THE WARS OF THE PREVIOUS DECADES have brought new horrors to the face of the planet.

In a part of what is left of America, the citizens of New Angeles struggle to survive the remnants of the terrible conflicts behind them.

To insure against militarized viruses and potential disease wiping out their already precarious lives, the New Angeles Disease Control and Containment unit is created and staffed by the Hamilton family: The Hamilton's control major interests in the city, and are the largest philanthropists who's stated goals are to help the citizens of New Angeles thrive and rebuild the torn planet around them.

Foremost in this family is Anton Hamilton, who serves the family business as a duly-sworn officer and chief of "The Harvest Guild"; yet most citizens chillingly refer to them as “The Collectors.”

 The Harvest Guild is comprised of dedicated men and women who are tasked with containing and disposing of the dead; and those infected with militarized diseases, whether dead or alive.

 Members of the Harvest Guild are authorized to use deadly force whenever a MURV (Mutating Regenerative Virus) is detected; man, woman, or child, once infected, that person is marked for immediate and unwavering termination.

With the power of life and death over each and every citizen, Anton Hamilton and the Harvesters Guild face the questioning of their rights and powers on a daily basis; thus, their every move and transaction must be transparent. Honor and integrity are truly matters of life and death, as any who violate the strict code of the Guild are subject to immediate termination-of their own lives.

There are always those who seek the balance of wealth and power to be in their favor, and there is no tactic or evil they will hesitate to use to gain such. Thus, the Guild in general, and the Hamilton's specifically, must always be on guard against secretive and malevolent forces.

In all truth, the Harvest Guild is all that stands between the citizens of New Angeles and the literal and figurative plagues of the past, and the never-ending lust for power. Would-be tyrants seethe at their power and control: What they do not understand is that which binds every member of the Guild together, and allows for the trust of the city to rest within their capable hands-Guildmaster Anton Hamilton.

The unique circumstances of the foundling and second master-in-line of the Hamilton Clan is that Anton is a man already dead; a soul with nothing to lose or gain by being anything other than what he has chosen as the ultimate destiny for those in his care. He is the living epitome of Death incarnate; as such, he is committed to performing his tasks with diligence, honor, and consideration.

Once again, plague is on the rise:  It will require every man and woman of the N.A.D.C.C. to grapple with its deadly, slavering specter.

It will require Death’s own man to protect the lives of the citizens of New Angeles- and bring woe upon those who seek power through destroying lives for profit.

NADCC: New Angeles Disease Control and Containment

~The Death Cart Chronicles~

By Joel S. Copeland

Chapter One

WHEN THE SANDMAN WEEPS

The Disease and Containment unit had arrived in the form of the Guild master’s hearse. Police and hazmat droids waved in the gaunt figure which stepped out on the landing platform; dressed in the unmistakable black uniform from highly-polished boots to inscrutable mask and helmet.

A silver band approximately ten centimeters wide ran at an angle from his left shoulder to right hip, a silver horse’s head at his left breast, facing his right side; a shiny ebony horse-head on his lower left torso pointing down and facing his left side created an opposite image.  Easily recognized as the “Knight” pieces of a chess game, it was the symbol of utter and final authority in the containment and disposal the citizens of City of New Angeles. 

A burnished platinum control and communications pad, bedecked with several fine jewels set as switches, wrapped around his left forearm.  Two more silver knight pieces in the form of brooches were displayed, fastening his thigh-length black cloak across his collar.

About his hips was a fine quality belt of braided nylon, adorned with various compact instruments and his personal blaster.  Everything exuded expense, yet lacked garishness.  The only distraction to the dress of this authority figure was his required anonymity mask:  The mask, although carbon-fiber in composition, reminded one of a sculpture of pure polished ebony.  Masculine in appearance, it displayed a closed-mouthed, austere serenity. 

The man’s body language reflected a sense of purpose, of duty, and a princely resolve.  The combination conveyed a power that would brook no trifling:  This was the Death Dealer; the Grim Reaper incarnate of New Angeles.  Even the police droids stepped away from him with seeming humility as he approached the contained and restricted area. 

