Somewhere, in a long-abandoned laboratory, a computer screen glows; the last message that had been typed is still on the screen.
-I have identified four distinct strains of the zombie virus, each with unique characteristics and origins.
The first strain seems to have its origins in nature. It exhibits genetic similarities to Lyssavirus Rabies, causing aggressive behavioral changes and rapid onset of symptoms common in other known contagions. Initial studies suggest this strain may have mutated from existing wildlife pathogens, indicating a possible zoonotic spillover.
The second strain, also a Lyssavirus Rabies, presents compelling evidence of having been engineered in a laboratory setting. Genetic examinations reveal artificial modifications that suggest intentional manipulation of its viral structure, including the addition of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, or Zombie-Ant Fungus. This strain displays enhanced transmissibility and aberrant interactions with human immune responses.
The third strain is particularly noteworthy due to its association with a virus uncovered in the remains of the demonically possessed Deadites, creatures previously studied in various containment scenarios. This strain bears similarities to pathogens adapted to extreme conditions, raising questions about its evolutionary pathway and the environmental factors that may have influenced its development.
The fourth strain is the most perplexing and intriguing of the group. It is entirely dissimilar to the other three strains, lacking any identifiable similarities to known terrestrial viruses. Our investigations suggest a possible extraterrestrial origin, particularly as we trace samples obtained from an unidentified debris field located in (REDACTED), which has been connected to reports of Unknown Aerial Phenomenon (UAP). This connection prompts significant scientific inquiry into non-Earth-based biological entities and their potential impact on life on our planet.
In light of these findings, I am pleased to report that I have successfully developed a vaccine targeting the first and second strains of the virus. Early trials demonstrate an impressive efficacy rate of 99% in preventing infection. I firmly believe that this breakthrough could significantly shift the tide in our ongoing battle against the zombie virus.
However, the other two strains—the third and fourth—present formidable challenges to formulating effective treatments. I remain committed to further research and development to address these strains while prioritizing our vaccine production for the first two strains to ensure broad protection.-
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"That was the last entry. It's not dated." Claymore muttered, his voice heavy.
The three men stood before the glowing computer screen in the large, well-lit laboratory. Their filthy tactical gear and grubby appearance stood out in stark contrast to the high-tech lab's bright white floor and walls. They had fought tirelessly through the swamps' treacherous waters, evading the creatures lurking within. They had navigated the chaos of Sarasota's twisted carnival. They had avoided numerous encounters with the ravenous undead. Finally, they had managed to reach this remote island—Palm Key, the last known refuge of Dr. Benton Quest.
It was through a twist of fate—through whispers of their respective adventures—that Claymore, Muskrat, Spearhead, and Maxxx had come together. Each had survived against overwhelming odds, along the way hearing stories of a cure. They had followed rumors and reports to Florida. They fought their way into the lab, overcoming traps and security measures left behind in a panicked retreat.
"So where are they? Where's the vaccine?" Muskrat asked.
Spearhead, always the analytical one, turned his attention to another terminal. He pulled a chair out from under the desk, its casters rolling silently. Then he sat and began typing, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as his eyes narrowed in concentration.
"What're you doing?" Claymore asked.
"Looking," Spearhead replied. "We're here. Might as well see what we can dig up."
"All right," Muskrat said as he sat in front of another computer, the device flicked to life under his touch. "Okay, let's do this. What're we looking for?"
"Haven't a clue," Spearhead offered with a shrug.
"Okay, let's see what we can find, then," Claymore muttered, cracking his knuckles.
The sounds of clacking keys and button clicks filled the room—each man scrolling through every folder, file, and scrap of information they could access.
Learning that Quest had successfully developed a vaccine, a new objective had become clear: They needed to locate the vaccine, bring it to another doctor in another lab, or maybe even bring another doctor to this lab. It still had power, and, other than some slight damage due to their incursion, it was still secure. They could work out the details later; first, they needed to find the vaccine.
They worked long into the night, the only interruptions coming from brief breaks to stretch stiff limbs or answer nature's call. The lab's working plumbing turned out to be a luxury they didn't know they missed. As the clock face turned to midnight, Muskat broke the silence: "You think the showers work?"
"Probably. Everything else seems to," Spearhead replied, not looking up from the computer screen.
Then, a realization washed over them. All three stopped typing, slowly turning in their chairs until they were looking at one another. No one said a word. The silence held all the tension of a Wild West duel.
Suddenly, Claymore declared, "I'm senior officer, I'm going first."
"I thought of it," Muskrat nearly shouted.
In a flash, Spearhead jumped to his feet and bolted toward the door, the idea of a shower propelling him. Before he had crossed the threshold, Claymore and Muskrat were hot on his heels.
"I think I spotted a sign for a locker room down this hall," Muskrat shouted as he slid around a corner. Sure enough, they soon found themselves staring at a sign that pointed the way to the locker room. They ran in the direction the arrow pointed and came skidding to a stop in front of the door.
No one moved.
None of them could remember the last time they had a real shower. Claymore reached out, put his hand on the door, and paused. "We haven't cleared the whole facility; who knows what's behind this door?" he warned.
Muskrat nodded, adding, "Hadn't thought of that," his voice quiet.
They quickly drew their sidearms and took positions to clear the room. Claymore put up three fingers, a silent countdown, lowering one finger at a time before cautiously pushing the door open. They entered the room with practiced precision, systematically clearing corners and ensuring nothing was hiding in the shadows.
"Clear," Spearhead called out first.
"Clear," echoed Muskrat from another room.
"All clear," Claymore confirmed.
What lay before them was a stark, fluorescent-lit room, gleaming white tiles reflecting the overhead lights. Lockers lined one wall, many with name tags affixed to their doors identifying their owners, while several empty ones stood ajar. Across from the lockers, an additional door led to the shower area, revealing private stalls tucked behind privacy curtains that had been opened during the room clearing.
