in the Zero Point Pathogen in one of its many forms, why not immediately test the survivors upon arrival?
A smirk crept onto his face. Could they have gotten away with it when half the survivors were still armed? Maybe that was part of it. Maybe they wanted a firm grasp on the camp's new population before they started testing. Now that they felt they had the situation under better control, perhaps they were more willing to start that task.
Frank glanced around at some of the other tents at the field hospital. Yeah. Under control. Maybe the Japanese government had convinced themselves of the same at Kaidan.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets and stamping his booted feet against the chill as the hazy overcast grew a little brighter with the rising sun, Frank pondered some of the possibilities.
The authorities knew what they were up against, and had some kind of plan. And apparently that plan didn't include immediately lighting them all up with machine gun fire. Not yet at least, he thought with a frown as he watched an olive-drab Stryker IFV go trundling past on some errand or another.
Or, the authorities were still somehow ignorant after five years of occult disaster. Maybe they really were just testing for things like the flu. That seemed like a stretch at this point, in Frank's mind.
Or the worst possibility. They were still ignorant, but thought they had a proper plan.
Seeing the Murton family exit one of the tents, he started to amble in their direction.
Where did all of this leave him?
Issac greeted him with a half hearted wave and a sour look.
“Needles. Hate needles.” Jessica smiled at her husband, patting his arm.
“Everything that's happened to us and you're still bothered by a little poke. You doing okay, Frank? Look like you got some deep thoughts there.”
Frank gave Jessica a half-hearted smile.
“Yeah, deep thoughts. Deep as I ever get, anyhow.”
Those deep thoughts continued during the ride back to the camp. Unless something had radically changed in the five year he could not account for, infection by the ZPP ended badly.
Physical contamination with the 'black oil' variety of the ZPP was a death sentence for mundanes. Even for some supernatural creatures. He'd seen the effects on Solomon Island. Al-Merayah. The Carpathians. Kaidan. It was also quick in terms of overcoming its host, which led him to believe that none of those in the camp had come in contact with that particular strain. And he hadn't turned into a shit-eating monster, so Frank was going to assume for the moment he hadn't come into contact with it either.
All the talk of 'squid-heads' and the description of horrible ooze he'd heard from the Murtons and others seemed to indicate that strain was very much active in the United States, however.
There was another documented strain he knew of. As much as a dog faced grunt like him knew about anything like this. This strain had also been encountered on Solomon Island. An airborne strain.
What precisely it did seemed to depend very much on how much one trusted the science departments of the secret societies—and the word of a late conspiracy theorist. From what Frank could piece together from scuttlebutt and reports, it was an infection that made you susceptible to the 'music' being generated by some malign force off the coast of Solomon Island. It was the 'music'--be it telepathic command, occultech from another time, or whatever—that helped changed people, made them part of the Dreamers dream, made them do things they didn't want to do.
Like march into the sea and drown, to be reanimated by the vengeful draug.
If that understanding was correct a person could be contaminated and be a carrier for the rest of their life, as long as they didn't come into contact with the 'music' again. If that understanding was correct. If Frank actually had the measure of this strain. If he wasn't conflating or out right not remembering correctly, given he didn't even have a memory of the past five years.
If, if, if.
Frank looked at the faces of the other survivors who had made the trip to the field hospital. If somehow they had come into contact with the airborne strain but that second component had either been absent or prevented, they were all potential carriers—potential monsters.
None of them had been to Solomon Island though...right? None of them had come into contact with the Fog.
He glanced up at the hazy cover that prevented day from ever growing too bright, the constant overcast that had kept the world in a half-light state ever since Frank woke up in that West Virginia shack.
Unless, of course, that was the Fog.
He'd been exposed, of course. Once upon a time. During his initial deployment as a novitiate, then on several return visits.
Frank had also been exposed, sometimes heavily, to the physical contact version of the strain on many occasions. During the Long Siege in Agartha, in Kaidan, and beneath the shifting sands of Egypt. All of those times were when he was a 'Bee,' however. Anima infused. Functionally immune, at least to its ability to mutate and change. Whatever had cut him off from his transhuman nature and rendered him 'mundane' again hadn't reversed any of that.