His portable containment unit emerged from the back of his hearse. Oblong-shaped with rounded ends, it gleamed with a mirror finish on its black shell.  Its great weight was belied by the sight of it levitating on anti-gravity inductors.  It was the true complement to the man and what he represented; the dealer of death followed by a device that assisted in retrieving human remains and neutralizing any bio-weaponry.  It also turned a human body into a fine powder.

It followed behind the man as a well-trained beast at heel.

“At your service, Lieutenant,” the towering figure said in a mellifluous, yet deeply masculine, voice.  The human officers in attendance never failed to blink at the sound; his voice was as powerful as his image in its timbre and precise tone.

NAPD Lieutenant Detective Delafuentes nodded at her scanner.  All of the man’s credentials were in perfect order. 

“This way, Guild Master,” she beckoned in a neutral voice.  The two walked silently together through detection/disinfecting units, then the access doors to the apartment complex as their personal scans were accepted as clean.  The containment unit moved through a loading dock, where it went through a similar procedure, and came back to follow its master at the proper distance.

“The floor is secure, Guild Master.  All other tenants have been scanned, disinfected, and evacuated,” she said in an even tone through her personal mask.  Unlike the Guild Master, hers was clear through and through.  His, by nature of his profession, was the complete opposite; concealing his race and features, even his real voice and speech patterns.

“Your report, Detective,” the man replied formally.

Delafuentes nodded sharply and began:  “Three hours ago, a woman was found dead after internal detection units determined there was significant bodily decay in the apartment.  Automatic systems alerted us, and an entry warrant was issued.  The door was a combination of electronic and physical security, and had to be forced open.  There were signs of either an altercation or the woman had gone batshit throwing things.”

The Guild Master turned slightly to regard her at her language.  She rolled her eyes and continued her report.

“The woman was in stage two of MRV infection, and apparently cut her own throat to avoid the effects of the disease.  The bedroom door was barricaded from the outside, as if she was trying to keep something in.  Upon entry, we found a young girl, her daughter.  Her name is Twyla Rosenthal.  She is alive, but our initial scans show that there is a Level One contamination in her room.  She’s infected, and I have an order for containment.”

The Guild Master nodded:  They both knew what had to be done.

The little girl was all of seven. His personal scanner showed infection levels in the apartment were significant, correlating the findings of the scanning team.  He pushed a couple of jeweled buttons on his arm panel, beginning the recording process.  The girl peeked above her covers; it was apparent by the redness of her eyes she had been crying for some time.  Upon seeing the Guild Master enter the room, she became frightened, and withdrew beneath the covers.  His mask and helmet disappeared as he approached her bed.  He shook his long hair, and darkish-blond locks spilled onto his shoulders.

            “Twyla? Twyla Rosenthal?” he asked gently.  Her blankets shook at the sound of his voice.  He readied a small cylinder of gas. “Shh, darling, don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt a bit.”  He sprayed a disinfecting compound near where he guessed her face to be, then around her bedding.  For the moment, the effects of the MRV’s would be abated.

Little hands lowered the blanket slightly, swollen brown eyes shined out over at him.  The fear that had been there a moment before was replaced with interest, gazing at the handsome face and long locks of hair.  His skin was a light bronze, with sharp features common to the Native Americans.  His eyes were a brilliant green, sparkling like fiery emeralds.  But the thing she noticed the most was his brilliant white teeth, shining from a warm and open smile.  She dropped the blanket to her chest.

            “Are you hungry?” he asked.  “I understand the police haven’t fed you since they arrived.”  She sniffled in the affirmative.

“Where is my mommy?” she whimpered.   He pressed a button. He didn’t look behind him.  He knew the police would hold the door open for the containment unit as it moved into the room at his command.  It filled up the door, turning at an angle to enter the room then twisting itself to settle down perpendicular to the bed; a bizarre manifestation which more than slightly resembled a large black dog coming to rest on the floor.  It didn’t touch the floor; anti-gravity nacelles held it aloft several centimeters.

            Another touching of a wrist button and the smell of hot food filled the air.  Tomato soup in two cups, along with two BLT sandwiches, sat alongside a container of cold milk and a mug of steaming coffee on a tray arose out of a recess in the sinister-looking unit.