"For OpSec, we can't all go at the same time," Claymore said. "You two go first. I'll take watch outside."
Spearhead and Muskrat wasted no time, rushing to separate shower stalls and closing the curtains.
"The moment of truth," Muskrat called ad he turned the shower knob. Instantly, a blast of scorching water shot out of the showerhead. "We got hot water!"
When the three had finished, they made their way back to the lab, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead guiding their path.
"You know, Claymore, I've been thinking about something you said before," Spearhead said as they walked.
"Yeah? What?"
"Well," Spearhead continued, glancing around as they walked, "we haven't actually cleared the whole facility. Who knows who or what might be in here."
They stopped, looking down the long corridor lined with countless doors.
When they originally entered, they immediately set out looking for a map of the complex, which they found relatively quickly in an information kiosk meant for tourists. They located the lab and meticulously cleared each room they passed and the stairwell they had used.
However, the truth was that they had bypassed entire floors, meaning until proven otherwise, countless potential threats were lurking in the shadows.
"You're right," Claymore said. Let's get our stuff. " With that, he quickened his pace.
"It's gonna be a long night," muttered Muskrat.
And it was.
The facility was far more extensive and complex than the limited tourist map had suggested. The sun had begun to rise, adding an orange glow to each windowed room; when they stumbled upon a fully stocked dining facility, it seemed untouched by time. The pantry was brimming with nonperishable goods, shelves stacked high with canned vegetables and soups, pasta, and dry goods. They couldn't help but stare in disbelief at the walk-in freezer, which was filled to capacity with frozen meats of various cuts and tubs of ice cream. Although everything sported a layer of freezer burn, the sight invigorated their spirits, perhaps even more than the showers had.
As they explored further, they discovered living quarters. Barracks-style dormitories, simple and functional, were set up for lower-level staff, and more lavish accommodations of studio and one-bedroom apartments, complete with cozy furniture and personal effects, were reserved for management.
It was not until mid-afternoon the following day that they finally collapsed into the lab chairs.
"Either of you starting to get creeped out by this place?" asked Muskrat, eyes scanning the room.
"Yeah, I was happy at first. I mean, that shower was excellent. And having a hot breakfast that I didn't have to field dress first was..." Spearhead mimed a chef's kiss. "But this place," he lowered his voice, "It's untouched."
"Those apartments, there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere," Muskrat added.
"The clothes were folded and hung, beds made," Spearhead paused, "yet there's no sign of an evacuation."
"That fully stocked DFac," Muskrat looked from one to the other, "C'mon, this place wasn't that hard to get to from shore, and yeah, we did have to get through some traps, but, you mean to tell me no one else tried?"
"I'd almost believe this place was fully staffed, and they just hid when we showed up," Claymore said conspiratorially.
Just then, a wall panel moved to the side. All three were momentarily taken by surprise. They quickly sprang into action, aiming weapons in the wall's direction.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Muskrat and Spearhead turned to face a striking figure looming behind Claymore. The man stood tall and broad-shouldered. His pale white hair contrasted sharply with the deep red of his button-up shirt. His weapon was firmly planted against Claymore's head.
"Now, why don't you gentlemen just place those weapons on the ground?" The man's voice carried the kind of authority that only came from years of experience, and his intense gaze confirmed that he was dead serious.
With reluctance and resignation, Muskrat and Spearhead slowly lowered their weapons to the polished floor.
"You too, Claymore," the man insisted, a note of resolve in his voice. Sighing heavily, Claymore complied, letting his weapon thud onto the ground. "Good, now please put your hands in the air." the man instructed, "It's all clear, Doctor."
The three Joes, still somewhat shocked by the rapid turn of events, shifted their gaze toward the now fully revealed hidden doorway. Standing at the entrance was a tall, thin man with a wiry frame. His red hair and neatly trimmed beard created a striking contrast against the crisp white fabric of his lab coat. "Race! Is that really necessary?" he exclaimed, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
"Sorry, Doc," Race replied, his demeanor softening as he stepped back, expertly holstering his pistol. "I had to make sure they didn't accidentally shoot you."
The Joes sat frozen, their eyes wide and unblinking, jaws nearly dropping in astonishment. This was no ordinary encounter; they were in the presence of the renowned Dr. Quest. Finally, Claymore managed to clear his throat, " You're, you're Doctor Benton Quest."
With a slight smile and a nod, the Doctor replied, "Yes, sir, I am indeed, and you are Captain John "Claymore" Zullo, Sergeant Peter "Spearhead" Millman, and Sergeant Ross "Muskrat" Williams." He stepped forward, extending his hand in greeting. "It's a genuine pleasure to meet three renowned members of the legendary G.I.Joe Team finally."
Still processing everything, Claymore cautiously rose and shook the Doctor's hand. Spearhead and Muskrat followed suit.
Race positioned himself next to Doctor Quest, "This is my bodyguard, Race Banon."
"I want to sincerely apologize, gentlemen. I genuinely wasn't sure I could get the drop on you, but I had to ensure the Doctor was protected," Race said earnestly, offering his hand. "No hard feelings?"
"No hard feelings," Claymore responded, shaking Race's hand.
"Well, now that we have introductions out of the way, we can get back to work," Dr. Quest stated matter-of-factly, pressing a button on his watch. Suddenly, the soft hum of voices began to emerge from the hidden doorway. A dozen lab assistants streamed out, each nodding respectfully at the Joes as they passed, quickly moving to their various tasks. "I'm sure you gentlemen have a lot of questions." Dr. Quest continued with a genial smile, "Why don't we make our way over to my living quarters and have a chat."
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