If he ever was exposed again, however, he would be helpless.
The truck came to a stop back at the camp, and as he stood to make his way to the back of the open topped vehicle, Frank could see mobile kitchens had rolled up and people were forming lines for breakfast. Dismounting from the truck after him, Issac grumbled.
“Good. I need something after what they took.” In spite of the dark thoughts plaguing Frank's mind, he smiled at the man's belly-aching. Issac's wife shook her head, and looked down at her son.
“Andre, make a note of this for later—you're braver than your father when it comes to needles.” The curly haired boy nodded gravely.
“Okay, mom. I'm braver than dad.”
The four joined the lines as well. Some minutes later they had brought their meals back to their tents.
“Where do you think they got what they needed for pork sausage and gravy?” Jessica asked Frank, arching an eyebrow. Frank grinned back. With his status as 'mountain man' and survivalist with the Murtons, apparently he was to know everything about scrounging.
Fair enough. He knew quite a lot when it came down to it.
“I hate t' tell y'all, but they're probably workin' with MREs,” he answered, using a plastic spoon to shovel a portion of his breakfast into his mouth. Issac shrugged heavily, not batting an eye and kept right on eating.
Jessica and Andre gave each other a look, then continued with their meal as well. The likelihood of a truly fresh meal was low in their circumstances.
Later, more military trucks came by with garbage bags for the camp dwellers to dispose of their waste and to empty the many trash cans dotting the camp. As they did, individual refugees asked the same question.
Was there any word on transport? When were they being sent west?
Each time, they received more or less the same answer.
“I don't know, ma'am. I'm sure they'll send information the minute they know something.”
“No sir, I haven't heard anything. I know it's hard, but try to be patient.”
“Haven't heard a word on that. I just drive this truck.”
Rubbing his stubbled chin, Frank told the Murtons he was going for an after breakfast walk around the camp.
“Need t' stretch m'legs a bit,” he had grinned at them as he wandered off. The truth was the survivors questions had brought him back to the original plan he had had in mind after spending a few days with the Murtons.
Frank had questions, and those questions had only been answered in part by other survivors experiences. There was still a lot left unexplained, and he wasn't going to get his answers here. When Andre had shared the story of the 'Free Corps,' Frank had determined he would make his way to Iowa where they were supposedly based and seek answers in Sioux City. First, though, he'd make sure the Murtons got to Cincinnati. He was still enough of a Templar to want to do that.
Then they'd had the experience in Parkersburg, met up with the other survivors, and he'd gotten himself shot saving Maggie Chu. He hadn't been in any condition to go on his own. If he'd really wanted to travel light and fast he should have gone with the Lincolns, but that had never really been an option to Frank.
Grimacing as his early morning walk caused his side to twinge, Frank realized in many ways he still wasn't in condition to take off. As he made a circuit around the camp, under the wary eyes of the troops guarding them (or perhaps keeping them in?) he considered what he was to do.
The Murtons were safe in the camp, now. Rick, Annie and the Pattersons were somewhere in the camp as well, and as far as he knew they were in good shape.
If he could manage it, he could leave for Iowa in good conscience. Without his powers, it wasn't like they were somehow safer with him than they were with a camp full of military personnel. To find out what had happened to the world, his friends, and his abilities Frank needed to seek out the Free Corps.
But...
But what about his health? Not just his recovering hip, but whether or not he was infected? Should he wait to see if...if what?
Frank's eyes flickered briefly in the direction of a quartet of armored personnel carriers clattering by on a civilian road outside the airport camp. Should he wait to see if he got quarantined...or dragged off and 'neutralized' for the safety of others? Is that what he should do?
And what about the two he'd seen briefly during the altercation the other day? Miss Hippie Magic User and her friend? True, unlike his hip or other health considerations they weren't really keeping him here. But he wondered about them. Given how surprised camp personnel seemed to see them, he doubted they were with the government, though he supposed they could have been planted there by higher authorities to help keep the camp under control.
What if they were Bees, though? Anima infused, as he had been. Were they members of the Free Corps? If so, shouldn't he try to talk to them first? Hell of a lot closer than Iowa.
