PART 2 End of Days
Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac
The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.
(translated from its original French)
Death advances upon the world.
For a year now, its shadow has moved west from China across the Asian continent. It has infiltrated Persia through the Mongolian trade routes and infected the Mediterranean seaports. Villagers fleeing the Great Mortality report tales of horror one-noxious breath and another is felled, one touch of infected blood and sickness takes an entire family to the grave. God’s wrath is nowhere and everywhere at once, and there seems no escape.
Word of a spreading sickness reached Europe after the Mongolian army lay siege on Caffa (translator’s note: Present-day Feodosiya, a Black Sea port in south Russia). The invaders must have brought the sickness with them, for on the dawn of victory they became so ill they were forced to retreat over the Eurasian steppe… but not before they poisoned Caffa with the remains of their dead, tossing the infected bodies over the city’s fortifications.
As the chief physician to Pope Clement VI, I have been tasked with tracking the plague’s advancement. Caffa is a major seaport. Based on our most recent reports, I have surmised that sometime in the late spring of this year, sailors infected with plague left Caffa aboard Genoese merchant ships, bound for the Mediterranean Sea and Europe. Mariners practice costeggiare, a method of sailing that keeps them in perpetual sight of the coastline. Stops would be frequent, allowing the sickness to spread from port to port. One of the infected Genoese ships apparently reached Constantinople sometime last summer. Like Caffa, the Great Mortality spread quickly through the city. A personal contact, a Venetian physician I trained with at the University of Bologna, sent word to the Holy See that the streets in Constantinople were littered with the dead and dying. His letter describes high fever, a coughing of blood, and a stench that reeks of death. Welts soon appear, red at first, then swelling to black, some as large as a ripe apple. With each new dawn, the physician found another dozen infected, by sunset he buried another family member or neighbor until the despair and fear became so overwhelming that he had to flee Constantinople altogether. His description of a surviving father being too afraid to bury his own child brought tears.
By late summer, the papacy learned that the pestilence had advanced as far south as Persia, Egypt, and the Levant, and as far north as Poland, Bulgaria, Cyprus, Greece, and Romania. While these reports cannot be verified, all of us live in fear of Death’s impending arrival.
On 14 November, the Pope summoned me to his chambers to inform me that plague had struck Sicily. The Holy See’s contact, a Franciscan friar named Michele da Piazza, claimed the sickness arrived on European shores a week after twelve Genoese galleys made port early in October. Belowdecks were found dozens of dead crewmen — all infected. Those still alive entered Messina, spreading the sickness to everyone they came in contact with before they, too, died. The friar reported black boils on the necks and groins of the inflicted, along with the coughing of blood and fever, usually followed by violent, incessant vomiting. Within days of being infected, every victim had died.
My own dread is compounded by anger. Despite the approaching Death, the Holy See remains more occupied by its ongoing feud with the King of England, who seeks to rule the Iberian Peninsula one French coastal city at a time; as well as Clement’s ongoing quarrel with Rome, from which the papacy was removed several Popes past.
It is inarguable that the greed of an elite few has kept Europe cast in decades of endless war. Corruption has taken the Church, and the people have lost trust. Bouts of famine continue to ravage the countryside, — a result of decades of failing crops due to incessantly harsh weather conditions that began when I was but a child.
Many say we are cursed, suffering God’s wrath. I say our corruption, greed, and hatred for our fellowman, spewed through religious dogma, has paved the way for our own self-destruction.
Decadence now rules the Palais des Papes, war the papal states. Roving bands of condottieri attack Europe’s villages, while the fortified cities have become cesspools of neglect. Influenced by politics, the Holy See has ruled it a sin to bathe, its orthodoxy backed by a conservative medical faculty of Paris, their determination made not on scientific fact but by their desire to remain in conflict with the more liberal traditions of Rome and Greece, who consider personal hygiene a cardinal virtue.
There is nothing virtuous about living in Avignon, where the commoner shares a bedchamber with his livestock. Each day, animals are slaughtered in the public streets by butchers, the blood and feces left to feed the flies and rodents. Rats are everywhere, their scourge feasting in the filth of Avignon and Paris and every city under the influence of the Holy See, overwhelming the homes of peasants in the countryside.
It is amid this stench of corruption that the Black Death approaches our once-great city.
May God have mercy on our souls.
— Guigo
Guy de Chauliac, also known as Guido de Cauliaco, was attending physician to five Popes during the late thirteenth century and is regarded as the most important surgical writer of the Middle Ages. His major work, Inventarium sive Chirurgia Magna (The Inventory of Medicine), remained the principal didactic text on surgery until the eighteenth century.
BIO-WARFARE PHASE I: INSEMINATION
“Well, I just got into town about an hour ago…
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the city of light,
Or just another lost angel… city of night
City of night, city of night, city of night…”
December 20
New York City
8:19 A.M.
(23 hours, 44 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“Well, I just got into town about an hour ago…
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the city of light,
Or just another lost angel… city of night
City of night, city of night, city of night…”
Manhattan: an island Mecca, surrounded by water.
The Harlem River rolled south past the Bronx, widening into the East River — whitecapped behind a fierce four-knot current. The Statue of Liberty beckoned to travelers across New York Harbor. Farther north, the waterway became the mighty Hudson, the river separating the Big Apple from the northeastern shoreline of New Jersey.
Urban waters, frigid and gray. Eye candy to Realtors and sightseers. Ignored on a daily basis by commuters, nature’s barrier neutered by a dozen bridges and tunnels.
Not today.
A winter sun splashed Manhattan’s skyline in fleeting shimmers of gold. Endless construction slowed traffic to a crawl. Tempers flared. Ten thousand new text messages launched into cyberspace. Steam rose from grates. Islands of heat drew the homeless like moths to a flame. Their indignity ignored by waves of pedestrians. Like the rivers.
Cold bit at exposed earlobes, sniffling noses. Last night’s snow, already trampled into slush. Christmas trees. Festive lights. The scent of hot Danish and cinnamon.
Thursday before Christmas. The approaching holiday energized Manhattan’s returning workforce. Human sardines packed subways and trains. Half a million vehicles turned highways into rush-hour parking lots. Deal makers and hustlers. Shoppers and sellers. Lawyers and layman and parents escorting children to school. Fueled on caffeine and dreams and survival instincts honed after years in the urban jungle. Two million visitors entered Manhattan every day. Add to that figure another 1.7 million residents — all sharing twenty-eight square miles of island.
One hundred thousand human beings occupying every frozen city block. Good and bad, old and young; men, women, and children, representing every age group and nationality on the planet. A slice of humanity, poised on a precipice too large to comprehend, their indifference to the world’s plight soiling any innocence, their deniability culpable.
No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.
Commuters inched their way west across the congested Queensboro Bridge — rats preparing to enter the maze. Ignore the drivers whose vehicles bear tri-state tags. Focus instead on the white Honda Civic with the Virginia license plate. The car was a rental, the driver an academic who had always preferred the suburbs to the temptations of big-city life. Yet here she was, having driven all night just to be in Manhattan on this chilly Thursday morning at this precise moment in human history. A virgin to New York, one might expect a case of rush-hour jitters. But the smile on Mary Louise Klipot’s angular face was serene, the thirty-eight-year-old cranberry-apple redhead exuding a calm that only came through inner peace. Hazel eyes, void of makeup and rimmed red from lack of sleep, glanced at the gridlocked drivers to her left. Troubled faces all, she told herself, bearing the constant fear that came from uncertainty.
Mary Klipot was neither afraid nor uncertain. She was in a place beyond worry, beyond the human stain. Faith was a wellspring that drove her convictions, and it ran deep, for she was traveling along a road paved by the Almighty Himself—
— and she was traveling with His child.
Of course, Andrew had tried to convince her otherwise, her fiancé insisting that he was her unborn child’s father. His argument held no sway, coerced by his clear intent to sell Scythe to the military, or to the intelligence community, or to some other rogue black ops group vested in its own geopolitical perversions. Did he think the microbiologist a fool? Baby Jesus his? When had this supposed “act of copulation” taken place? Why couldn’t she remember it?
Having forced the Devil to show his hand, her “betrothed” had spewed a tale of desperation, claiming that they had slept together back in March while vacationing in Cancún. Frustrated sexually, Andrew admitted having slipped a little something into Mary’s rum and cola, unleashing her libido’s bursting dam. It had been a wild night of passion and lust — that Mary had no recollection of the event having more to do with her not wanting to remember than the benign chemical concoction he had used on her.
The poisonous lie had cost Andrew dearly. Having bound her fiancé to the old barn’s center post, she poured acid over his wrists and handcuffs, clear up to his elbows. He had screamed until he passed out, the dilapidated structure’s heavy interior walls dampened the sound, the nearest neighbor more than half a mile away.
Resecuring him to the structure’s center post, she had waited patiently for him to awaken. Finally, she had prodded him with the business end of the 12 gauge.
“Darling Andrew, open your eyes. Mama has something for you.”
The blast had splattered brains and blood and skull shrapnel across the entire back wall and rafters, the heavy jolt spraining her right shoulder, causing Baby Jesus to kick for ten straight minutes. She had rested in the manger until he calmed, then she cleansed the barn with fire, sending her fiancé on his one-way journey to oblivion. Mary had remained behind long enough to convince the local firefighters to allow the ancient structure to burn itself out, then she treated herself to a lobster dinner at the Benito Grill before heading off to her bio lab at Fort Detrick to pack.
The news came on the radio, beckoning her attention.
…world leaders clearly divided on how to deal with Iran, arriving in New York for an emergency session of the UN Security Council. Iran’s Supreme Leader is scheduled to address the Security Council in General Assembly Hall at 9:15 this morning. President Kogelo’s address is tentatively scheduled for 10:30, followed by China’s General Secretary later this afternoon. Meanwhile, the US aircraft carrier, Theodore Roosevelt is expected to join the USS Ronald Reagan battle group already in the Persian Gulf — a direct response to the sale of Russian-made ICBMs to Iran on August 9. Now back to more music on WABC New York.”
Mary powered off the radio, her heart beating faster as she exited the Queensboro Bridge to FDR Drive South — the United Nations complex situated somewhere up ahead. Today she would teach the elitists a lesson. Today they would fully comprehend the meaning of Matthew 5:5. “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”
She glanced at the pile of blankets laid neatly on the passenger-side floor, fighting the urge to pull aside the wool camouflage and gaze upon the hidden object — a metal briefcase containing her key to the Pearly Gates. In God’s time, Mary. The Lord will be with you when you need Him. Don’t anticipate the pain. Focus only on the present…
Lost in the past, Patrick Shepherd dreamed…
They are moving down the streets of Baghdad, David Kantor on his right, Eric Lasagna on his left. Three Pied Pipers, followed by a dozen Iraqi children begging for handouts.
David pauses, allowing the young horde to circle his fellow soldiers. “Either of you two ever see Moby Dick?”
“I have,” answers Lasagna. “Gregory Peck as Ahab. Classic.”
“Remember when Ahab told his men to watch the birds, that the birds would tell them when Moby Dick was getting ready to breach? The locals are your birds. They usually sense when trouble is going to happen, so if you see them vacate the street, be ready. The kids are great, just be careful. Fanatics sometimes strap bombs to them, forcing them to approach our troops.”
A bright-eyed, dark-haired seven-year-old girl smiles at Shep, clearly flirting. Reaching into his knapsack, he removes an MRE, the presence of the recognizable portable meal generating excitement. “Okay, let’s see what Uncle Sam has given us today. Anyone interested in two-day-old beef ravioli? No? Can’t say I blame you. Wait, what’s this? M&Ms!”
The children jump and wave and call out in Farsi.
Shep distributes three boxes worth of the chocolate candies so that each child gets an equal share, saving the last double portion for the smiling seven-year-old girl.
She consumes the handful in one palm-sized mouthful, chocolate saliva oozing from her grinning lips. Shep watches her, lost in her big brown eyes — windows to a soul that has witnessed so much pain yet can still lose itself in innocence.
His new friend beams a muddy chocolate smile. She blows him a kiss and runs off—
— her exit ending his momentary reprieve in the eye of the storm, returning him to war.
The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, situated on thirteen acres just south of Columbia University’s main campus, was the largest cathedral in the world. Built on a promontory overlooking the Hudson River, the Romanesque-Byzantine structure was designed in 1887, yet still remained unfinished.
Pankaj Patel paused on Amsterdam Avenue to gaze at the illustrious House of God. The cathedral was decorated in holiday lights, yet Patel felt anything but festive. It has been more than three months since the professor of psychiatry was accepted into the Society of the Nine Unknown Men, and the stress associated with the clandestine encounter with the Elder still weighed on his mind.
He stared at the cathedral’s Fountain of Peace, its surrounding lawn carpeted white with snow, encircled by bronze animal figures. The detailed carvings depicted the epic struggle of good versus evil — the archangel Michael decapitating Satan, whose horned head hung to one side. One more day until the winter solstice… the day of the dead. If the End of Days is really upon us…
“Dad, come on! I’m going to be late for our holiday party.”
His attention turned to his ten-year-old daughter, Dawn. The girl’s long onyx hair, separated into braids, hung over her winter coat, her dark angelic eyes exuding a combination of anxiety and impatience. “I’m sorry. Was I lost in space again?”
“Totally.” Tugging him by his wrist, she led him toward the entrance of the Cathedral School, a kindergarten-through-eighth-grade elementary school for children of all faiths. “Remember, I’m staying after school for band practice. See you at dinner.”
“Wait!” Catching up with her on the frost-covered lawn, he bent down on one knee. “You know I love you. You are God’s gift to your mother and me, our little angel.”
“Dad”—she touched his cheek with her wool-covered fingers—“now your knee’s all wet.”
With a heavy heart, he watched his only child hustle to join the other children converging upon the school entrance. Brushing at the wet stain on his right pant leg, he continued up Amsterdam Avenue to Columbia University’s East Campus.
Mary Klipot’s arms trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, her white-knuckled hands clenching the rosary beads. The bumper-to-bumper traffic on First Avenue had not budged in ten minutes, and the police presence along the adjacent United Nations Plaza was everywhere.
