Germ

Together, they scrambled behind the hangars, awkward as shackled prisoners not yet attuned to each other's rhythm and gait. They tottered into a wall, pushed off, and stumbled forward another dozen paces before falling into the wall again. Instead of turning into the alley through which she had pursued Litt, she led Allen farther south: he did not need to see the body whose head and upper torso she had covered.

The explosions were no longer demarcated in an easily avoided region but seemed to be everywhere, ripping apart the compound's central area, its hangars and Quonsets. She thought the pounding was less severe on the south side of the base near the mineshaft. Or was that just wishful thinking?

She considered escaping through the main gate and along the dirt road where the compound's workers had gone. But she didn't know how far Kendrick would go to eliminate Litt's threat. After pulverizing the compound, might he then start on the road, with the intention of catching up to the fleeing masses? She wouldn't put it past him.

No, she and Allen would leave the way she and Stephen had arrived. If God thought they'd had enough adversity for one day, Tate would be waiting for them with his truck.

At the dilapidated motor pool, they turned west. Across the field, several of the Quonset huts lay smashed and burning. Dense black smoke rose from a crater in the field. Julia had the feeling this opening was intended as a gateway into the underground complex for the kind of building-crushing, concrete-melting, de-atomizing ordnance civilians couldn't even imagine. She stepped up their pace, now pulling him along as well as supporting him. The sight of the Dumpsters spurred her on.

As they passed the guard shacks and entrance gate, a horrendous explosion behind them slammed them to the ground. An army truck sailed over their heads and landed upside down twenty feet away. Its tires were on fire. She rolled over and saw that the motor pool building they had passed—and fallen against—was now a blazing ruin. She rubbed a sudden pain in her shoulder and found her fingers sticky with blood.

Helping Allen to his feet, she steered him around the truck and limped and pulled and hopped the short distance to the trash area. The huge container near the shaft had been knocked over by a blast and partially covered the hole. If Stephen had replaced the lid when they crawled out, she and Allen could never have pried it up again. But he hadn't.

"This is it. Watch your step."

Allen raised his head and peered into the heart of the dying base. "I wish we didn't have to leave Stephen," he said.

"He's not really here, Allen." Through breaks in the smoke, she could make out the growing flyspecks of approaching planes.

"I know," he said.

Putrid slime had oozed from the toppled Dumpster and pooled around the shaft. He lowered his body into this muck, doing so without complaint, and squeezed into the hole. She warned him about the rung that had snapped under Stephen's weight, then lowered herself into the slime and over the rim.

Somewhere she had lost her flashlight, and the other one had fallen to its death. She supposed they could follow the walls to the opening. What was slime, what was darkness next to the things they had gone through?

An explosion shook the shaft. Julia imagined they were in the gullet of a growling beast. Rung after rung they descended, Julia stopping every few moments to let Allen pull ahead. Finally she heard him drop the last few feet to the floor. He groaned.

"You all right?"

"Depends on what you mean." His voice was weak.

"Are you clear—"

The top of the shaft erupted. Concrete chucks punched into Julia's shoulders and head, and she fell. She landed on her back over a boulder, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She gasped, getting a mouthful of dirt. The shaft roared above her. It was breaking up and coming down. She was paralyzed—with fear . . . with pain . . . with the prospect of death. She felt a harsh tug on her arm. She came painfully off the boulder and bounded over smaller rocks. Allen was pulling her, rising up and falling backward, using the momentum of each plunge to drag her away from the cave-in.

"Aaahhg!" he yelled with every tug. "Aaahhg!"

The collapsing earth slowed, then stopped. Silt rained down, hissing against the huge mound of rubble, like the sizzle of molten lava. A gaping chimney as wide as a silo bore up through the earth where the shaft had been. Sunlight pushed through the dust-choked air, casting a weak, murky glow over the place Julia and Allen sprawled.

The opening rumbled once more, the light disappeared, and something big crashed down, bringing with it grave-sized slabs of earth as it slammed against the sides of the hole. Then the Dumpster struck the rubble and tumbled into the mine. It landed so close to Julia, she could have reached out and touched it. Trash erupted from the container, covering them in the foulest stench ever to lay hold of Julia's nose.

Gagging and coughing, they pulled each other up and stumbled away. Just before daylight completely succumbed to the blackness of the mine, Allen leaned down and picked up a dinged and dust-coated flashlight. He shook it, coaxing a weak light from it.