Frank snorted softly as he limped along the trail around the camp. Not that he really knew how to broach such a topic.
'Hey, so, you're probably trying not to stand out but I'm pretty sure you're a magic user and you just might be anima infused like I was, except now I'm not, and I can't remember the past five years but hey can you help me out?'
That's if he could find them. After a good twenty minutes more of walking, Frank's hip was protesting too much for him to continue, and he hobbled his way back to the tent he shared with the Murtons, waving off their concerns with a crooked grin. As he eased down onto the floor of the tent to rest, he could hear some soldiers outside. Hearing their inquiries to other refugees, Frank arched an eyebrow.
They were looking for those two as well.
No one had seen them. Or rather, no one was sure. Everyone asked about the two were slightly foggy on the matter. Even Frank found the details of what they looked like, how the woman sounded and more becoming less distinct in his head even just a day later. He was certain it wasn't just memory starting to fade from a brief encounter. He believed this too to be the effect of magic. And Frank figured the ONPSMI folks knew that it was magic also. It was probably best he not go around asking about the two while the authorities were still interested in the pair.
With another course of action stymied, Frank spent the next several weeks taking long walks. If nothing else, he could start the process of getting used to moving for moderate distances again. Not once in that time was he called back to the field hospital, and so Frank decided he probably wasn't going to turn into a squid headed monster any time soon. Life settled into a routine, with Frank keeping his ears tuned for any mention of the pair from the near riot, or for any other news.
As time went by and he healed, the Murtons asked more and more about Frank's life. He really hadn't shared very much thus far, and now that they were static once more there seemed no reason not to. So when he wasn't sleeping or out walking, Frank tried to provide what details he could.
That his family was mainly from Kentucky and Ohio, farmers and miners and factory workers more often than not. Relatively simple men and women who were hard working, dependable...and generally boring, he told them with a wry grin. Most of the entertaining family stories involved his great uncle Clancy, called 'Uncle Clancy' by the rest of the family regardless of how they were related to him. He'd managed to survive Vietnam, coal mine disasters, a serial killer, and a short but wreck strewn career in dirt track racing.
Frank didn't add that the reason Clancy had proven to be such a survivor was that he had the Calhoun family magic. Something he had possessed but now seemed cut off from just as surely as his other powers.
Over meals prepared by mobile kitchens, he told them of his sister Lauren—her talent, intelligence and shy charm. How the two had been best friends as well as siblings, and how her tragic death had changed the course of his life as he joined the Army out of grief and shame. There was no shame now as he relayed the tale, though. Frank had come to terms with what had happened some time ago, and had finally accepted he wasn't responsible. There was no condemnation in the dark brown eyes of his audience, either, which made the telling easier. Even still, there were times Frank would have to pause as emotions connected to old wounds swam to the surface of his consciousness.
Frank didn't tell them that she had had the magic, either.
Or that her psychic shade had ridden around in his head unknown until Kaidan. Echo had not spoken to him since the night before he woke up in this new reality. He tried not to think about it much. That he'd lost the last remnant of his sister in addition to possibly everyone else he had ever known was still too much to contemplate.
He'd gotten some arched eyebrows when he mentioned his job with 'Orion Logistics' as a private military contractor after he'd left the Army one night as they ate what they had been told was chicken cacciatore.
“What, you fought pirates?” Issac asked as he poked at the red brown swirl on his plate. Andre stared at Frank expectantly.
“Once. Just once,” Frank lied. All of it was a lie, really. Orion Logistics was part of the legend created for him by the New Templar spy organization ARTEMIS, and he'd kept it. In reality, of course, he'd been an operative of the Order of the Templars. And he'd certainly fought pirates more than once. He'd battled the Phoenicians on several occasions—along with the walking dead, demons, homicidal androids and denizens of loathsome dimensions.
Frank had also been anima-infused, a 'Chosen of Gaia.' A near immortal, perhaps trans or even post human being by normal reckoning. An occult dynamo, gifted to help protect humanity against threats it couldn't even be allowed to know existed. Til now, it seemed. Perhaps this is how Ages came to a clo