Her eyes darted from the digital clock on the dashboard to her rearview mirror. She stared at the four-foot-tall skeleton doll buckled into the back-seat, the figure dressed in a bridal gown and wearing a red wig that matched her own hair. “Santa Muerte, I’m running out of time. Guide me, Angel. Show me the way.”
Moments passed. Then the two lanes on her left miraculously surged forward. She swerved over from her right lane, skidded briefly on a patch of ice, then turned onto East 45th Street, in desperate search of a parking space.
The traffic crawled west, crossing Second Avenue. The parking garages were all full, the snow-piled curbs off-limits. The digital clock advanced to 8:54 A.M. She slapped her palms in frustration on the steering wheel, shattering the rosary beads in the process.
This is no good. You’re heading too far west.
The baby kicked in her belly as she turned right on Third Avenue, then right again on 46th Street. Having looped around the block, she was once more heading east in the direction of the United Nations Plaza. She crossed over Second Avenue, her pulse pounding in her temples. Don’t get stuck on First Avenue again or you’ll be late. She glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Please skinny girl, help me find a place to park.”
The alley on her left was so narrow she nearly passed it. Nestled between two high-rise buildings, it was an alcove reserved only for deliveries. She turned down the path, following it sixty feet until it dead-ended at a steel trash bin.
Cloaked in shadows, allowing for privacy while still within walking distance of the UN — perfect! “Thank you, Santa Muerte. Bless you, my Angel.”
The no parking — violators towed signs were posted everywhere, but she would only be ten minutes, fifteen at the most, and besides, God had led her here, He would never abandon her now. She parked in front of the immense brown trash bin, turning off the car’s engine.
It was time.
Mary pulled away the wool blankets stacked on the passenger-side floor, revealing the metallic attaché case. A biohazard warning label adorned its smooth surface, the USAMRIID logo embellished with a silver scythe.
She pulled the attaché case onto her lap. Turned her attention to its combination lock. Maneuvered the seven digits to 1266621 then flicked open the twin latches.
The steel locks popped open—
— tripped a microcircuit that sent a remote electronic signal to a secured receiver located 245 miles to the south.
The biodefense laboratories located at USAMRIID were the largest and best equipped of the three facilities in the United States designated to handle highly hazardous microbes. Expanded in 2008, Fort Detrick’s campus now included the National Biodefense Analysis & Countermeasures Center (NBACC), a billion-dollar, 160,000-square-foot complex operated under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security. The new facility housed approximately sixty thousand square feet of Bio-Safety Level-4 labs, designed to allow researchers to work with the most dangerous germs known in existence.
Dr. Lydia Gagnon’s office was located in Building 1425 on the National Interagency Biodefense Campus (NIBC), one of the original facilities still in use. The pathologist from Ontario finished her second Pepsi of the morning, allowed herself one more minute before she had to leave for her nine o’clock staff meeting. She was in the middle of reading a personal e-mail from her sister when the Internet screen abruptly shut down.
attention: level-4 biohazard breach
The warning flashed over and over, the encrypted message prompting her to enter her security code. She typed in the seven-digit identification number and read, her blue eyes widening in fear behind her prescription glasses. After thirty seconds, she grabbed her office phone and dialed a three-digit extension.
“This is Gagnon in the NIBC. We have a Level-4 biohazard breach — repeat, we have a Level-4 biohazard breach. I want two A.I.T.s on the helodeck ready to deploy in six minutes. Tell Colonel Zwawa I’m on my way up!”
Mary Klipot opened the metal case, revealing molded foam compartments. There were three items secured inside: An inhaler designed to fit over the nose and mouth, an aerosol injector attachment, and a three-ounce glass vial containing a clear liquid, its capped top sealed with an orange biohazard sticker.
Methodical now, she removed the empty aerosol injector. Unscrewed its top. Placed it in one of the molded compartments so it stood upright. Carefully, she removed the glass vial. Peeled away the decal. Gently poured a single fluid ounce into the bottom of the empty aerosol dispenser.
A breath to calm her nerves. Then she reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a Plexiglas test tube containing a chalky gray substance. A genetic modifier: The X factor of her labors. She unscrewed the cap, which doubled as the handle to a tiny internal measuring scoop the size of a head of a tack. She filled the scoop with the gray powder. Tapped off the excess. Added the scoop to the clear liquid in the aerosol dispenser, then capped the test tube and placed it in an open foam compartment. Replaced the aerosol dispenser’s lid and gave the sealed ingredients a dozen delicate shakes. Satisfied, she attached the dispenser to the inhaler, then laid the device on the foam padding.
She checked the clock: 8:59 A.M.
From her purse she removed the envelope containing the forged United Nations identification card. Mary glanced at her photo, now assigned the name: Dr. Bogdana Petrova, Russian embassy. Dr. Petrova had been a microbiologist. Mary had met her at an international convention seven years ago in Brussels. Bogdana’s remains had turned up six weeks later in a trash bin in Moscow, her death blamed on an Internet date gone bad.
We’ll get them back for what they did to you, Dana. For what they did to all our colleagues.
She slipped the shoestring attached to the fake identification card over her head, then picked up the inhaler. Her heart pounded, her hand trembled. This is it, Mary, this is why you were chosen. Scythe can’t hurt the baby, you’ve already inoculated the placenta, but it must be properly inseminated to summon the Rapture.
Staring at the red-wigged Grim Reaper doll in the rearview mirror, she recited the ninth passage from the nine-day cycle of prayers to Santisima Muerte, taken from the novena booklet she received in Mexico two months earlier. “Blessed Protector Death: By the virtues that God gave you, I ask that you free me from all evil, danger, and sickness, and that instead, you give me luck, health, happiness, and money, that you give me friends and freedom from my enemies, also making Jesus, the father of my child, come before me, humble as a sheep, keeping His promises and always being loving and submissive. Amen.”
She pressed the inhaler over her nose and mouth. Squeezing the trigger, she inhaled the pungent elixir deep into her lungs.
The deed over, she laid her head back. Her heart beat wildly. Her eyelids fluttered. Her body quivered with adrenaline.
The internal voice, suppressed by the meds, now urged her haste.
She exited the car, slammed the door, and locked it before remembering the telltale metal attaché case. Clicking the keyless entry, she opened the door and grabbed the case, stomping her feet in the slush-covered street to keep her full bladder under control in the twenty-seven-degree chill.
She looked around, desperate. The dumpster beckoned. She tossed the attaché case inside and hurried off. The case popped open as it landed inside the empty steel bin with a loud crash.
She hustled out of the alley. Turned left, headed east on 46th Street.
Bubonic Mary quickened her pace as the infectious combination of toxins quickly seeped through her bloodstream.
Leigh Nelson sat behind her desk, sipping the microwave-heated cup of coffee. Thursday morning, no reprimands. Her coat remained on, her bones still chilled from the four-block walk. Thirty degrees out, ten with the windchill, and they have to pick today to start construction on the staff parking lot.
Opening her laptop, she logged onto the Internet and checked her e-mail, progressively deleting the obvious spam. She stopped at the subject line: lost person inquiry and clicked on the e-mail.
Dr. Nelson:
Thank you for your inquiry regarding the whereabouts of BEATRICE SHEPHERD, age 30–38, ONE CHILD (female) age 14–16. TOP 5 Search States Requested: NY. NJ. CT. MA. PA. The following positive matches were found:
Manhattan, New York: Ms. Beatrice Shepherd
Vineland, New Jersey: Mrs. Beatrice Shepherd
See also: Mrs. B. Shepherd (NY — 4)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (NJ — 1)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (MA — 6)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (PA — 14)
To provide you with the highest-quality results, we suggest our LEVEL 2 Detective Service. Fee: $149.95.
Nelson’s eyes locked onto the Manhattan match. She clicked on the link:
Shepherd, Beatrice—201 West Thames Street, Battery Park City, NY. Daughter: Karen (age unknown).
Phone: (212) 798-0847 (new listing)
Marital Status: Married (separated)
Click for MAP:
She printed the information. Checked the time. Cursing under her breath, she grabbed her clipboard and headed out, ten minutes late for her morning rounds.
The sound of catcalls and hollering could be heard clear down the hall. Leigh Nelson quickened her pace into a jog, bursting through the double doors of Ward 27.
The veterans were chanting from their beds. Those with hands were clenching fistfuls of money, those without were just as animated. At the center of the spectacle was Alex Steven Timmer, a US Marine Corps veteran. The single-leg amputee was balancing on his right leg and left prosthetic, a baseball bat cocked over his right shoulder. The breakfast tray by his feet served as home plate, a mattress leaning against the bathroom door was the backstop. An aluminum bedpan tied around the mattress was the strike zone, one baseball already caught in its well.
On the other side of the ward, standing in the center aisle sixty feet away, was Patrick Shepherd. Strangely imposing. A baseball gripped loosely in his right paw.
“What the hell is going on in here? This is a hospital ward, not Yankee Stadium!”
The men grew quiet. Shep looked away.
Master Sergeant Rocky Trett addressed the angry woman from his bed. “Timmer played college baseball for the Miami Hurricanes. Claims he hit.379 in the College World Series and that Shep couldn’t strike him out on his best day. Naturally, we felt a wager was in order.”
“Come on, Pouty Lips, give us two more pitches so we can finish the bet!”
“Yeah!” The men started cheering again.
Alex Timmer nodded at the brunette. “Two more pitches, Doc. Let us settle this like men.”
“Two more pitches! Two more pitches! Two more pitches!”
“Enough!” She looked around, measuring her patients’ needs against the reality of losing her job. “Two more pitches. Then I want everything back to normal.”
The men cheered wildly as she walked down the center aisle to speak with Patrick. “Can you even throw a baseball with only one arm? Won’t you lose your balance?”
“I’m okay. Sort of been practicing in the basement.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Timmer. “He looks like he can hit. Can you get him out without breaking anything?”
Shep offered a wry smile.
“Strangler! Strangler! Strangler!”
“Two pitches.” She took cover behind the nurses’ station alongside Amanda Gregory. The nurse offered a shrug. “Could be worse. At least they’re not thinking about the war.”
Alex Timmer pointed his bat at Shep, Babe Ruth style. “Bring it, hotshot. Right over the plate.”
Shep turned away, adjusting his grip on the ball, using his upper thigh as leverage. Unable to maintain his balance in a full windup, he had to pitch from the stretch. He set himself, then, ignoring the batter, focused his eyes on the target. His left leg kicked, driving his knee up to his chest before extending forward into a powerful stride that simultaneously unfurled his right arm, a slingshot that hurled a spinning white blur through the air down the center aisle past the flummoxed batter a full second before he completed his awkward uppercut of a swing, the two-seam fastball denting the bedpan at its center point.
Strike two.
The men went crazy. Money was exchanged, a few tempers flared — the batter’s among them. “One more, Shepherd, give me one more fastball. You’d better duck, this one’s coming back up the middle.”
Shep retrieved the last ball from one of the veterans. He set a slightly different grip on the seams, his expression rivaling the best poker faces in Vegas.
Nothing changed. Not the speed of the delivery or the angle of his arm or the release — just the grip. The white Taser flew past a sea of steel beds en route to the makeshift plate and the awaiting batter before the baseball suddenly nosedived into a breaking slider that slipped ten inches beneath Alex Timmer’s whirling lumber — his swing rendered so violently off kilter that it corkscrewed the one-legged veteran 360 degrees. Ash wood met prosthetic leg, the device shattering into shards of aluminum and steel, landing Timmer hard on his buttocks. He howled as a slice of metal punctured his left butt cheek.
Silence stole across the crowd. Dr. Nelson stood by the nurses’ station, her complexion as pale as her lab coat.
“Damn it, Shepherd! I waited eight months for this leg! Eight months! Now what am I supposed to do?”
Shep shrugged. “Next time, bunt.”
The men whooped and hollered with laughter.
Grabbing the closest walker, the one-legged man pulled himself off the linoleum floor and limped up the aisle, intent on assaulting the one-armed man. Dr. Nelson remained frozen in place, watching dumbfounded as her interns hurried to intervene.
Her pager reverberated in her pocket. She fumbled for the instrument. Read the text message:
the vips have arrived.
Her leap of faith was waning, replaced by a sense of dread. Heaviness weighed in her lungs. Nausea rose in her stomach. A dull pain took root in her temples, the headache made worse by the incessant ringing of bells. The Christmas sound grew louder as she approached the crossroad of 46th Street and First Avenue, the United Nations Plaza looming into view.
Heath Shelby stopped ringing the bell. Pulling off one glove, he scratched his face beneath the annoying Santa Claus beard. A freelance writer, Shelby also did voice-over for local radio spots. He had been a volunteer with the Salvation Army for two years — one of his wife Jennifer’s requirements when she agreed to uproot their family from Arkansas.
Heath had no problem with charity work. The Salvation Army provided emergency services and hot meals to the less fortunate, along with gifts to children on Christmas. What he hated was wearing the cumbersome fat suit and the itchy white beard and the imitation-leather Santa boots that offered little to no insulation against the frozen sidewalk. He had been standing on the corner with his donation pot and bell since seven o’clock this morning. His feet and lower back ached. Worse, his throat was getting sore. With three new radio spots set up for next week, the last thing he needed now was a cold.
Screw this. Toss a twenty in the bucket and call it a day. Better yet, catch a cab down to Battery Park and work on the boat. A few more hours of repairs and she should be seaworthy. Can’t wait to see Collin’s face… kid hasn’t been fishing since we left Possum Grape. Pick up another case of fiberglass resin before you head over and—
Ignoring the flashing do not walk sign, the pregnant redhead stepped off the curb and into traffic. A horn blared. The taxi skidded—
— Heath grabbed the woman by her elbow, dragging her out of harm’s way. “You okay?”
Mary looked up at Santa Claus, dumbfounded. “I can’t be late.”
“Late’s better than dead. You gotta watch the signs. Are you sure you’re all right? You look kind of pale.”
Mary nodded. Coughing violently, she rooted through her coat pocket, tossed loose change and lint into Santa’s bucket. The light turned green again, and she followed a fresh wave of pedestrians across the First Avenue intersection.