They shuffled into the mine's inky coolness.

Behind them, someone coughed.

Out of the cloudy air emerged a figure, hazy, blurred. The first thing Julia distinguished was a pistol. Pointed at them. Then the arm that held it. A foot, a leg, stepping forward. The face revealed itself last.

"Gregor," Allen said, nearly choking on the word.

The older man's hair was matted with blood. It flowed past his eye and down the side of his face. But his eyes were clear, his gait strong. He strode directly to them, raised his pistol, and backhanded it into Allen's forehead. Allen crashed against the wall and fell to the ground, motionless.

Julia lashed out, but too fast the gun was in her face, pressed into her temple. Gregor brought his free arm around to the back of her neck, holding her in place. He pressed himself against her. Chest to chest, cheek to cheek, he spoke into her ear.

"In the end, I win."

"What do you want?" she asked.

"What I do not want"—the malice in his voice was as plain as the stink of vomit on his breath—"is to chat."

She had recognized his weapon—the popular 1911 Colt .45. Though it was a semiautomatic, it sported a hammer that required cocking. His thumb pulled back on that hammer now.

"We know where Litt's money is . . . and his serum, the Ebola antidote." It was all she could think to say.

Just buy time, she thought.

She didn't know if the words that would save their lives would come to mind. She didn't know if he'd move an inch or look away and grant her a chance to plant an elbow in his throat. What she did know was that once he pulled the trigger, it was over. No more chances. No more hope.

Gregor pushed the barrel harder into her temple. "They're in the briefcase," he said. "I am not a fool."

But he sounded unsure.

Over Gregor's shoulder, she could see Allen. He stirred, then raised his head. He touched his hand to the tunnel wall behind him and pulled it away quickly. He was in front of an oddly flat section of wall, lighter in color from the surrounding rock surfaces. She saw a flicker of light at the floor, smoke streaming out, as if from a volcanic vent.

It was the fire door Tate had described, the abandoned emergency exit. Apparently a blast had taken out the second door Tate had said was at the end of a long corridor beyond this one. If she read Allen's reaction correctly, the door was scalding hot. She thought of the maelstrom of flame and heat that must be on the other side.

"Drop the case," Gregor said.

"The vials might break."

"Just drop it."

She did. It struck her foot and tipped over.

Allen caught her eye. He jerked his head to the side: Move! He raised his hand toward the door handle.

She shook her head gently.

He nodded, disagreeing. Of course.

"I already removed the vial," she told Gregor.

"I don't think so."

"Look for yourself. Then I'll take you to it."

He glanced down at the case. His arm came away from her neck.

"Back up slowly," he said. The barrel of his gun never wavered from her face.

She took a step back, then another.

He bent at the knees, keeping his aim and his eyes on her, reaching for the case.

She turned and dived, hit the floor and rolled.

Allen opened the door. Angry flames roared into the tunnel, growling like a beast as they sucked up oxygen and expanded at lightning speed.

Squinting, squatting, backpedaling away, Julia watched the fire engulf Gregor. It slammed him against the opposite wall and fanned out in both directions. As it lost momentum, flames fell to the floor, burning in a wide swath from the door across the width of the mine and ending at Gregor's burning corpse.

Julia's sneakers and the bottoms of her pant legs were ablaze. She kicked and rolled and finally sat on them to extinguish the flames. She quickly stood, feeling the pain of scorched flesh, and looked around.

"Allen!"

He was thirty feet farther into the mine. His hair was smoking, his shirt was on fire, and he wasn't moving. She threw herself on top of him and ran her hands through his hair.

"Is this your idea of romance?" he whispered.

She gripped his head between her hands, leaned close. "I can't believe you did that."

"I didn't know the door was going to just slam open like that. It batted me like a pinball flipper."

"If it hadn't, you'd have ended up like . . . what's-his-name."

"Gregor. Is he . . . ?"

"Oh yeah." She paused. "Thank you." A tear dropped from her eye and landed on his cheek. It left a white streak on his sooty skin.

"None of that, now," he said. "You'll ruin my image of you."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Oh, someone who could take my lunch money anytime she wanted to."

"I can."

They laughed, more relieved than humored. It didn't last long. There were too many hurts on too many levels.

She lifted him, and he pretended to help. They made their way to the mouth of the mine leaning against each other, finally in perfect sync. The opening was bright and covered with green leaves. They stumbled to it and did not pause when they reached its lip.