            “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving” he said.  He took one of the sandwiches and bit into it, sipping at the tomato soup to wash it down.  The smell caught her attention and she sat up.  He looked at her kindly.  “If you help me eat this other cup of soup and this half of my sandwich, I’ll let you have chocolate-chip cookies for dessert!” he smiled around his words.

            She pulled the blanket down from her face.  He could tell that she was approaching the second phase of murv infection soon, and would not be able to eat.

            “I, I like cookies…and I am kinda hungry, but I don’t feel good,” she stammered softly.  He nodded, and took out a small pill and handed it and the milk to her.

            “The pill will make you feel better, I promise.  You’ll be able to eat in just a minute,” he said with his honey-soft voice, smiling with open, unfeigned warmth.  She took the pill and the milk into her hands, but waited, looking at him.  He smiled wider, showing his perfect white teeth again, finished his soup, and reached for his coffee and sandwich.  She watched him for a moment, looked at the pill and the cold container of milk in her hands.  The smell of the food and the sound of Anton’s crunching into his sandwich was too much for her; she gulped down the pill, followed by a long pull at her milk.

            He smiled again, handing her the soup and sandwich.  She alternated between sipping the hot brew, and tearing into the sandwich with ravenous hunger.

            “Mffp!” she mumbled appreciatively.

            “See, I told you you’d feel better!”  She grinned around a mouthful of food, chewing noisily.  She quickly ran out of milk, and just as quickly he refilled her cup.  After a few minutes, she was finished, and he handed her a napkin as she picked up stray crumbs and gulped them down with relish.

            “Thank you!  That was really good!” she exclaimed.

            Anton bowed his welcome.  “My dad taught me how to cook.  That’s home-made, not store bought.  My dad has a secret family recipe for sourdough bread, and that’s what all my BLT’s are made with!” he grinned at her, as he tapped another button on his wrist, working the unlikely food dispenser.  A tray with several large, radiantly warm cookies appeared.

            He added more milk to her cup before handing her a cookie dressed in a napkin.  He had barely sipped his coffee when she indicated that she wanted more.  He set the tray of cookies before her, taking one for him.  He dipped his in his coffee, and she followed suit by dipping into her milk.  They both munched in pure delight, and Anton made moans of pleasure at the experience of eating such a wonderful confection. 

Twyla “Yum, hmm-d!” in agreement.

            She could barely finish the last cookie and offered to split it with Anton.  He accepted as if accepting an honor from royalty, bowing his thanks.  Twyla laughed as Anton reached over delicately with a napkin to wipe away errant milk and smeared chocolate from her chin and lips.

            “Thank you!  That was really good!  Mommy can’t afford real chocolate very often.  That was real chocolate, wasn’t it?”

            Anton became secretive, whispering:  “Yes, it was real chocolate!” he said, looking around to make sure no one else was listening. 

            She giggled at his tone as he sat up proudly and proclaimed:  “My father had the clarity of foresight before the Great Wars to stock up on real chocolate from the heart of Brazil.  This supply of chocolate is carefully hidden in secret vaults, known only to the closest of family members!”  He sat up and smiled.  “In fact, it’s the basis of the wealth of the Hamilton Family!”

            Twyla thought about his statement, and queried, “Your family is rich?  I see the name Hamilton on every mask we wear when we go outside, and on the wipes Mommy makes us carry.  Are you related to them?”

            Anton bowed formally again.  “Guilty as charged, my dear.  The Hamilton’s are the wealthiest family in New Angeles, because we manufacture everything related to disease control.  Also, we donate medicines, and we research the viruses that…”

            “That killed Mommy?” she asked sadly.  He was brought up short by her statement, and sadness covered his features.  He nodded.

            “Why couldn’t you save her?” she sobbed.  He reached for her and she threw herself into his arms.  He held her as she cried, and she hugged him back; the need for human comfort, and the kindness he had shown her overrode her fear of this caring stranger in black.

He hugged her close, stroking her hair.  She smelled so clean and fresh; although she lived in a poor section of the city, it was obvious that her mother had taken great pride in her daughter’s health and cleanliness.  Hamilton had noticed that, outside of normal children’s clutter, the room was immaculately clean; a hint of disinfectant still hung about in the air.  This child had been her mother’s pride and joy; her most cherished possession beyond anything else this world could have given her, and he was about to take her last link with humanity away from this world. 