Looming ahead, rising from what had once been the north lawn, was the new United Nations Conference Building, still partially under construction. On its right was the Secretariat Building, its gleaming green glass and marble facade towering thirty-eight stories, its lower floors connecting it with the old Conference Building, the South Annex, the library… and her target — the General Assembly Building.
Mary stared at the curved rectangular structure and its central-roof dome. Just like in my dreams. She followed the sidewalk to the plaza, shocked to see the size of the awaiting flock.
A thousand protesters infested the Dag Hammarskjöld eighteen-acre plaza. Tea baggers. Picket signs. Chants over bullhorns. Encouraged by a dozen film crews recording everything for the News at Noon. So dense was this sea of humanity that Mary could barely gauge her surroundings. She was aiming for the General Assembly Building and its barricade of policemen in riot gear when white specks of light impeded her vision, churning the nausea mustering in her gut.
Must hurry now, before the bacilli enter my liver and spleen.
She cloaked her mouth and nose with her wool scarf, guarding her protruding belly with her free arm as she pushed through the crowd. Unseen elbows collided with her shoulders and skull. The gray winter sky disappeared behind a wall of humanity that jostled her to the cold pavement and swallowed her whole. On hands and knees, she emerged at the barricade, her cries for assistance silenced by the overwhelming decibel level of the crowd. Desperate, she regained her feet, shoving her identification badge at the row of helmets and body armor forming the gauntlet.
Mucus thickened in her lungs. A fit of coughs took her as the crowd surged at her back and she went down again, pushed beneath the wood obstruction.
A police officer dragged her to her feet, his brass tag identifying him as beck. He was shouting to her, pulling her on his side of the barricade, and suddenly she could see again.
“Go!” He pointed to the entrance.
Mary waved her thanks and hurried to the next security checkpoint, the pathogen raging through her body.
The two Sikorsky UH-60Q Blackhawk helicopters soared over rural Maryland, their airspeeds approaching 150 knots. Each Aeromedical Isolation Team (A.I.T.) was equipped with a portable biohazard containment laboratory and mobile patient transportation isolator. The flight crew included an Army physician, a nurse, and three medics. The other members of these rapid response teams were Special Ops officers trained to deal with lethal contagious diseases, biological weapons, and patient isolation — the latter often the determining factor in whether a local population lived or died.
In charge of the two chopper response teams were Captains Jay and Jesse Zwawa, both men younger brothers of Colonel John Zwawa, USAMRIID’s commanding officer. Jay Zwawa, the Alpha Team field commander, was an Army veteran who had served three years in Iraq. Known in his barracks as “Z” or the “Polish Pimp Dog,” Jay stood six feet four inches and weighed an imposing 260 pounds. Covered in tattoos, the former Army sniper was a certified Gatling gun operator and diesel engine mechanic, and had earned a reputation as a practical jokester. When riled, however, Z had been known to knock out with one punch anyone who challenged him.
Younger brother Jesse was smaller than his two older brothers but was considered the smartest of the three Zwawa boys, at least by their sister, Christine. The two A.I.T. commanders were situated in the cargo hold of the lead chopper, assisting one another into their Racal suits — orange polyvinyl chloride protective garments possessing sealed hoods and self-powered breathing systems. The Zwawa siblings knew their destination but had not been briefed on the nature of the mission. Whatever older brother John had in mind, the colonel was taking no chances. The two crews flying into Manhattan were heavily armed, with orders that allowed them to supersede the police department, fire and rescue, and all branches of local government.
The detail of armed guards stood at attention in front of the door to the General Assembly Hall, where the Security Council was meeting to accommodate all those who wished to attend. Mary rocked back on her heels, waiting while her forged identification card was scrutinized by a UN security officer. His partner searched her purse.
“Thank you, Dr. Petrova. Arms up, please, I need to pat you down for weapons.” He hesitated to touch her swollen belly.”
“It’s okay, he likes you.” She took the police officer’s hand and pressed it to her stomach in time to feel the baby kick.
“Wow, that’s… that’s amazing.” He turned to his partner. “She’s cleared, let her through.” The officer handed her back the laminated card, never questioning her phony Russian accent or the fact that she was pale and sweating profusely, her perspiration giving off a soured musk.
The auditorium was buzzing, its capacity crowd waiting to hear from Iran’s Supreme Leader. Mary weaved down one of the main aisles. Through watering eyes, she gazed at the stage. A mural of a phoenix rising from the battlefield served as the backdrop to a specially installed horseshoe configuration of chairs, all surrounding a rectangular table reserved for the fifteen members of the Security Council.
I am the phoenix rising…
The chamber spun. Mary shook her head, fighting to maintain control. Inseminate the carriers. She coughed phlegm into each palm. Innocently touched a French delegate as she squeezed past his table. Infested England and Denmark with a sneeze. Coughed in the direction of Brazil and Bulgaria. Cut back across another aisle and headed for a table of Arabs in dark business suits. A placard identified them as Iraqis.
Onstage, the Iranian mullah took his place at the podium, his words simultaneously translated into dozens of languages via headphones. “Excellencies, I come to you today in the hopes of averting a conflict that will lead to another war. I plead my case to the General Assembly, knowing that the Security Council has been corrupted by the occupiers of Afghanistan and Iraq…”
Mary tapped the shoulder of an Iraqi delegate heading for his seat. “Please? Where is the Iranian delegation?”
The dead-man-walking glanced at her swollen belly. Pointed to an empty table.
A wave of panic sent her pulse to race. The meek shall inherit the earth, not the mullahs. She hustled out of the chamber, returning to the security desk. “Please, I am late to meet with the Iranian delegation. Where can I find them?”
The woman at the desk scanned her clipboard. “Room 415.” She pointed down the hall. “Take the elevator up to the fourth floor.”
“Spasibo!” Mary hurried down the corridor, coughing up a thick wad of phlegm into her hand. She checked it for blood, wiped it off on her jacket, then pressed the up button and waited, her internal clock ticking.
Leigh Nelson led her V.I.P., his two guests, and their security detail down the hallway to Ward 27, praying all signs of the early-morning baseball wager had been removed.
Bertrand DeBorn’s visit to the VA hospital was far more than just a photo op. While President Kogelo was scheduled to address the United Nations later this morning, hoping to quell hawkish demands for an Iranian invasion, the new secretary of defense was seeding a privately funded covert campaign designed to recruit a new generation of young Americans to the military.
Two prolonged wars required altering the public’s perception of combat. Working in conjunction with one of New York’s biggest advertising firms, DeBorn intended to present America’s wounded veteran as the nation’s new elite — a true patriot whose financial needs were met, his health care guaranteed, his family’s future bright. Slap the Stars and Stripes on it, and even a turd could be sold as smelling sweet… provided the chosen poster boy fit the image.
DeBorn caught up to the female physician and grabbed the petite brunette by her elbow, the back of his hand pressing against her right breast in the process. “No more paraplegics or cancer patients, Doctor. The ideal candidate must be good-looking and middle-class, preferably Caucasian, God-fearing, and Christian. As for the wounds, they can be visible without the gross-out factor. No head wounds or missing eyes.”
Leigh ground her teeth, brushing aside the secretary of defense’s lingering hand. “I was told to show you our wounded vets. Whom you select for your recruitment campaign is up to you.”
Sheridan Ernstmeyer joined in on the conversation. “What about mental clarity?”
DeBorn weighed the question. “I don’t know. Colonel, you’re the expert. What do you think?”
Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti, an ordained minister, was the highest-ranking man of the cloth in the Armed Forces and DeBorn’s handpicked selection to lead the military’s new recruitment campaign. Toting a Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other, Argenti aimed to target families still reeling from the recession as well as military stalwarts — apple-pie-eating, flag-bearing rural Southern folk who still viewed service in the military as the ultimate definition of patriotism. “Mental clarity is certainly desired, but not entirely necessary, Mister Secretary. We’ll keep everything to sound bites and tweets.”
Applause and catcalls greeted Leigh Nelson as she led DeBorn’s group into Ward 27. Embarrassed, she casually kicked aside the dented bedpan from earlier, hoping the men have calmed since her last visit. “Thank you, fellas, you do a West Virginia girl proud. Just remember, my granddaddy taught me how to castrate hogs when I was a little girl, so don’t cross the line. I brought a very special visitor with me. How ’bout a warm welcome for our new secretary of defense, Bertrand DeBorn.”
Ignoring the lack of response, the spry white-haired man moved quickly down the center aisle, nodding politely, pressing on as he mentally inventoried each wounded combat veteran. Hispanic… Hispanic… Black… he’s white, but the wrong look. Quadriplegic, no good. This one looks white, but he’s way too skinny, probably on drugs… DeBorn kept his entourage moving, his frustration mounting like an obsessed breeder seeking a hunting dog in a kennel filled with poodles and dachshunds, until Sheridan Ernstmeyer grabbed his arm, the former CIA assassin motioning toward the last bed on their left. The curtain was partially pulled around, but not enough to cloak the disabled soldier — an African-American in his late thirties, probably an officer, paralyzed from the waist down.
“Wrong… look, Sherry.”
“Not him, Bert. The orderly.”
The man dressed in a white tee shirt and scrubs was Caucasian and in his early thirties, his long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. The jaw was dimpled, his six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound frame chiseled like an athlete. The orderly was changing out his patient’s bedding, rolling him on his side with his right hand, using his opposite shoulder as leverage, maneuvering him easily… despite the fact that he had no left arm.
“Dr. Nelson, that orderly… is he a veteran?”
“You mean Shep?”
“Shep?”
“Patrick Shepherd. Yes, sir, he served four tours in Iraq. But I don’t think—”
“He’s perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for. Colonel Argenti?”
“Strapping young man, obviously an athlete. And working so diligently to aid his fellow soldiers. He’s outstanding, Mr. Secretary. Well done.”
Sheridan shot the minister a look.
Leigh attempted to pull DeBorn aside. “Sir, there are a few things you need to know about the sergeant—”
“Mission accomplished, Doctor. Have the sergeant meet us in your office in ten minutes. Ms. Ernstmeyer, see to it that Dr. Nelson e-mails us his personnel file.” He checked his watch. Still a few hours before the meeting. “Colonel, join me outside, I’m in need of a cigarette.”
“…yet it is not an Iranian armada positioned in the Persian Gulf, nor is it Hezbollah who has established military bases in Iraq and in Afghanistan. It is the Great Satan who is responsible for this conflict… I can smell his sulfurous presence in this building even now. To him I offer this warning: The Muslim world will not allow you to invade the National Islamic Republic of Iran and steal our oil as you did to our brothers in Iraq. We shall fight—”
The security officer lowered the volume of the Iranian leader’s speech on his video screen as he inspected Mary Klipot’s identification. Satisfied, he pressed a button beneath his desk, buzzing into Conference Room 415. “You’ve got a visitor. Russian embassy.”
Mary gritted her teeth, struggling to control the lung spasms urging her to cough.
A metallic click as the door to Room 415 unlocked and opened, revealing an Iranian security guard. “Speak.”
“I am to deliver a message from Prime Minister Putin’s office to the Supreme Leader’s attaché.”
“Your identification.”
She held it up for him to read. The Iranian shut the door.
Mary Klipot’s skin was hot and clammy, her fever rising past 101.5 degrees. She coughed bile into her scarf. Tasting the blood, she wiped it with her right palm, allowing the mucus to remain on her skin.
The security officer seated outside the door cringed. “That’s a nasty cough. Keep it away from me.”
The door reopened. “You have two minutes.”
Mary entered the conference room, the guard motioning her to remain by the door. Two dozen men, some in business attire, others in traditional robes, were watching the Supreme Leader’s speech on closed-circuit flat-screen monitors located throughout the suite.
Her heart raced as she spotted Iran’s president speaking with a mullah on the other side of the room.
A man in a business suit approached, escorted by two large Arabs wearing security earpieces. “I am the Supreme Leader’s attaché. Deliver your message.”
Mary’s eyes watered with fever. Her limbs quivered. Her dress and pantyhose were laced with sweat. Her chest constricted, sending her convulsing in a fit of coughs. “Prime Minister Putin wishes… (cough) the Supreme Leader to contact him… (cough) one hour after President Kogelo’s speech.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. He reached for Mary’s identification card to examine the photo—
— Mary cupping his hand in her moist palms. “С Рождеством… и с Новым Годом!”
The man pulled his hand free. He rattled off something in Arabic, causing the two guards to escort her roughly to the door.
Mary exited to the corridor. Hurried to catch an elevator. She managed to slip inside the closing doors, held open for her by a Mexican delegate in his late forties. The man instinctively moved to the rear of the car as he inhaled a whiff of Mary’s burgeoning body odor.
A wicked smile twitched across the pregnant woman’s face as her feverish mind translated the Russian phrase she had offered the Iranian: Merry Christmas… and a happy New Year!
The migraine struck the moment she stepped out of the elevator. Squiggly purple lines impeded her vision. A sudden rush of nausea sent her scurrying into the women’s bathroom. She had barely made it to an empty stall when the bloody excrement burst from her insides, scorching her throat. For several moments she heaved the remaining contents of her stomach into the toilet, her entire body shaking as she hugged the cold porcelain to her contorting belly.
The nausea passed, leaving her weak and trembling. Dragging herself to her feet, she staggered out of the stall to a row of sinks, her reflection in the mirror startling.
She was ghostly pale, almost gray. Her eyes were sunken and red. Veins traced a faint blue latticework across her forehead. A red splotch the size of a walnut appeared above the lymph node along her neck. Scythe’s entered phase 2. Get back to the car. Use the vaccine—
“Miss? Are you all right?”
The short, slightly stocky Caucasian woman wearing a food-services badge was staring at her, aghast.
“Morning sickness.” Mary rinsed out her mouth, pushing the damp strands of hair away from her forehead. She left the bathroom. Exited the building.
The cool air kept her from fainting. She inhaled the December chill into her defiled lungs. Found her way past the police barricade and pushed through the crowd of protesters, every cough dousing the faceless multitude with specks of tainted blood.