Together, they fell into the cool arms of the jungle.

epilogue

His eyes fluttered against the stark sunlight breaching the blinds in his hospital room. As he came awake and his vision adjusted, he saw the blinds were wide Venetians, dated and dusty. The walls were drab brown and unadorned, except for wall-mounted medical instruments. Somewhere, an EKG machine beeped.

Allen took a deep breath. For the first time in as long as he could remember, nothing inside hurt.

He turned his head to examine the room, which looked different outside the veil of pain- and medication-induced grogginess that had enveloped him for . . . for . . . a long time. Perhaps the room seemed changed only because he wasn't only seeing it now but was finally lucid enough to pass judgment on it. He didn't like it much: an empty metal tray on wheels, stained acoustic ceiling tiles, the ugly walls.

He brought his vision around to the other side of the bed and lit on a startlingly beautiful sight among the stale blandness: Julia Matheson's beaming face.

"I thought I'd dreamed you," he said.

"You should be so lucky." She rose from a chair, gripped his hand. "How are you?"

He nodded. "No pain. Or maybe I'm just getting used to it."

"The doctor thinks you'll make a complete recovery. The Ebola was just starting to set in. Everything was reversible and repairable, thanks to Litt's antidote."

"Just thinking about Litt makes me queasy."

"One of the vials in the case we recovered contained his plasma. They think they can make an Ebola vaccine from it."

"How long have I been here?"

"Just over two weeks." She walked to the window and raised the blinds. "A military hospital of some kind. I think we're in Virginia."

He pushed himself up, wincing at sharp pains in his side and back. "You think?"

"I guess we're quarantined, but it's more like they don't know what to do with us. They let me call my mom. She had a . . . an episode, but the home health nurse got there pretty quickly. She's in their facility now."

She drew closer, and her voice grew soft. "Do you remember anything? Tate meeting us in the jungle? The U.S. soldiers intercepting his truck outside Pedro Juan Caballero? Getting evacced here?"

He tried to remember. "Vaguely . . . I guess."

She bit her lip. "Do you remember what happened to Stephen?"

He closed his eyes. He didn't move for a long time. Then a tear broke free and rolled down his cheek. Without looking at her, he said, "He saved my life."

"Both our lives. Many lives. I've had time here to imagine what would have happened if Litt escaped. He would have set up shop somewhere else and terrorized the world with his designer virus. That's what they're calling it, a designer virus, like it was something cool."

"A lot of people died to stop him. Your partner too."

"I wish I could see Goody's wife, the boys. They need to know he died heroically."

"They haven't said when we can leave?"

The door pushed open, letting in a sigh of antisepticized air. With it came an old man, leaning heavily on a cane, with the lax shoulders of a weary traveler. He paused, holding the door, then let it close. Allen felt he'd seen the man before but could not place him.

Julia had one hand resting on Allen's head. He felt it stiffen.

"I should throw you out this window," she said.

"I have no doubt you could, Ms. Matheson." His smile faltered. "I'm sorry for your losses. Both of you."

Allen caught her eye. "I don't understand."

"This is Kendrick Reynolds," she said, keeping a level gaze on the old man. "He promised to help, then he tried to incinerate us with the rest of his problem."

Reynolds shuffled to the end of the bed and rested his long, wrinkled hands over the tubular footboard. He said, "I did what I had to do. There was no time to extricate you and Dr. Parker and his brother."

"So he bombed the base," she continued, talking to Allen, glaring at Reynolds. "With us in it."

"We prevented a holocaust, Ms. Matheson."

"You didn't prevent anything. Without us, the antidote would have been destroyed too—the antidote that has saved, what, ten thousand people?"

"Most of them, yes. But if we hadn't eliminated Litt and his virus, we would be living in a very different world right now, one too terrible to think about."

"It was your mess to start with, your Frankenstein monster that got out of hand."

"I accept that indictment," he said with a slight bow of his head. "I can't begin to tell you the kind of second-guessing I've put myself through lately."

"How terrible for you."

Allen felt the coiled tension in Julia's hand. Afraid she might make good on her threat to toss the old guy through the window, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"I stopped by earlier, Dr. Parker, but you were not up to receiving visitors, and Ms. Matheson was busy giving some army officials a hard time."

Allen glanced at her.

"They've been trying to 'debrief me since we arrived," she explained.