Tears fell from his eyes.  Keeping one arm around the little girl, he reached back into his disposal unit, and found a device.  It was the real test of justifying what he hoped beyond hope he would not have to do. He wiped his face with the back of his hand before addressing her.

            “Twyla, my dear, can you do me a favor?”  She sniffed and looked up at him.  He handed her a napkin to wipe her face with.  He took out a disinfectant pad, and wiped one of her fingers.

            “I need to take a little blood, my dear.  Is this finger okay for you?  I just need a teeny, tiny little drop, okay?”  He didn’t “baby-talk” to her; his manner was pure courtesy and gentleness.  She wiped her face and nodded.

            He stripped the seal from the MRV testing unit.  It was manufactured with sterilized components, tested, sterilized again, calibrated, sterilized once more then, sealed in a sterile package.  It was also made by the Hamilton Corporation, and was to be trusted like none other.  Once used, the testing unit was discarded, and only a single recording chip was removed for evidence and archiving of the test results.

            With a light pressure to the pad of her middle finger, a tiny needle inserted and retracted in a microsecond.  The device was away from her before she even felt the light sting that it had made.

            “Are you done, Mr. Hamilton?” she politely asked.  He smiled softly at her.

            “You can call me Anton, because we are friends, and friends use first names, okay?” he chided her playfully.   She smiled back at him. He looked away for an instant to read the instrument, the smile left his face and his soul for a second, then something else replaced it. 

            Turning back to her, he said softly, as a father to a beloved child, “Would you like to sleep a nice sleep and dream a sweet dream?”

            Twyla, with the eldritch instinct only children and the demented seem to retain, looked sad in such a way that reached across the space between them and shattered his heart with a whisper: “I guess I am kind of sleepy.  Mommy would tuck me in and read me a story before bedtime.  Would you read me a story, Anton?”

            He got up and looked around the room at her books.  “Do you have a favorite story?”

            Twyla nodded.  “Rumpelstiltskin!” she replied without hesitation.  He quickly located the story pad, and tapped up Rumpelstiltskin. 

            After he was finished, Anton looked at Twyla and smiled.  “Why do you like this story so much, Twyla?”

            She gave him a look and spoke words that would forever burn in his memory as she replied, “Because the mommy got to keep her baby.”

            A soft tingle at his wrist reminded him that her time was running out, and that soon the MRV’s in her system would attack her nervous system, sending her into a screaming agony until her death.  He palmed a small black pressurized air syringe, and gently tucked the little girl in bed.

            “Does mommy kiss you goodnight?” he said, drawing his death-filled hand close to her neck, stroking her soft hair with his free hand.

            “Yes,” she whispered.

            “Can I kiss you goodnight?” he asked with enormous tenderness.  Death hovered closer to Twyla.

            She smiled and said, “Yes, Mister Ha… I mean, Anton.”

He smiled sadly in return, brushed his free hand softly across her brow, bent down to kiss her forehead in a sweet, soft kiss, and injected a quick, gentle death into the slender neck of the beautiful little girl as he said, “Sweet dreams, little angel.  Sweet dreams.”

She was dead before she could hear his final words, sighing out ever so softly her last breath.  Anton picked her up and held her close, his tears raining down upon her head.  He was like this for a long moment, then laid her back down upon her pillow, and tenderly covered her face with her blanket.

He placed the instrument of death into the containment unit.

“Time of death recorded at 1851 hours, June 11th, 2059,” the computer within stated in its clinical tone.  He pressed a button on his wrist pad.

“Subject deceased, preparing for collection, witnesses may now enter the room.”

The entire event had been recorded and observed by Sergeant Delafuentes, two police bots, and one Impartial Citizen, duly sworn in to attend as witness.

Delafuentes, a hardened city detective for fourteen years, was wiping moisture from her eyes.  Containments were bad enough when they happened to adults; kids, she always had a terrible time in dealing with.   Two Guildsmen, masked, of course, entered the room to attend to the remains of the child.  Hamilton and Delafuentes walked outside to the relatively fresh air of the apartment complex hallway.