Clearing the horde, she waited at First Avenue for the do not walk sign to change, clutching the traffic light pole for support, her mind racing. Delirious yet victorious, a true warrior of Christ. Her feverish eyes gazed at the black tow truck turning north on First Avenue—
— hauling her white Honda Civic!
“No… no!” Bloody excrement gurgled in her throat. She half staggered, half ran across the four-lane intersection.
Horns blared, brakes screeched, pedestrians screamed.
A crowd gathered around Mary Klipot’s body, sprawled across First Avenue.
BIO-WARFARE PHASE II: EPIZOOTIC INFESTATION
“Officials are trying to get to the bottom of how vaccine manufacturer Baxter International Inc. made ‘experimental virus material’ based on a human flu strain but contaminated with the H5N1 avian flu virus and then distributed it to an Austrian company (Avir Green Hills Biotechnology). Accidental release of a mixture of live H5N1 and H3N2 viruses could have resulted in dire consequences. If someone exposed to the mixture had been co-infected with H5N1 and H3N2, the person could have served as an incubator for a hybrid virus able to transmit easily to and among people. That mixing process, called reassortment, is one of two ways pandemic viruses are created.”
December 20
East 46th Street
Tudor City, Manhattan
9:33 A.M.
(22 hours, 30 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“Officials are trying to get to the bottom of how vaccine manufacturer Baxter International Inc. made ‘experimental virus material’ based on a human flu strain but contaminated with the H5N1 avian flu virus and then distributed it to an Austrian company (Avir Green Hills Biotechnology). Accidental release of a mixture of live H5N1 and H3N2 viruses could have resulted in dire consequences. If someone exposed to the mixture had been co-infected with H5N1 and H3N2, the person could have served as an incubator for a hybrid virus able to transmit easily to and among people. That mixing process, called reassortment, is one of two ways pandemic viruses are created.”
Thirty-four minutes have passed since Mary Klipot had disposed of the steel attaché case in the trash bin. Twenty-four minutes since the first black rat had arrived.
Rattus rattus. No one really knew how many of the rodents inhabited the Big Apple, estimates varied from 250,000 to upward of 7 million. Agile creatures, a rat could balance on its hind legs, climb ladders, leap three feet straight into the air, or scurry up a sheer wall. It could squeeze through a hole as narrow as a quarter, survive a sixty-foot plunge, or swim up a drainage pipe clear into a toilet. Though nocturnal, a rat could hunt both day and night. The name “rat” translated into “gnawing animal” and for good reason: So strong were its teeth and jaw that a rat could chew through brick and mortar, even reinforced concrete.
A rat’s life spanned two to three years, consisting mostly of eating and breeding. Females averaged more than twenty sex acts a day from the time they reached three months old. Litters ranged from six to twelve pups, with a single female bearing four to six litters in its lifetime. Male rats had been known to mate with a female until it died of exhaustion… and then continued on well after her passing.
Intelligent animals, rats thrived in the city’s endless banquets of refuse, their olfactory sense capable of detecting food anywhere within their territory. New York’s black rat population had long lost its fear of man, and the pungent scent coming from within the dumpster was alluring.
Francesca Minos exited Minos Pizzeria, balancing a stack of cardboard soup bowls on her bulging abdomen. A week overdue with her first child, the twenty-five-year-old would rather have been lying in bed with her swollen feet propped on pillows than greeting yet another chilly New York morning in her sweat suit and overcoat… but Paolo had not missed a breakfast line in two years and, pregnant or not, she needed to help her husband.
Reaching into the steaming aluminum pot, she grabbed a wooden ladle and deposited a clump of oatmeal in a disposable bowl, leaving it on the table for the next person in line. Already the morning gathering extended down Amsterdam Avenue, with more homeless on the way… her devout soul mate determined to feed each and every one of them.
A platoon of vacant eyes and expressionless faces filed past her in silence. Society’s forgotten souls. Had temptation led them astray, or had they simply given up? Many were drug addicts and alcoholics, no doubt, but others had fallen on hard times and simply had nowhere else to go. At least 30 percent were veterans of the Iraq War, half of those disabled.
Francesca filled another bowl, her fear turning to anger. There were almost a hundred thousand homeless in New York City alone. As bad as she felt for them, Francesca was more worried for her own family. Like most businesses, the pizzeria was struggling, and soon they, too, would have another mouth to feed. Were the homeless even appreciative of the free meal they were receiving? Or had the generosity of strangers simply been absorbed as part of their daily ritual? With each passing day, the line separating the Minoses from their impoverished brethren grew slimmer… what would happen when they were finally forced to stop tithing altogether? Would the homeless understand? Would they thank their hosts for their past generosity and wish them well, or would they turn violent, smashing the pizzeria’s windows, demanding their entitlement.
The thought made Francesca shudder.
His container empty, Paolo wiped his palms on his oatmeal-splattered chef’s apron, then headed back inside for another refill.
“Paolo… wait.”
The dark, curly-haired Italian paused, smiling at his expectant wife. “Yes, my angel? What does your heart wish of me?”
What do I wish? My back aches from hoisting this kicking bowling ball twenty-four/seven, my feet are killing me, and my hemorrhoids are falling out of my ass like nobody’s business. What I wish is that you’d quit bleeding our household savings on these losers, or at least hit the damn lottery so you could take me away from all this!
She glanced again at the procession of street people, their worn shoes soaking wet from the pools of slush. Beaten into submission, they were living out their days in survival mode. And yet, at one time, each life had held hope and potential.
Like her unborn child…
“Francesca?”
Parting a strand of dark hair from her eyes, she returned her husband’s loving smile. “Mind the stove, sweetheart, it’s very hot.”
Two blocks south of Minos Pizzeria and one block east of Riverside Park stood the Manhasset, an eleven-story century-old redbrick building. Condominiums were priced at over half a million dollars for a one-bedroom — washer and dryer not included.
The west-facing apartment on the Manhasset’s tenth floor was dark now, the heavy drapes closed, their bottoms pressed to the bay windows by textbooks to prevent even a sliver of gray morning light from penetrating the room. Only a solitary flame illuminated the proceedings, the candle situated on the floor to the Hindu woman’s back.
The necromancer closed her eyes. Dressed in her traditional white tunic, she wore no jewelry — save for the crystal dangling from a gold chain around her neck. Attuned to the vibrations of the supernal, the crystal was her canary in the coal mine, a device that alerted her to the desire of her spiritual companion to communicate.
Studying the art of necromancy in Nepal was no different than learning how to play a musical instrument — for some it was merely a hobby, for others a passion that might lead to mastery, assuming one possessed the talent. When it came to seeking communication with the spirits of the dead, Manisha Pande possessed the bloodlines of the gifted. Born in a Himalayan village, she shared a maternal lineage with necromancers that dated back to ancient Persia. By the Middle Ages the practice had reached Europe, where it was corrupted by self-proclaimed magicians and sorcerers — condemned by the Catholic Church as an agency for evil spirits. In Nepal, however, a talented practitioner could still earn a good living from the trade.
Despite her innate skills, Manisha grew up believing she had another calling. Her father, Bikash, and her paternal uncles were all physicians, and the teenage girl’s desire to help others was strong. When she turned sixteen, Manisha pleaded with her father to allow her to move to India to live with one of her uncles so that she could study psychiatry, hoping to treat women who were victims of human trafficking. The trade was alarmingly robust in Nepal and throughout Asia, with thousands of women abducted and sold as sex slaves.
Manisha was surprised when her father agreed to support her plans. What she never knew was that Dr. Bikash Pande had been approached years earlier by a member of a secret society who had arranged for the physician’s talented daughter to one day meet the prodigy of another family — the Patels, whose eldest son, Pankaj, was also immersed in the science of psychology, only as it applied to the genesis of evil.
Manisha Patel breathed in and out, waiting for her spiritual guide to appear.
Necromancy was an art form dependent upon developing relationships with the deceased. One could neither conjure nor command a spirit, they had to be a willing participant in the act. Having moved to New York with her family following the birth of her daughter (a year after the September 11 attacks), Manisha had been overwhelmed by the sudden deluge of supernal contacts willing to communicate. Over time, a special relationship had been forged between the necromancer and one of these restless spirits — a woman who had been aboard one of the hijacked planes that had struck the Twin Towers. Up until this morning, all communications between Manisha and her spiritual companion had been reserved for the twilight hours.
Not today. For the last two hours, Manisha Patel’s crystal had been radiating like a tuning fork.
She had waited until Pankaj had left the apartment with Dawn. A close bond existed between her daughter and the dead woman’s spirit, and the reverberations coming from the crystal this morning felt wrong. Normally, the presence of a spirit resembled the sensation of a well-played guitar string, its sweet strum reverberating in Manisha’s heart, the Creator’s infinite Light lifting her soul higher with every passing beat. But this morning’s vibrations were distinctly out of tune. Manisha felt afraid, and the more she feared, the more horrifying the vibrations became. Suddenly she felt isolated and alone, unable to connect with anyone… as if trapped on her own island of self-doubt.
Manisha…
“Yes, I am here. Speak through me… tell me what is wrong.”
You and your family must leave. Leave Manhattan… now!
Like his two younger brothers, Colonel John Zwawa was a physically imposing man. A veteran of two wars, the colonel had seen combat and been stationed in places as diverse as Egypt and Alaska. Approaching retirement, he was sixteen months into a four-year assignment as commanding officer at Fort Detrick. In charge… yet purposely kept out of the loop by the Pentagon in regard to ongoing operations. Until this morning, the colonel’s biggest worry had been making sure the base soda machines remained stocked.
As of today, the colonel would no longer play the role of caretaker. Lydia Gagnon’s briefing had changed everything.
The microbiologist faced the remote cameras, her image appearing on secured monitors inside the Pentagon, White House, and aboard the two rapid-response-team helicopters racing to Manhattan. “The case that was removed from our Bio-Level 4 facility was part of a top secret project called Scythe. In short, Scythe is a self-administered biological weapon that allows an infected insurgent to rapidly spread bubonic plague throughout a military or hostile civilian population.
“Scythe is Black Death at its absolute worst, combining bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic variants in a form that can be spread quickly across both animal and human populations. During the bubonic pandemic of 1347, the bacterium, Yersinia pestis, lived inside the stomach of its primary vector, the rat flea. Plague bacteria multiply quickly inside a flea, blocking off its foregut. This stimulates hunger and more biting. Each time the flea bites its host, it gags on undigested blood and plague bacilli, vomiting them into the wound. Infected fleas lived off their rat hosts, creating an epizootic spread that devastated Asia and Europe. While the most treatable, bubonic is in many ways the nastiest of the Scythe bacilli, leaving the victim looking and smelling like death. Symptoms include fever, chills, and painful swelling of the lymph glands, called buboes, which turn red then black. Historic bubonic also disrupts the nervous system, causing agitation and delirium. If left untreated, bubonic plague has a 60 percent mortality rate.
“Pneumonic plague is an advanced stage of bubonic. It occurs when the bacilli infect the victim’s lungs, allowing it to be transmitted directly from human to human. The lungs become agitated, stimulating coughing and the spitting up of blood, followed by interminable vomiting. Inhale an infected person’s breath or come in direct contact with their bodily fluids, and you contract plague. In colder temperatures, the expelled sputum can also freeze, allowing for greater range of transmission. Left untreated, the mortality rate among pneumonic plague victims is between 95 and 100 percent.
“The last variant — septicemic plague — is the most lethal of the lot. It occurs when bacilli move directly into the bloodstream, killing the victim within twelve to fifteen hours. Again, Scythe contains all three variants. It spreads rapidly, tortures its victims while eliciting fear, and kills within fifteen hours. Only our specifically harvested antibiotic can inoculate the public or cure an infected individual… assuming you can get to them in time.”
“Tell us about the woman.” Vice President Arthur M. Krawitz was seated next to Harriet Clausner. The president’s secretary of state grimaced on the White House monitor.
“Her name is Mary Louise Klipot. We’re e-mailing her photo and bio to everyone now, as well as to the FBI and New York police departments. Mary is the microbiologist who developed Scythe. She’s the one who brought plague samples back from Europe.
“Mary is eight months pregnant. She is engaged to her lab technician, Andrew Bradosky, believed to be the father of her unborn child. Mary and Bradosky have both gone missing as of 2:11 A.M. this morning, when Mary left her BSL-4 lab. Security videotape reveals she was carrying a BSL variant transport case.”
The vice president interrupted. “Dr. Gagnon, these attaché cases? Scythe was being readied for deployment, wasn’t it?”
Lydia Gagnon looked away from the White House feed, hoping to avert a drawn-out debate. “We don’t make policy decisions, Mr. Vice President, we simply follow orders. Our department has been following a 2001 directive to develop a system to subdue a hostile population. Those orders have never been rescinded.”
“Who even knew the orders existed? I didn’t, and I served on the Foreign Relations Committee for twenty-two years. This directive is not only illegal, Dr. Gagnon, it’s genocide!”
“It’s warfare, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary Clausner interjected. “As I clearly stated in the last two PDBs, our military lacks the manpower to invade another country. Biological weapons offer us options.”
“Wiping out 40 million Iranians is not an acceptable option, Secretary Clausner.”
“Neither is allowing nuclear weapons to fall into the hands of terrorists.”
“With all due respect, this isn’t the time or place,” Colonel Zwawa snapped. “Dr. Gagnon, where’s the missing Scythe attaché case now?”
Using her laptop mouse, Dr. Gagnon clicked on a satellite map of New York City. A red circle zoomed in on 46th Street between First and Second Avenue. “It’s in an alleyway located sixty meters west of the United Nations. Once our A.I.T.s are on the ground, Delta team will retrieve the attaché case while Alpha Team coordinates with Homeland Security and Albany’s CDC to set up a secure perimeter around the plaza. We’ll establish the UN Plaza as a temporary gray zone, at least until we can determine whether Scythe has been released. A.I.T.s are equipped with enough antibiotic to treat upward of fifty infected individuals, with more antidote being readied.”
“Show us the worst-case scenario,” Colonel Zwawa ordered.
Dr. Gagnon hesitated, then clicked her mouse on another link.