"And she's been trying to debrief them,'" Kendrick said.

"So now they send in the big guns, is that it?"

He sighed. "I need to know only one thing," he told her. "Can you end it here?"

She thought for a moment. "Did you wipe out the virus?"

"We believe so. The compound was completely incinerated—the underground base, the surface, the surrounding areas. We bombed well into the night. Our on-site teams have found no trace of virus or any other biochemical agents. Are you all right?"

Allen was squeezing his eyes shut again, this time tightly. Julia answered for him.

"We had to leave Stephen's body there."

"I know. You told Commander Bransford in Paraguay. I am sorry." He looked at his hands, then again at Julia and Allen. "This country owes you its gratitude. Unfortunately, it cannot publicly recognize that debt. We are prepared, however, to pretend none of this ever happened." His eyes locked on hers. "You understand that you must never speak of Karl Litt or Ebola Kugel or the United States' alleged involvement in biological weapons? Where is your laptop, please?"

"It was destroyed on Litt's compound."

Kendrick Reynolds simply stared.

Julia added, "You understand that if anything happens to me or Allen, someone might find it?"

After a moment, Reynolds tilted his head, accepting the arrangement. "When you are ready, you will be given a ticket to Atlanta on a commercial airline."

"I'll wait for Dr. Parker."

"As I said, when you are ready. Dr. Parker, I understand you may be here for another few weeks. We cannot have you treated in a private hospital." He stepped away from the bed. At the door, he turned back. "In my last conversation with him, Karl Litt said something that made me take a closer look at three records on his list of targets."

Julia smiled. "Everyone loves the First Family."

He bowed his head to her. Then he slipped out.

Julia offered Allen a sideways smile. "We're going home."

Allen didn't answer. He was somewhere else.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know. When Stephen gave up on medicine, my family didn't understand. I didn't understand. The way we were raised, there was nothing else. It felt like he was turning his back on his family, his destiny." He shook his head. "But I see now that he had found his destiny. He chose to look outside my parents' narrow vision for his life. He saw a world that was bigger than himself and our family. He saw something other than patients who could provide him with the wealth and prestige our family expected. He saw people."

His voice broke on the last word. He turned his face away, covered it with one hand. He felt Julia's hand on his shoulder, rubbing, comforting.

After a long moment, he continued. "When I was there, in that room in Litt's base . . . when I was . . . dying, I thought about the names we found on your computer, the data Vero had smuggled out. Ten thousand names. Ten thousand people. I thought about their lives and the people who loved them, who tucked them in at night or called them during the day just to hear their voices. I wondered if they were scared the way I was. If they were in pain. I felt for them—not for me, for them. For the first time, I understood what had gotten into Stephen. What he did for people—from that little cabin behind the church, with his crummy car—what he did was so much grander than what I did."

"We need doctors, Allen. It's a noble profession."

"Only when your heart's in the right place. Stephen understood that. He went off and did what he should have done for the right reason, not what he could have done for the wrong reason."

He turned and found her eyes, relieved. She got it. He was making sense.

"Now he's gone," he said. "And I never got the chance to tell him." He paused. "I can't help but believe the wrong brother died."

"That kind of thinking will drive you crazy."

He nodded.

"I mean it. Stephen told me what happened, about killing that man in the bar. He said he felt the same way you do now, that the wrong man had died. Allen, that's not for us to decide. We can only do the best we can with the understanding we have."

Allen smiled. "Didn't I say you were pretty and smart?"

"Something like that."

He couldn't hold on to the smile. He felt like weeping, just crying like a baby. "So what am I supposed to do? Fill Stephen's boots? Leave medicine, become a pastor?"

"I can't answer that, but if you follow that course because that's what Stephen did, then it doesn't seem any better than becoming a physician because your dad wanted you to. Why don't you take your time, heal, then see?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Take my time, heal, then see."

She pressed her cheek to his chest and hugged him. He draped an arm across her back and stroked her hair. It felt right. Just two people comforting each other. He smiled again, and this time it stayed.

About the author

Robert Liparulo's

Germ paints a scenario that is so frighteningly real, six Hollywood producers were already bidding on the rights before the novel was completed. His acclaimed debut novel, Comes a Horseman, is being made into a major motion picture by producer Mace Neufeld and Liparulo's short story "Kill Zone" was featured in the anthology Thriller, edited by James Patterson.

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Copyright © 2006 by Robert Liparulo

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