Delafuentes lit a cigarette.  She hadn’t smoked during the witnessing of the “containment;” a polite word for a state-sanctioned execution.  She looked up at Hamilton and started slightly; she hadn’t noticed that his mask was back in place.  She nodded knowingly:  The NADCC “collectors” were feared and abhorred, yet accepted by all who understood the necessity of their profession.

Not everyone accepted their methods, and the “collectors” (an ugly nickname attached to them by people who remembered the ugliness of debtors before the Wars) were often threatened with their lives.  Their uniforms and masks gave them a sense of invisibility so that they could interact with the public when they were off-duty.  The masks and uniforms were also comprised of the toughest nanotechnology composites that rendered most high-power weapons and grenades useless.  However, like the true folly of armor, the same held true for the NADCC people who wore it:  Enough force could destroy the person within.

Which in its own way was the least of their worries, thought Delafuentes.

NADCC personnel were secretly recruited from the population.  They were sworn to the highest secrecy, and had gone through intensive psychological tests and background investigations.  It was rumored that even some convicted criminals from both state and federal prisons had been recruited to serve, but the facts were never revealed.  They literally had the worst job on what was left of planet Earth:  The containment and decontamination of areas and living beings infected with MRV’s-the acronym for “mutating regenerative viruses.”  The pronunciation of MRV’s had been subsequently bastardized and pronounced as “murvs.” 

Murvs were the result of several biological weapons, which had formed a symbiosis on contact with each other.  During the North American Revolt, the tyrannical Dominionist Axis had unleashed a variety of killing spores and viral weapons upon a population deemed ungrateful to their view of total subjugation of those who remembered being Americans.  During and after the War, one Mr. Colonel Paul Hamilton formed the basis for disposal of the dead and the infected, in order to save what human life still existed in the broken nation.

One of his first orders of business was the development of machines that would detect and eradicate the viruses.  The first operators of these devices had started off as humans who had gone to war with the Dominionist forces, and had returned as cyborgs; altered and augmented with nanotechnology to keep what human parts remained alive, so that these capable warriors would survive to fight again.  With the end of the Wars, the cyborg forces pledged allegiance to their beloved leader, the aforementioned Colonel Hamilton, and his cause to wipe out the murv threat wherever and whenever it showed up.

            Foreseeing the eventual retirement of the cyborg “collectors,” Hamilton had engaged in a program to recruit and retain individuals with the necessary “characteristics” for such a gruesome line of work.

            Fuck it, thought Delafuentes, flicking her cigarette butt expertly onto the window of a passing cab.  She didn’t even hear it honk angrily as she turned to look at the hearse approaching the complex.  Like the hearse, she had been on autopilot, not even noticing that she and Anton Hamilton had walked the length of the building to stand under the garage overhang, protecting them from the black rain pouring from the sky like the blood of martyrs.

            “That was a rough one, Guild Chief.”  She had referred to him by his title, not his name, deliberately concealing his identity from any eyes or ears that silently observed their conversation.  Outside of complete and utter privacy, she would never think of uttering his real name.  In fact, she was one of the very few who actually knew it.  Anton had always obeyed his father on their oath of secrecy; yet he had insisted on Delafuentes knowing who he was.

            He had explained that he needed her confidence in handling the highly delicate cases, such as the one he had just performed.  He was the one she turned to when a child was infected; he had earned her trust through his professionalism, and his heart.  She had watched him develop trust with his repeated kindness; comfort and soothe and kiss away tears from the eyes of the soon-to-be-horribly, heart-wrenchingly dead.  And only she knew why he could take his mask off and risk the same death the children faced.  There was no other such as he, and her hardened heart both pitied and admired the constant sacrifice of his soul for the children.

            The Guild assistants came out with the hovering containment unit.

            One asked:  “Are we ready to dispose of the remains, sir?”

            Anton looked over at the coffin which held the darling little one he had just delivered into Death’s hands.  Although she could not see his tears, Delafuentes knew that he was crying deep within his armored façade; her heart grieved with his.

            “No, I will take her back to headquarters for a full work-up.  Dismissed,” he replied with a gentle curtness.

            A tear rolled down the detective’s craggy features as she watched the Sandman of dreams, the pale horse of Death, get into his hearse and take the little girl to her final resting place.