A black circle appeared over the UN Plaza and the southern tip of Manhattan. “Assuming the spread is limited to foot traffic during its first thirty to sixty minutes of insemination, we may be able to keep Scythe contained inside Lower Manhattan. If it gets off the island and is limited to vehicular traffic, hours two and three look like this—”
A second circle appeared, encompassing Connecticut, New York, the eastern half of Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.
“If, however, a human vector boards a train, or God help us, a commercial airliner, then Scythe could spread across the globe within twenty-four hours.”
“What does he want with me?” Patrick Shepherd hustled to keep up with Leigh Nelson as she hurried through the congested hospital corridor, weaving her way around patients in bathrobes pushing IVs on wheeled stands.
“I’m sure he’ll explain. Keep in mind, he is President Kogelo’s new secretary of defense. Whatever he wants with you, I’d approach it as an honor.”
Patrick followed his doctor into her office, the familiar sanctuary violated by the presence of the white-haired DeBorn, who had situated himself behind Dr. Nelson’s desk.
The defense secretary dismissed his two Secret Service agents, allowing Leigh and Patrick to sit down. “Sergeant Shepherd, it’s an honor. This is my personal assistant, Ms. Ernstmeyer, and this fine gentleman is Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti. The colonel will be your new CO.”
“Why do I need a new commanding officer? I’ve already served my time.”
DeBorn ignored him, squinting to read the file coming across his BlackBerry. “Sergeant Patrick Ryan Shepherd. Four tours of duty. Abu Gharib… Green Zone. Reassigned to the 101st Airborne Division. Says here you received some on-the-job training to be a chopper pilot.”
“Blackhawks. Medevac choppers. I was wounded before I could test for my certification.”
The secretary of defense scrolled down his screen. “What’s this? Personnel file says you played professional baseball. That true?”
“Minor leagues, mostly.”
“The sergeant also played for the Boston Red Sox.”
Shep shot Dr. Nelson a look to kill.
“Really? Outfielder, I’d guess.”
“Pitcher.”
DeBorn looked up. “Not a southpaw, I hope?”
“Shepherd? Patrick Shepherd? Why does that name sound familiar?” Colonel Argenti tugged at his rusty gray hair, wracking his brain. “Wait… you’re him! The kid they nicknamed the Boston Strangler. The rookie who no-hit the Yankees in his first start in the big leagues.”
“Actually, it was a two-hitter, but—”
“You shut out Oakland your next start.”
“Toronto.”
“Toronto, right. I remember watching it on Sports Center. That one went extra innings, they pulled you in the ninth. That was crazy, they should have left you in.” Argenti stood, pumping his fist excitedly at DeBorn. “Been a season ticket holder going on thirty years. I know my baseball, and this kid was a beast. His fastball was okay, a cutter in the low nineties, but it was his dirty deuce that was outright nasty.”
DeBorn frowned. “Dirty deuce?”
“You know — the dirty yellow hammer… the yakker. Public enemy number two. A breaking ball, Bert! This kid had a breaking ball that was like hitting a lead shot put. Groundout after groundout, it drove hitters crazy.” The priest leaned back against Dr. Nelson’s desk, hovering over Patrick like an adoring fan. “You were a phenom, son, a nine day wonder. Whatever happened to you? You disappeared off the map like nobody’s business.”
“I enlisted… sir.”
“Oh, right. Country first, but still. Crying shame about the arm. How’d you lose it?”
“I don’t remember. They called it a traumatic amputation. Buddy of mine, medic named David Kantor, he found me… saved my life. D.K. said it was an IED. I must’ve picked it up, thinking it was a kid’s toy. Woke up in the hospital six weeks later, couldn’t remember a thing. Probably better that way.”
“Ever think about pitching again?” Argenti smiled, offering encouragement. “That pitcher, Jeff Abbott, he managed pretty well with only one arm.”
“Jim Abbott. And he was missing a right hand, he kept his glove on his wrist. All I have left is a stub where my left biceps used to be.”
“That’s enough baseball, Padre.” DeBorn motioned for Argenti to return to his chair. “Sergeant, we need you for a new assignment, one that will help America combat our enemies overseas while keeping the homeland safe. Your job will be to help us recruit a new generation of fighting men and women. This is a great honor. You’ll be traveling around the country, visiting high schools—”
“No.”
The secretary of defense’s complexion flushed red. “What did you say?”
“I won’t do it. I can’t. My wife’s dead set against it. I couldn’t do that to her again, no, sir.”
“Where’s your wife now? I’d like to have a word with her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She doesn’t want to talk with me. She left me. Took my daughter and… well, she’s gone.”
“Then why do you care what—”
“She’s in New York.”
Everyone turned to Leigh Nelson, who squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t spoken.
The blood rushed from Patrick’s face. “Doc, what are you saying? Did you speak to Bea?”
“Not yet. Her address was e-mailed to me this morning. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. It’s not a hundred percent, but everything sure fits her description.”
Shep leaned back in the chair, his entire body quivering.
“There’s a phone number. We can call and make sure. Shep? Shep, are you okay?”
The anxiety attack hit him like a tidal wave. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. White spots obscured his vision. Sweat burst from his pores in cold droplets as he slid onto the floor, his body convulsing.
Dr. Nelson yanked open her door, and shouted, “I need a nurse and an orderly!” She knelt by Shep, feeling for his pulse. Rapid and weak.
“What the hell’s wrong with him? Is he having a heart attack?”
“Anxiety. Shep, honey, lie back and breathe. You’re okay.”
DeBorn glanced at Sheridan Ernstmeyer, who shrugged. “Anxiety? Are you saying he’s having a panic attack? Good God, man up, Sergeant. You’re a United States Marine!”
A nurse rushed in, followed by an intern pushing a wheelchair.
Dr. Nelson helped lift Shep into the chair. “Elevate his feet. Get a cold compress on his neck and give him a Xanax.”
The intern wheeled Shep out of the office.
The white-haired secretary of defense stared down Leigh Nelson, his hawkish look meant to intimidate. “Where’s the wife?”
“Like I said, she’s in New York.”
“The address, Dr. Nelson.”
“Mr. Secretary, this is way beyond reuniting a broken family. Shep’s unstable. His memory is fragmented, his brain is still affected by his injury. We deal with these things all the time. You can’t keep redeploying GIs three and four times without tearing their families apart. Spouses relocate, sometimes because they find someone else, sometimes out of fear. The military no longer detoxes its returning vets properly, they go from combat to civilian life in a week. Some of these guys are walking time bombs, their minds still immersed in war. They can’t enter their homes without doing a search of the premises, and they keep weapons by the bed. I’ve seen way too many cases of returning soldiers stabbing or shooting their loved ones while in the throes of a nightmare. I’m guessing that won’t look too good on the new recruiting poster.”
“I didn’t ask you for a dissertation on warfare, Doctor. Now give me the wife’s address.”
She hesitated.
“With the economy still struggling, it must be nice to have a well-paying government salaried job. Of course, we could probably bring in two residents for what you’re being paid.”
Leigh’s back stiffened. “Is that a threat, Mr. DeBorn?”
“Ms. Ernstmeyer, contact the Pentagon. Have them locate the sergeant’s family.”
“Wait. Just… wait.” Reaching into her lab-coat pocket, Leigh retrieved the e-mail printout, reluctantly handed it to the secretary of defense.
DeBorn squinted as he read aloud. “Beatrice Shepherd. Battery Park, Manhattan.”
“She’s close by,” Sheridan remarked. “Seems too coincidental. Maybe she’s here because he’s here.”
“Find out.”
“Whoa, slow down a minute,” said Leigh, her ire drawn. “Shepherd’s my patient. If anyone’s going to approach his wife, it should be me.”
“You’re too close. Spouses who feel scorned by the military require a deft touch. This wife of his sounds like another bleeding-heart peace activist. Is she?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Women who place morality above family are the worst kind of hypocrites. Take that Cindy Sheehan. She loses her son, spends the next three years protesting the Armed Forces he risked his life to join, then she ends up deserting her family to pursue a political career. I suspect this Beatrice Shepherd is cut from the same cloth. Ms. Ernstmeyer knows how to handle their kind.”
“Fine. Handle it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to tend to.”
“In a minute. I need you to fit the sergeant for a prosthetic arm.”
“He was fitted three months ago. We’ve been told there’s a four-to-six-month backlog.”
“Colonel?”
“He’ll have one by this afternoon.”
Leigh Nelson felt like she was drowning. “With all due respect, slapping on hardware and forcing Shep to confront his wife won’t even begin to address his psychological problems.”
“Let us deal with his family, Doctor. You arrange for the psychiatric help.”
Leigh balled her fists, her blood pressure soaring. “And where should I find this psychiatrist? Conjure him out of thin air? I’ve got 263 combat veterans in serious need of psychiatric care, a third of them on suicide watch. We’re sharing two clinical psychologists between three VA hospitals and—”
“It’s handled,” interrupted Father Argenti. “By this afternoon, Patrick Shepherd will be speaking with the best shrink taxpayer money can buy.”
Secretary DeBorn’s eyebrows rose. “Any other challenges, Dr. Nelson?”
She sat back in her chair, defeated. “You want to hire your own specialist — fine by me, just keep it quiet. I don’t want the other men in Shep’s ward knowing about this. It’s bad for morale. Shep won’t go for it, either.”
“Duly noted. Colonel, set up private sessions at the psychiatrist’s office.”
“That won’t work. We had a situation last week. I took Shep out of the hospital as a first step to reorient him into civilian life. It didn’t go well. You’re better off doing sessions in the hospital.”
“Then arrange for him to have his own room. Tell him it’s a gift from the Pentagon.” Secretary DeBorn stood, ending the meeting. “I’m due at the UN this afternoon, but I’ve got one more stop to make first. Colonel, you’re in charge. Be sure the psychiatrist you hire knows Shepherd needs to be in Washington for January’s State of the Union Address. That’ll give him four weeks to get our boy in decent mental shape.”
DeBorn headed for the door. Paused. “You like Shepherd, don’t you, Doctor?”
“I care about all my patients.”
“No. I see how you look at him. There’s something there. Maybe a physical attraction?”
“Sir, I never—”
“Of course not. But it wouldn’t hurt you to be there for the sergeant… you know, to ease his mind when his wife officially terminates their relationship.”
Leigh Nelson snapped, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be happily married with two beautiful children. And you can forget about Shep. Whatever happened between him and Bea, whatever fallout they may have had, he loves his wife and daughter intensely and would say or do just about anything to get them back.”
DeBorn nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
The suddenness of the assault had blindsided the protesters. The combatants — three hundred members of New York’s highly trained Emergency Service Unit (ESU), all wearing hooded gas masks and Homeland Security apparel, had stormed the plaza in one expedient, overwhelming wave. Working in teams, the troops had quickly subdued the crowd, binding their wrists behind their backs using trifold, single-use restraints before laying them out in organized rows along the cold concrete expanse.
Having taken out the mob, they turned on the media.
With little regard for camera equipment or Constitutional rights, the assault team physically herded the stunned reporters and their television crews to another section of the plaza, where they, too, were placed in restraints.
“This is America! You can’t restrain the press!”
“Hey, asshole, ever hear of the First Amendment?”
What the members of the media never saw was that the police officers who had been forming a gauntlet against the protesters were also being sequestered, their weapons tagged and confiscated. After being told by health officials that their actions were merely a minor precaution against a possible swine flu outbreak, the law-enforcement detail was led inside a triage center, one of four mobile Army tents now occupying the plaza. Isolated in small, plastic-curtained compartments, the unnerved police officers were reassured that everything was fine, even as medical teams in white Racal suits moved from one cop to the next, performing a thorough physical examination.
“He’s clean. Escort him to the observation tent.”
“This one’s fine.”
“This one’s running a slight fever.”
“My kids have the flu… it’s nothing.”
“Treatment tent. Run full blood and hair analysis, then start him on antibiotics.”
“Doctor, you’d better take a look at this one.”
Officer Gary Beck was seated on the linoleum floor, his riot gear by his side. He was sweating profusely, his complexion a pasty gray… and he was coughing up blood.
“Isolation tent, STAT! Alert Captain Zwawa. I want full blood and hair analysis in ten minutes, followed by—”
The officer dropped to all fours and retched.
“Seal the compartment!”
“Triage-3 to base. We need a mobile isolation unit and a cleanup detail, STAT.”
Leigh Nelson led her semiconscious patient inside the private room on the sixth floor. “Not too shabby, huh? Partial view of Manhattan, private bathroom—”
She watched Patrick Shepherd stumble in a Xanax-induced stupor around the room. He looked beneath the bed and between the mattresses. He searched inside the bed-table drawers and the closet… even behind the toilet.
“Baby doll, it’s safe. And it’s all yours. Now be a good boy and lie down, you’re making me a nervous wreck.”
The warm numbness was spreading, calming the waves of anxiety, weakening his resolve. He sat down on the bed, his body sinking into liquid lead. “Leigh, listen to me… are you listening?”
“Yes, baby doll, I’m listening.”
“Do you know what true love is?”
“Tell me.”
He looked up at her, his dilated eyes swimming in tears. “Boundless emptiness.”
Leigh swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Shep, you need to talk with somebody… someone who can help you cope with what you’re feeling. DeBorn’s sending over a specialist. Before you speak with Bea, I think it’s important you talk with him.”
“Why? So he can tell me to move on? To let her go?”
“No, sweetie. So you can get some clarity. Put your life in perspective.”
He motioned to the box of personal belongings sitting on the desk. “Bea’s book… get it for me.”
She sorted through the cardboard container, retrieving the copy of Dante’s Inferno.
“Read the opening canto… the first few lines.”
She opened the book to the Divine Comedy’s first stanza and read aloud: “About halfway through the course of my pathetic life, I woke up and found myself in a stupor in some dark place. I’m not sure how I ended up there, I guess I had taken… a few wrong turns.” She glanced at Patrick. “Is this supposed to be you?”
He pointed to a framed painting of a beach house, the tropical scene providing the only color in the room. “That was supposed to be me.” He closed his eyes, fading fast. “Now this is all I have to show for my pathetic life… trapped in purgatory. Hell awaits.”
