2007-08-16: DF: Disease on Demand



Summary: Not happy with the state of things - namely, the President's kidnapping - someone decides to take things into her own hands.

Date It Happened: 16 August 2009

Log Title Disease on Demand

The Bronx, NYC

The Saints have a whole lot of resources, that's for certain. So does the Alliance. Not all those who the President calls terrorists are all that well-stocked and well-prepared, though. In fact, there are some who live under bridges at the very best of times, struggling just to keep themselves fed. It's all for a good cause, of course; take out the current Government, join with the stronger factions where and when they can. Eventually, the sun will come out and life will return to normal.

It's an old burned-out building somewhere in the Bronx. Stone, looks like it might have been a factory of some kind at some point. There are windows, but they were all barred years ago when petty thievery and other such crimes were the worst anyone had to worry about. They don't have the luxury of secrecy, the security of funding, and so they're well-marked by the law and they know it. At least they can get food and supplies to the cells who can really do something - those who carry the explosives and firepower to take chunks out of an already tragic state of affairs. This small group means something, if it's only making the lives of others a little easier. Happy? Not by a long shot, but they're proud. They have a name that they know only among themselves, for fear that if they speak it aloud among the population, it'll bring them bad luck. But it's painted in blue along the walls of their factory, bold, the only wall that's ever lit, and only then, only when the sun's setting. Care Bears.

Okay, not the most powerful name ever, but it certainly gets the message across.

They're only fifteen strong. They've survived in various numbers - sometimes more, sometimes less - for a year now. Their numbers never rose above thirty, nor dropped below ten, and yet at this juncture, their leader wonders if they can keep going. There's a crate in the corner, mostly empty, with the last of their canned goods littering the bottom; they haven't made a supply run in weeks, and they're due.

"We're on the radio with another cell. He says if we can hold out a week, he'll be able to send over supplies and a few people. They have guns. It's something?"

The leader is still for a moment, then looks over toward the guy on the com. "Who're they with?"

"They say they're affiliated with the Saints."

Hell yes.

"That a secure channel?" The leader climbs over the pile of rubble between her and the radio equipment. She doesn't have too much experience with this electronics mumbo-jumbo, but at least she can read the screen enough to tell that the connection is as secure as they'd be able to make it.

"Yeah, Sara. It's secure. You think I'm a moron?"

…Tempers ran high nowadays.

"Tell them we'll take as many people as they can send over, but— " Sara glances back toward their little crate of food. With rationing, they might make it three, four days at most. "The sooner the better." Unsaid, but, if they can send over more firepower than just a few guns - maybe some C4, better radio equipment, personnel who are experienced with this shit… They might actually make it. Not one to be ungrateful, though, Sara keeps her mouth shut, ending her input on that note. She's not about to demoralise the other Care Bears by stating the obvious - they're in some deep, deep trouble.

There's a crash from outside. Sara reaches forward and cuts the connection.

"Hey— !"

Her hand claps over the mouth of the Operator, and while he grunts in protest, he shuts up. The Saint Affiliates can call back when the Care Bears are finished taking care of whatever it is that's outside. Likely? Another stray dog. Unfortunately for said dog, at this point— Well. The idea is already in the minds of the others, who are appearing from their shadowy perches with halves of baseball bats and heavy rocks. Meat is meat, and one dog could buy them another day. It's not pleasant, and Sara's lip curls just thinking about it, but…

"Cut the connection. Keep it on a low signal just so they know we're still here."

Suddenly, the Operator is all yes-ma'ams, which suits Sara just fine.

As the sun sets lower, as the words 'Care Bears' slowly grow darker, the first of her cell makes it to the single portal that leads in and out of the old factory. There's a yell - a word of warning to the others inside, but unfortunately - just as the single portal protects them, it also prevents anyone from making an escape out the 'back way.' There used to be a back way. It's half-covered in old bricks and stone now, that no one can move.

Another yell.

"Hide," Sara says.

Quietly, they creep back into their shadows. It's not much cover, but it's enough, she hopes.

There's a shot, another. They've been found. Help comes too late.

Eventually, three of them appear at the door. None of them seem officially dressed, though two of them do carry firearms. The third— In the dying light, Sara can tell. She's wearing sunglasses. Odd, is Sara's last thought, just before she feels panic setting in, pain, the feeling that her skin is on fire. Confusion, weakness. She tries to take a breath, only to find that she's inhaling nothing at all useful, and not long after that—


"They're all dead."

"They said as soon as possible, right?"

The delegate from the Flock reaches out a toe to poke at the nearest corpse. It's been lying there for a couple days, partially eaten by cats and dogs and rats already. Not exactly pleasant to look at, but he's seen worse. "Yeah. Soon as possible. The doc check the tissue samples yet?"



"You really want to know?" The boy holds out a notebook. They don't have the luxury of printouts, but at least they had the equipment to make a diagnosis. "All of them. You know what that means."

The delegate takes the paper, looks it over - scrawlings and toxicology means nothing to him, except for the diagnosis written on the bottom of the page. That? Means everything. "See if you can get their radio to work. Call the boss ASAP. Tell them we need to move camp… I don't know if— " He pauses. They all know who did this. No one dies of rabies in a couple days, and not all fifteen members of a small terrorist cell - not all at the same time. "We're gonna need to let the Saints know that the President's dogs are pissed off."

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