“I don’t believe in Hell.”
“That’s because you’ve never been there. I have.” He lay back on the bed. “Been there four times. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, it drags me back again. It soils you. It stains the soul. I won’t let it stain my family.” His words began to slur. “DeBorn… Tell him no. Tell him ta go fuh…”
The eyeballs flitted beneath the lids, his larynx rumbling into a soothing snore.
The beach house is open and airy, the A-frame living room’s ceiling paneled in wood. Fifteen-foot-high bay windows reveal a deck and pool out back, and just beyond that the Atlantic Ocean.
The Realtor opens the French doors, filling the house with a salty breeze and the soothing sound of crashing waves. "Atlantic Beach is a quaint little seaside village, you'll love it here. The house is Mediterranean, five bedrooms, six baths, plus the guest house. It's an absolute steal at $2.1 million.”
Patrick turns to his better half. “So?”
The blonde-haired beauty balances their two-year-old daughter on her right hip. “Shep, we don’t need all this.”
“Who cares about need? I’m a big-league pitcher now.”
“You pitched two games.”
“But my agent says the endorsement deals he’s working on will pay for three beach houses.”
“It’s so far from the city.”
“Babe, this’ll be our summer home. We’ll still have our condo in the city.”
“Boston or New York?”
“I dunno. Maybe both.”
She shakes her head. “You’re insane.”
“No, no, your husband’s right.” The Realtor flashes a reassuring smile. “Real estate remains the best investment around, property values can only go up. There’s no way you can go wrong.”
“That’s great to know.” She switches the curly-haired toddler to her other hip. “Can my husband and I have a moment to talk in private?”
“Of course. But I have another buyer looking at the house in twenty minutes, so don’t be too long.” She heads out to the pool deck, leaving the door open so she can eavesdrop.
The blonde slams it shut.
Shep smiles defensively. “Husband. I love that.”
“Let’s be clear. We’re not married yet, and we won’t be if I catch you flirting with any more cheerleaders.”
“They weren’t cheerleaders, and I told you, I wasn’t flirting. It was just a photo shoot for Hooters.”
“Those twins had their hooters in your face when I walked in.”
“It’s my job, babe. Part of the new image. You know, the ‘Boston Strangler.’”
The blonde sneers in disgust. “Who are you? Your ego’s so out of control, I barely recognize you anymore.”
“What are you talking about? This is what we wanted… we’re living the dream.”
“Your dream, not mine. I don’t want to be married to some egomaniac, wondering whose bed he’s sleeping in when he’s not in mine.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve never cheated on you.”
“No, but you’re tempted. Face it, Shep, we’ve been together since we were kids. Tell me you’re not the least bit curious about being with another woman, especially now, when they’re practically throwing themselves at you.”
He says nothing, unable to lie to her.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going back to Boston with our daughter while you decide if you’d rather get some strange from the Ooh-La-La twins or be tied down to a family. Better get it out of your system now. I don’t want you waking up three or five or ten years from now, thinking you made a mistake.” Grabbing the baby’s diaper bag, she heads for the door.
“Honey, wait—”
The blonde turns around, tears in her eyes. “Just remember, Patrick Shepherd, sometimes you don’t really appreciate the things you have until you lose them.”
Patrick moaned into his pillow, unable to shake himself loose from the drug-induced sleep.
A shaken Jeffrey Cook, head of the United Nations Department of Safety and Security (UNDSS) led the seven men dressed in Racal suits, full-face rebreathers, boots, and heavy gloves into the General Assembly Building’s control room. “Can I have your attention please?”
A dozen pairs of eyes looked up from their security monitors.
“This is Captain Zwawa from the infectious disease lab in Fort Detrick. He needs our help with a possible security breach.”
“Jesus, what’s going on?”
“Is the air safe to breathe?”
“Are we under attack?”
“Stay calm.” Jay Zwawa held up the copy of the USAMIRIID identity photos. “We need you to locate this man and woman. One or both may have entered one of the United Nations buildings as early as eight o’clock this morning. We need to know which buildings they entered, who they came in contact with, and whether they left the building.”
Zwawa’s team passed around copies of Mary Klipot and Andrew Bradosky’s photo to each technician, along with a CD.
“The CD file contains the suspects’ DNA markers. Run it through your surveillance system and search for a match. Start with the General Assembly Building before moving on to the rest of the UN complex.”
“Who are they? Are we in any danger?”
“Shouldn’t we be wearing protective suits, too?”
“The suits are a precaution for my frontliners. As long as you remain in this room, you’ll be fine.”
One of the techs looked worried. “I took a bathroom break about ten minutes ago.”
“One of our medical staff will check you out.”
“Medical staff? My God, is there a biological alert?”
“Easy. We’re not even sure the suspects entered the UN complex.”
The technicians inserted the CDs into their computer hard drives and cross-checked facial markers, using the morning surveillance tapes.
Jeffrey Cook pulled Captain Zwawa aside. “Your men are blocking the exits. You can’t do that.”
“It’s a security precaution. No one leaves the UN complex without being checked.”
“Checked for what?”
“You’ll know if and when I decide to tell you. Let’s hope it’s not an issue.”
“What about the diplomats? The heads of state? You can’t tell these people they’re not allowed to leave. They have diplomatic immunity.”
“No one leaves unless they’re medically cleared. Those orders are backed by the Pentagon and the White House.”
“What about the president? Are you going to tell him he can’t leave?”
“The president’s here?”
“He’s in the General Assembly Hall, addressing the Security Council as we speak.”
“Got her!”
All heads turned to Cameron Hughes, a wheelchair-bound security technician. Jeffrey Cook hovered over the man’s shoulder, staring at the frozen black-and-white partially blurred image on his monitor. The computer pixelized, sharpening its genetic markers until Mary Louise Klipot’s face appeared ominously on-screen.
“Cam, where was this taken?”
“Main entrance. Aw hell, look at the time code… 9:11.”
Sweat dripped from Captain Zwawa’s face. He fought the urge to tear the stifling hood from his head. “Fast-forward the tape. Where does she go?”
The image jumped from one angle to the next, following Mary Klipot through several checkpoints until she entered the General Assembly Hall. They lost her inside the darkened auditorium.
“Get a security detail—”
“Sir, wait!” The image switched back to the corridor. “Look, she exited. See? She’s speaking with security. Heading for the elevators.”
The weight of time registered like extra gravity upon Jay Zwawa. He was an hour behind the eight ball, every minute of tape revealing another potentially infected victim, every second that went by allowing Scythe to spread throughout the United Nations complex.
“This is taking too long. Accelerate the tape, I need to know if she’s still in the building. Cook, we’ll need the names of every person she came in contact with, then I want the names of every person those people came in contact with.”
“Are you crazy? You’re talking hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. I don’t have the manpower—”
“The woman we’re after may have infected herself with a very contagious, very lethal form of bubonic plague. Every person she came within breathing distance of is a potential victim and carrier. Do your job, do it fast, and nobody leaves this room.”
Zwawa removed a cell phone from his Racal suit’s utility belt. He pressed a preprogrammed number with a gloved index finger, his other hand working the controls of the headset situated within his hood—
— switching from Fort Detrick’s command post to his older brother’s secured cell-phone number.
The Fort Detrick Command Center had become the central hub for communication, linking the Oval Office, Pentagon, and assorted members of Congress in an endless debate of babel. Tired of listening to the Joint Chiefs arguing with the vice president and his staff, Colonel John Zwawa was headed for the sanctuary of his office when his private cell phone reverberated silently in his back pants pocket. “Speak.”
“Vicious, it’s Delicious. Can you talk?”
“Stand by, Jay.” The colonel closed his office door to speak with his brother. “How bad is it?”
“It’s a major clusterfuck with tentacles. All those who were in the General Assembly Hall were infected. We’re not sure how bad, but POTUS is in there right now, addressing the condemned.”
“Hell, Jay Zee, get him out of there.”
“Sure thing. Just tell me how to do that without causing widespread panic and losing containment.”
The colonel’s mind raced. “Bomb scare. I’ll alert the Secret Service. Have your team standing by outside the chamber. Use the ESU guys to channel the delegates to their offices in the Secretariat Building, we’ll lock them down from there. Once they’re isolated, it’ll be easier for the CDC teams to do a floor-to-floor triage.”
“What about POTUS?”
“Assign him and his staff to a private floor away from the others. But Jay, nobody leaves the plaza until Scythe is contained, and I mean nobody. Is that clear?”
“POTUS’s people may insist on getting him out of Dodge.”
Colonel Zwawa glanced out his office window at the wall of monitors and its dozen talking heads. “That option is already being debated by the Pentagon assholes who got us into this mess. Fortunately, when it comes to containment, I’m in charge, so here are my orders, for your ears only: No one leaves the UN. If POTUS’s people panic, your orders are to take out his Secret Service detail.”
“Sweetheart, they don’t call you Vicious for nothing.”
“Whatever it takes, Jay Zee. We’ll sort the bodies out at the trial. Where’s Jesse?”
“In the alleyway, searching for the attaché case.”
Jesse Zwawa and three members of Delta Team enter the alleyway. Rubber boots slogged through tire tracks crushed into patches of snow between pools of slush. Wind howled through the passage, muffled by their protective hoods. Orange Racal suits and rebreathers. Astronauts bound to Earth to fight an invisible prey. Three men carried field packs and reach poles, the oldest among them an emergency medical kit.
Dr. Arnie Kremer limped on a hip two weeks away from replacement surgery. He was too short for the assigned Racal suit, which bunched around his knees, making it difficult to walk. An hour ago, Kremer and his wife had been enjoying their breakfast at an all-you-can-eat buffet at the Tropicana Resort in Atlantic City. The beginning of a weeklong vacation — cut short by Uncle Sam. Army Reserves: the gift that keeps on giving.
The physician stumbled into the man in front of him. The team had abruptly stopped.
Captain Zwawa was fifty feet from the dumpster, a GPS in hand. The object they sought was in the trash bin but something was lying on the ground directly ahead. At first glance, the commander had assumed it to be a ragged pile of wet clothes—
— only now it was moving.
“Dr. Kremer, front and center.”
Arnie Kremer joined the captain. The wet mass was obscured by the frenzied presence of a dozen or more rats, each the size of a football. Their black fur was slick with splattered blood. Feasting… but on what?
“Is that a dead dog?”
“Let’s be sure.” Zwawa extended his reach pole. Abused the mass as he flipped the heap over, his actions barely inconveniencing the rodents.
Both men jumped back. Kremer gagged inside his hooded mask.
It had been a maintenance worker. Rats had taken the right half of the man’s face and both eyes. Two males fought over an optic nerve still protruding from a vacant eye socket like a strand of spaghetti. The rest dined on the remains of the man’s stomach like a ravaging horde of puppies suckling from their mother’s teats. Rodents were crawling over and inside the internal organs, causing the victim’s bulging belly to undulate.
When a blood-drenched rat crawled out of the dead man’s mouth, Zwawa lost it. Backing away, he wrenched his right arm free of the Racal suit’s sleeve, ran his hand up his chest to the internally attached barf bag, then shoved it over his mouth a second before he regurgitated his breakfast.
The rest of Delta team hummed and clenched their teeth and tried their best not to listen to the sickening acoustics playing over their headphones.
Ryan Glinka, Delta Team’s second-in-command, approached his commanding officer. “You okay, Captain?”
Zwawa nodded. Sealing the barf bag, he stowed it in an internal pocket, then turned to face his men. “Mr. Szeifert, I believe this is your area of expertise.”
“Yes, sir.” Gabor Szeifert stepped forward, but not too close. A veterinarian and epizootic specialist from Hungary, today’s assignment marked his first actual field experience. “Something is not right. Rats normally don’t feed like this. They appear to be stimulated.”
“Shh! Listen.” Ryan Glinka held up his hand for quiet.
Beyond the howling wind and the noise of a distant siren, they could hear rapid thumps coming from inside the steel bin. As they watched, a black rat scurried up the brown, rust-tinged metal and over the opening, leaping into the receptacle.
Dr. Kremer’s skin crawled inside his protective suit.
Captain Zwawa attached a hook to his reach pole and handed it to Szeifert. “Retrieve the case, just be gentle.”
Gabor approached the steel bin as more rats appeared, the rodents racing in and out of the trash receptacle at a frenetic pace. The Hungarian scientist leaned in closer to see over the edge of the open container. Looked inside—
“Nem értem…”
It was an orgy of dark bodies and flesh-tone tails, tearing and gnashing and scrambling atop one another in an effort to get at something buried beneath the moving pile. A kaleidoscope of the living and the dead, the wounded and the inflicted — all part of a churning rodent mass that moved like a synchronized black tide.
“Mr. Szeifert!”
“Sorry, sir. I said I don’t understand. There are so many of them. We need to—”
A lone rat leapt onto Gabor’s shoulder. The veterinarian attempted to swat the creature away as it furiously gnawed at his protective suit. Joined by two more, then another, then in threes and fours and far too many to count as the dumpster’s open ledge became a launching point to the next buffet.
The animal specialist stumbled toward Dr. Kremer. Black rats swarmed across both men’s shoulders, clinging to their backs and thighs, their clawed feet and sharp teeth tearing into the fleeing soldiers’ Racal suits—
— instantaneously falling to the ground like bags of hair, their tiny legs writhing in spasms as Ryan Glinka gassed them into submission with a cylinder of compressed carbon dioxide.
Jesse Zwawa stepped over the gasping rodents, holding a CO2 grenade in his gloved hand. “Anyone hungry for ratatouille?” He pulled the pin, tossing the canister into the trash bin.
Boom!
Rat shrapnel blasted out of the container in all directions, the hollow metallic gong echoing in their ears as a swirling cloud of CO2 escaped above the damaged trash bin.
Dr. Kremer fought a gag reflex, forcing himself to wipe matted black hairs and bloody excrement from his faceplate. “That was a bit radical, don’t you think?!”
“We need the attaché case. I’m guessing it’s buried somewhere beneath the pile.”
“If that’s true, the rats could be vectors. I’ll need live specimens to run toxicology exams.”
“You want live rats, pull ’em off Gabor. You want fillet of rat, here’s a whole dumpster filled with the sons of bitches.” Walking around the back side of the steel bin, Jesse Zwawa leveraged his two-hundred-pound frame against the smoldering container—
— sending the Dumpster crashing forward, spilling its contents across the garbage-strewn tarmac.
Ryan Glinka extended his reach pole, sifting through the moist pile of rodent remains until he hooked the open attaché case.
The rats had chewed it beyond recognition. All that remained was a piece of its handle and a seventeen-inch section of bare metal dangling a bloodied hinge.
Glinka held the scrap metal in the air for his commanding officer. “I think we’ve got problems, sir. Captain?”
“Over here.” Jesse Zwawa was on one knee, aiming his flashlight at the opening of a cracked drainage pipe situated along the brick facing of the adjacent building. His beam illuminated pairs of tiny, unblinking red eyes, the hovel of infected rodents staring back at him—
— waiting.
Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac
The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.(translated from its original French)
Death has arrived in Avignon.
We had heard reports for months… the horrors coming out of Sicily and Genoa, the warnings from the isles of Sardinia and Mallorca. There were rumors about Venice and Rome being infected, followed weeks later by panic coming from our fleeing neighbors to the east in Marseilles and Aix. Still we remained vigilant, terror-stricken yet convinced that God in His infinite mercy would spare the papal city and all its people.
Perhaps we were still not convinced. Perhaps we were simply waiting for a sign from the heavens — an earth tremor, a poisonous rain.
And yet none occurred. Instead, the plague that had brought the Mongolian Empire to its knees and death to every trade city along the Mediterranean and Black Seas came to Avignon one early winter’s night as a whisper while we slept. By morning it was a stranger lying in an alleyway, by nightfall a fever blossoming in a dozen households.
On my recommendation, Pope Clement IV has ordered the gates of Avignon closed—
— only I fear it is far too late.
— Guigo
BIO-WARFARE PHASE III: HUMAN-TO-HUMAN SPREAD
“The Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Meade has been investigating USAMRIID at Fort Detrick since early February. USAMRIID was shutting down most of its bio-research while it tried to match its inventory to its records, citing an ‘overage’ of biological select agents and toxins. Meade's CID, however, isn't concerned with overstock. Instead, agents are looking for what may have gone missing between 1987 and 2008.”
December 20
VA Medical Center
East Side, Manhattan
10:44 A.M.
(21 hours, 19 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“The Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Meade has been investigating USAMRIID at Fort Detrick since early February. USAMRIID was shutting down most of its bio-research while it tried to match its inventory to its records, citing an ‘overage’ of biological select agents and toxins. Meade's CID, however, isn't concerned with overstock. Instead, agents are looking for what may have gone missing between 1987 and 2008.”
The redheaded woman sitting up on the gurney in the back of the ambulance moaned in protest. Fever drew her into moments of blessed unconsciousness. Nausea spit her back out again. She vomited phlegm-laced bile across her blanket, and the action expelled her back into the swirling sea of reality. She forced open her eyes and scanned the vomit for blood. Scythe was progressing. Fueled by her genius.
Her head ached. Her hip throbbed where the cab had bounced her across 46th Street. Baby Jesus kicked in her belly. She suffered every bump and sharp turn and that incessant siren! The little voice screamed obscenities at her from the dark place in her mind that could no longer reason other than to recite the same alarmist mantra about ticking clocks and serums in the wheel hub in the trunk of her rental car and who’s the genius now?
A lurching stop interrupted delirium. The siren silenced, yielding to a moment of quiet desperation. Instruct your keepers before they put you under. Before she could object, the gurney was launched backward into blinding gray skies and Arctic cold. Then she was mobile again. Up the ramp and moving through a corridor of fluorescent lights and controlled chaos. New faces wearing white lab coats and identification badges peered in on her world, refusing to listen.
“What have you got?”
“Taxi hit her. Late thirties, pregnant, appears to be well into her third trimester. Victim was conscious when we found her. Rapid pulse, high fever. Blood pressure’s eighty over sixty. Looks like most of the impact was absorbed by the buttocks and backs of the legs.”
“She looks pale. No open wounds? Loss of blood?”
“None that we could see, but she aspirated blood on the ride in. You’re probably looking at an emergency C-section if there’s any hope of saving the baby.”
“Agreed. What’s that stench?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Russians don’t like to bathe.”
“How do you know she’s Russian?”
“She was wearing this ID tag: Bogdana Petrova, Russian embassy.”
“Get her to X-ray, we’ll take it from here.”
“A bomb threat?” The Secret Service agent stared suspiciously at the big man wearing the orange Racal suit. “Where’s the bomb squad?”
“We are the bomb squad.”
“Bullshit. Those are environmental suits.”
“The threat was a biological device. And if there really is a bomb, and it goes off, we’ll be protected. You, on the other hand, will basically be screwed. Now you either cue the president, or I’ll do it myself and panic a thousand diplomats and their visiting heads of state.
Cursing aloud, the president’s bodyguard and personal assassin walked briskly past the curtains and onto the raised stage to the podium, his head down.
“…no one wants war, but we shall not shirk from it either if it means preventing the annihilation of one or more of our cities. Enriched uranium can be used in suitcase bombs as well as ballistic missiles. In the past, Iran has not hesitated to arm terrorist groups like Hezbollah and Hamas — groups that, in turn, would not hesitate to use a suitcase nuke against Israel or another sovereign nation. As such, any treaty—”
President Kogelo paused, the lanky leader of the free world listening intently as the Secret Service agent whispered into his ear.
“Mr. Secretary General, distinguished guests… I’ve just been told that the General Assembly has received a terrorist threat. Homeland Security has the situation under control, but as an extra precaution, we’re being asked to postpone the rest of this morning’s agenda while our munitions experts verify this chamber is secure. All diplomats and heads of state, including myself, are being asked to report to their nation’s respective suites in the Secretariat Building and await further instructions.”
The Secret Service agent took the president by the crook of his arm and led him off the stage as two dozen heavily armed Emergency Service Unit personnel, all wearing white Racal suits, entered the chamber from the rear doors and herded the shocked diplomats into the corridor.
Still another block to go, and Wendi Metz was exhausted.
The single mother of an eight-year-old boy, Wendi had been trying to lose fifteen pounds since she began computer dating back in October. Her exercise routine — walking from the UN Plaza, where she worked the breakfast shift, to the bus stop at East 23rd Street — had helped reduce her waistline two dress sizes in three months while saving on subway tokens. But this morning she felt drained, on the verge of passing out.
The inviting bus stop bench was within view, enticing her to continue walking. Every step was painful, the tightness shooting down her neck and spine into her lower back and legs and feet. The brisk winter breeze coming off the East River had been cooling her perspiration, but now that she has slowed her pace to a stagger, she could register the fever raging internally.
A gust of wind set her body to shivering.
She recalled for the umpteenth time the image of the pale woman throwing up in the bathroom and wondered if she might have caught something.
Her vision blurred, her eyes strained to gain contrast in the sudden brightness. She contemplated purchasing a yogurt from a nearby street vendor—blood sugar’s probably low—until she spotted the X25 Bus weaving its way up First Avenue.
Get home. Take some cold and flu medicine, have a bowl of soup, then hustle to the diner before the lunch shift begins.
Flagging down the bus, Wendi Metz climbed aboard, joining the other seventeen passengers en route to Midtown East and Sutton Place.
The isolation tent was filling quickly. Those classified “infected” now numbered twenty-two, with a new patient added every six minutes. Most were either police officers or protesters who had been caught on the plaza grounds. Others had been working security inside the General Assembly Building when “Bubonic Mary” had taken her tour through the facility.
The first verifiable contact lay prone in a self-contained isolator, a lightweight stretcher surrounded by a demountable framework and transparent plastic. The bubble envelope was maintained by its own self-contained air-supply system, which created a negative pressure differential, preventing the escape of contaminated air. Eight plastic arm sleeves, four on each side, allowed medical personnel to reach inside the patient’s containment area without breaching the isolator.
Officer Gary Beck was terrified. He knew he had been exposed to a hazardous biological substance. He knew because he could feel the toxin rippling through his body. The fever, coupled with anxiety, had caused his heart to race, his blood pressure to drop, his skin to crawl. The physicians in the white environmental suits had assured him that he would be okay, that the antidote being administered by an IV drip had reached him with ample time to spare. Beck had believed them, his panic losing its edge as the Valium, mixed with a clear elixir labeled scy-anti, dripped into his veins.
Lying within the isolated bubble, Gary Beck thought about his wife, Kimberly, and his two children and gave thanks that they were in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, visiting his in-laws. He felt alone and definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time and willed himself to remain calm. You’re alive, you’re okay. The experts are here to take care of you. Keep it together and cooperate, and you’ll be home in your own bed before the wife gets back from her parents’.
A woman in a white Racal suit approached, communicating by way of an internal intercom. “How are you feeling, Officer Beck?”
“Not good. I puked again, and everything still hurts. And my neck feels swollen, right here. It feels like something’s growing.”
“It’s just a lymph node, try not to rub it. I’m going to take some more blood, okay?”
“Okay.” Officer Beck closed his watering eyes, his limbs trembling as the nurse withdrew another syringe of his blood into an external collection tube.
Jay Zwawa felt like he was sinking in quicksand. He reread Dr. Kremer’s medical report, then spotted his younger brother, Jesse emerging from an Army tent, and motioned him over.
“Two rodent extermination teams are on the way.”
“You’d better read this. It’s a toxicology report on the first wave of victims.”
Jesse Zwawa scanned the report, his expression darkening behind the face-plate of his hooded suit. “That explains why—”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re officially screwed.”
“Pretty much. Jess, this stays between us and Dr. Kremer. If this gets out—”
“Have you told Zee?”
“I was about to make the call.”
“Colonel, Alpha Team has an urgent transmission.”
“Stand by.” John Zwawa muted the cross conversations coming from the wall of video monitors. “Mr. Vice President, gentlemen and ladies, we have an update coming in from our ground team. Go ahead, Captain.”
“Colonel, we’ve got a major situation. An analysis of the infected victims’ blood reveals the bacilli don’t match Scythe’s DNA.”
Dr. Lydia Gagnon grabbed the nearest microphone, her voice blaring over Jay Zwawa’s headset. “What do you mean it’s not a match? The stolen attaché case contained pure Scythe.”
“Understood. But our antibiotics aren’t working. None of the infected patients are improving. Somehow, the Klipot woman altered Scythe’s DNA.”
Suddenly light-headed, Colonel Zwawa found his way to a desk chair. “Captain, have Kremer upload all ground zero blood-work results directly to our Bio-4 labs. Dr. Gagnon, how soon can your labs produce an effective antibiotic? Dr. Gagnon!”
“How soon? I don’t know, Colonel… a day? A year? Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. Scythe kills within fifteen hours… it’s spreading way too fast for my people to possibly break down its new genetic code, let alone find a cure. Anyone who contracted the plague is a walking corpse. That game is over, we lost. From this moment on, it’s all about damage control. We have one shot at containing this thing before it becomes a worldwide pandemic… one small break. Manhattan’s an island, technically it can be isolated. We have to shut down all access in and out of the city, and I mean right away!”
“She’s right, Colonel,” Jay Zwawa chimed in. “The UN’s Head of Security just handed me a report on the potential list of people who made contact with the Klipot woman. At least a dozen have already left the UN complex. We lost perimeter containment thirty-three minutes ago.”
Dr. Gagnon stood before the vice president’s monitor, her voice trembling with fear. “Sir, we either isolate Manhattan right now and sacrifice two million people, or by tomorrow night the entire human race, save a few isolated third-world tribes, will become extinct.”
The island of Manhattan was separated from the boroughs of the Bronx and Queens by the Harlem River, from Brooklyn by the swiftly flowing East River, Staten Island and New Jersey to the south and west by the mighty Hudson. Linking this metropolis to its surrounding communities was more than six hundred miles of subway, two thousand miles of bus routes, eight bridges, four tunnel crossings, two major train systems, and dozens of ferries and helicopters. Now, the federal government wanted every entry point and exit route into and out of Manhattan shut down, and they were demanding it be done in less than fifteen minutes.
New York governor Daniel Cirilo II was en route to a skiing excursion in Vermont when he received the phone call from Vice President Krawitz. After being told to “stop asking questions and start issuing orders,” the governor contacted the CEO of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, a network that encompassed New York City’s subways, buses, and railroads. Within minutes, all lines were shut down, the entire system placed under a Code-Red Terrorist Alert.
All incoming trains with scheduled stops at Grand Central Terminal and Penn Station were rerouted, all outgoing cars canceled until further notice. The FAA grounded all aerial vehicles leaving LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark International Airports. The Port Authority restricted all ferries and boats along both rivers. Homeland Security took over the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, dispatching orders to more than nine hundred officers posted at Manhattan’s bridges and tunnel tollgates to shut down all vehicular and pedestrian traffic and turn away anyone attempting to enter or leave the island.
By 11:06 A.M. EST, every Manhattan highway bridge and tunnel was stifled in endless gridlock, the cacophony of a thousand blaring horns the harbinger of the chaos still to come.
On a patch of dirt and grass littered with spent bullet shells, in the shadow of a three-story building left in shards, a dozen young Iraqi children play soccer.
Patrick Shepherd watches the game from the old church he and his fellow soldiers have been guarding during its renovation. The little girl he has come to know as “Bright Eyes” chases down the ball, only to be quickly overwhelmed by the pack. When the bodies clear, she is left on the ground crying, her right knee bleeding.
Patrick hurries to her. Squeezing through the circle of kids, he squats by her side to inspect the wound. “Don’t cry, Bright Eyes, it’s not too bad. Let’s see if we can’t clean it up.”
Through brown eyes magnified with tears she watches the American soldier push aside his assault rifle and retrieve his medikit. He sprays the wound. Dabs it with gauze. Then fixes a clean bandage and wrap—
— earning himself a hug.
Patrick holds on to the child for a long moment, then releases her to her peers.
The game continues. He returns to the church — greeted by David Kantor. “That was nice.”
“She’s like me, a runt.”
“She’s a heartbreaker. Enjoying the downtime?”
“Not especially. I didn’t enlist to guard a dilapidated church.”
“This church happens to be a national landmark. Ever see the movie, The Exorcist?”
“No.”
“The opening scene was of a desert church — this church. The scenes were filmed in Iraq before Saddam took over, back when the country made good money from the movie industry. Once we restore it—”
“I didn’t enlist to restore old churches used in old movies.” He removes his pistol from its holster, dismantles the gun, then uses an oily rag to wipe it free from sand.
“Why did you enlist?”
“To kill America’s enemies. To prevent another 9/11.”
“Saddam’s regime wasn’t responsible for 9/11.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What I know is that you’ve got some serious anger issues that won’t be resolved with that gun you’re cleaning.”
“Ok, so why are you here?”
“I’m here because of an Iraqi translator I met in Kuwait back in 1991. He was assigned to our platoon as a translator. During a cultural awareness class, he told us he had been a soldier fighting for the national army against the Bathists when Saddam took over. With tears streaming down his face, he described fighting on the steps of the palace in Baghdad. He told us how he had been forced to flee his homeland or be executed. He had to leave his family behind, some of whom were hanged. He told us about how the Bathist soldiers raped and tortured women under Saddam, and how his family had lived in terror of their own government ever since. After the class, he and the other cultural trainers, mostly interpreters who volunteered to help us, walked around shaking our hands and thanking every soldier there for what we were doing. These men were risking their own lives and the lives of their families back home to help us, yet they were thanking us. They were tough grizzled old men — men who had seen fighting far worse than any of us had ever seen, and they were weeping as they recounted the events leading up to the time Saddam and his party had taken over Iraq. I grew to despise Saddam, and I hated the fact that our own government had helped manipulate the dictator into power, then had armed him to the teeth during the Iraq-Iran War. From these men and many others like them, we gained a deep respect for the Iraqi people and their culture. Like most of us, they just wanted to live out their lives in peace without being in constant fear of their own government. To answer your question, Sergeant, I came back here to right a wrong.”
Reassembling his pistol, Shep slams the clip into place and chambers a round. “So did I, Captain. So did I.”
Patrick Shepherd awakened with a start. Anxiety built as his eyes took in the strange surroundings. DeBorn. Private room.
He sat up in bed, his pounding heart demanding his brain remember something far more important. My family… Nelson found my family!
He swung his legs off the bed. This was big. Unexpected and sobering. His wife and daughter were in Manhattan. A cab ride away. Would they see him? Could he handle it? What if his soul mate rejected him again? What if she had remarried? And his daughter… no longer the curly-haired toddler. Did she have a new daddy? Would she even want to meet him? What would Beatrice have told her about her real father?
“Beatrice.” He repeated the name aloud. It was definitely familiar, yet somehow still alien to him. “Beatrice Shepherd. Bea… trice. Bea Shepherd. Bea. Aunt Bea.”
He slammed his palm to his right temple, frustrated to tears.
What about your daughter’s name? First initial? Work the alphabet like the doctor in Germany taught you. A? Audrey? Anna? B? Beatrice… no. Barbara? Betsy? Bonnie? He paused. “Bonnie? Bonnie Shepherd? Something’s there… ugh, but it’s not fitting!”
He used the bathroom, his nostrils greeted by the usual “patient scent” that inhabited every hospital. “C? Connie? Carol? Maybe D? Diana? Danielle? Debby? Deanna? Dara? Find a book on baby names… oh, wait — the library’s computer!”
After rinsing his hands, he hurried out of the private room, nearly running over a fit-looking man carrying a long cardboard box and a laptop computer. “You Sergeant Shepherd? Terry Stringer. I’m your occupational therapist.”
“My who?”
“Your amputee tech. See? I’ve got your prosthetic arm. Real nice one, too. I’m here to attach it and train you how to use it. Your shirt… could you remove it?”
“Why? Oh, sorry.” Patrick reentered his room with the therapist. Removed his shirt. “How does this thing work? How much strength will I have?”
“Well, you won’t exactly be the bionic man, but with a little practice, you’ll be fairly functional. Lightweight steel core, with a spongy flesh-like outer coat. This one’s fabricated specifically for transhumeral amputees like yourself. It’s actually a hybrid, one of the new prosthetic models the Defense Department’s been working on to allow amputees to return to combat.”
Shep backed away. “Get me an older one.”
“An older one? Why would… oh, I see. Look, forget what I said. No one’s sending you back.” Stringer removed the flesh-colored device from the box, pulled off the protective plastic wrapping. “We slip it over your left shoulder like so, creating skin contact between the device’s electrodes. This will amplify the voluntarily controlled muscles in your deltoid muscle and residual limb. The signals act as switches to move the electrical motors in the prosthetic’s elbow, hand, and wrist. A little pinch… now we adjust the support straps. Okay, Sergeant, try moving your new arm.”
Patrick raised the molded appendage but was unable to generate any movement in the arm itself. “It’s not working.”
“It’ll take some getting used to. Let’s practice using the simulator.” Stringer opened his laptop, then connected a set of electrodes from the computer to several contact points located along Shep’s new artificial limb. “Okay, the object is to generate a spike on the monitor by flexing the correct muscle in your deltoid and triceps. Go ahead, give it a try.”
Patrick gritted his teeth and squeezed.
Nothing happened.
“Try this: Close your eyes. Now visualize the muscles connecting to the new limb in your mind. Relax and breathe.”
Shep calmed himself. Tried again.
A tiny streak appeared on the monitor.
“Excellent. You just opened your pincers. Try it again, only this time keep your eyes open.”
Shep focused, managing to flex the mechanical wrist, but was unable to consistently find the right combination to work the pincers.
“It’s frustrating.”
“It takes practice. Remember the phantom pain… how long it took your mind to accept the fact you had lost something so vital to your everyday existence? Over time you learned to adapt.”
“I still get the phantom pain.”
“It’ll pass. Every amputee is different. The key is to retrain your brain in order to accept this new limb as your own.”
Stringer worked with him another fifteen minutes, then gathered the trash and empty box. “I’ll leave the computer with you so you can practice.”
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Sure you can. You’re still an athlete — train like one. I used to wrestle in high school. My wrestling coach used to tell us fear is nothing more than false expectations appearing real, that the only limits are those we place upon ourselves by our own five senses. Look past what you perceive, Sergeant, and you’ll change your perception.”
Xenopsylla cheopis—the rat flea — is a parasite specifically adapted to survive on the backs of rodents. Bloodsucking insects, the dozen or so fleas that had been living on the rat colony inhabiting the East 46th Street alley had become infected with plague the moment their four-legged hosts had entered the trash bin, launching an epizootic event in Lower Manhattan.
When it came to spreading plague, there was no greater vector than the rat flea. As bacteria proliferated in the insect’s stomach, they impeded its throat, starving the tiny creature. Desperate for food, the infected flea attacked its host, biting the rodent over and over, causing the rat to become agitated and aggressive. The animal’s increased pulse rate accelerated the toxin into its bloodstream, adding the rat as a plague vector even as its life ticked quickly away.
At first overly stimulated, then weak and dying, each infected rodent secreted a pungent aphrodisiac that lured another rat to host its plague-carrying fleas while setting off a cannibalistic chain reaction among the other members of the pack. Healthy rats devoured the weak, only to become infected themselves.
Having no use for a dead host, the infected fleas leapt upon the hides of the robust, creating thriving colonies of hundreds of biting, starving fleas that drove the rodents into a frenzy.
The infected swarm raced through Lower Manhattan’s sewers like a frenetic army, moving southwest toward Chinatown and the Battery at a steady six miles an hour.
The two-bedroom apartment smelled of fresh paint and new carpets. The hallways were crammed with the last of the cardboard moving boxes.
Beatrice Shepherd poured herself a second cup of coffee and sat in her favorite chair in the alien living room, looking out the bay window at the New York skyline. Life was moving fast again. Her decision to sell her stake in the independent publishing company she had helped start up four years ago had been a difficult one. Of course, working for a major New York publishing house was far more prestigious, and there would be no more worries about making payroll. Still, she was not alone in the decision; there was her daughter. Did she want to come north with her? Was she willing to leave her friends in South Carolina to begin life anew in the Big Apple?
They had toured New York with a Realtor. The Upper West Side was her preference, but her daughter had liked Battery Park. A newer neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. Views of the water. Plus the building had a twenty-four-hour fitness club.
And so they had made the move — her daughter never suspecting that her mother had an ulterior motive for wanting them to be in New York.
The dark blue Lexus with the support our troops decal on the rear bumper turned into the southeast entrance of the JC Mall. Cars and SUVs and pickup trucks, their metal hides sooted brown from road salt and slush, monopolized every legal parking spot and every square foot of space not occupied by a mini-mountain of plowed snow. The driver of the Lexus selected a row and joined the game of “follow the shopper to their car” already in progress.
Last-minute bargain hunters. Long lines at registers. Screaming infants and young children playing hide-and-seek while their oblivious mothers carried on lengthy conversations with female cashiers as if they were long-lost cousins. Thermostats set on eighty-five degrees pumped out the kind of heat reserved for a greenhouse in stores lacking so much as a single folding chair.
Christmas week at the local mall. No place for men.
There was a time that Dr. David Kantor would have scanned the crowded parking lot, turned his car around, and left. Sent his assistant with a credit card and a list. Five military deployments in twelve years changes a man. Three Christmas holidays spent in Iraq, and suddenly the worst inconveniences become cherished memories. And so David circled the lot with the patience of Job. Sang along with an old Temptations song on the radio. Offered his expertly scoped-out soon-to-be-vacant parking space to a mother of four in a van. Happily.
The fifty-two-year-old physician and former Army medic no longer practiced medicine. The senior partner at Victory Wholesale Group had seen enough blood and guts and severed limbs and dying young men and women to last several lifetimes. The man who had enlisted in the reserves during the first Gulf War had no intention of going back to the endless second. Not even if they arrested him. Kantor had assured his wife, Leslie, that he already had a plan. The meniscus in his left knee was gone from playing pickup basketball. The anterior ligament hung by a thread. The former shooting guard at Princeton would pop the joint before he got on another transport plane.
The Kantor family was Jewish. David’s four children had received their gifts last week during Chanukah. Today’s shopping list was more business oriented. Knickknacks for vendors and a few special thank-you gifts for his managers. Plus a promised portable DVD player for Gavi, his thirteen-year-old daughter’s reward for having earned straight As. David planned to visit one store and be out of the mall in twenty minutes.
War changed a man, but not everything.
He found another available spot next to a plowed mountain of snow and parked. As if on cue, his cell phone rang. He did not recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Captain Kantor?”
Mention of his military rank caused David’s pulse to race. “Yes?”
“Sir, I’m calling from the Department of the Interior on behalf of the New Jersey National Guard. By order of the Adjutant General, you are ordered to report immediately to the—”
“Wait a second, now you just hold on! Don’t tell me I’m being deployed again! I just got back from setting up a new medical unit eight months ago!”
“No, sir. This is a domestic matter. What is your present location?”
“You mean right now? Uh… Englewood.”
“Stand by.”
Beads of sweat drenched the back of his denim shirt. He flexed his left knee.
“Sir, you are to report immediately to the Fort Lee toll booth on the New Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. On the south side of the road you will see the 42nd Infantry Division Support Command. All duties will be explained when you arrive, all questions answered. You are to power off your cell phone following our call. You are not to discuss this matter with anyone else, civilian or military… is that clear, Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
David hung up, then stared at the cell phone, unsure what had just happened.
The George Washington Bridge was a two-level suspension bridge that fed vehicular traffic across the Hudson River, linking the island of Manhattan with northern New Jersey.
The taxicab inched its way north on Broadway through Upper Manhattan, stuck in a seemingly endless line of cars and buses, all waiting to turn left onto West 177th Street to access the George Washington Bridge. The driver cursed in Hindi, a language his three passengers all understood.
Manisha Patel was a bundle of nerves. Negative energy pulsated from the crystal dangling from her neck like the short-circuiting voltage from a single A battery. “Pankaj, why are we still not moving?”
Her husband, dealing with his own stress, continued to speed dial the cell phone number given to him months earlier by the Tibetan monk calling himself the Elder. “Manisha, please. The traffic will subside, we still have time.”
The driver pressed on his horn as another cab blocked the intersection. “Something must have happened… a terrible accident. Look, they are shutting down the I-95 access ramp.”
“Pankaj, do something.”
“What would you have me do? Part the traffic like Moses?”
Ten-year-old Dawn Patel was in the backseat, squeezed between her mother and father. “Please, no more fighting. If the bridge is closed, then find another way.”
“Our daughter is correct. Driver, turn us around. We’ll take the Lincoln Tunnel.”
Alpha Team commander Jay Zwawa stood in the moist heat of his cumbersome Racal suit in the evacuated chamber of the General Assembly Building and wondered if he were standing at ground zero for the end of the world. The bravado in him, instilled by a demanding father and an older brother in the military, said not on my watch. The intellect that graduated from West Point with honors pondered the Pandora’s box pried open by the lunatics at the Pentagon and prayed for a miracle.
Members of the Centers for Disease Control, all wearing protective white Racal suits and working in teams of three, moved slowly through the aisles of the empty UN chamber. Each man was armed with a small racquet-shaped sensory device containing a nucleic-acid-based biochip designed to determine if toxic agents were present in the air.
While the CDC completed its work, two members of New York’s bomb squad searched the chamber for the “threatened” explosive device, their presence necessary to sell the world on why the General Assembly Hall had to be abandoned. Distinguished by their fire-retardant jumpsuits and heavy Kevlar hooded jackets and rebreathers, the pair seemed as out of place as sports jackets and denim jeans at a black-tie event.
Jay Zwawa watched the men go about their business, wondering how long he could keep them on his wild-goose chase before accepting their “all clear,” forcing him to alert the public about Scythe.
“Captain Zwawa, over here.” Two of the CDC teams had stopped at the embassy table labeled iraq. “She was here all right, ribosomal sequences are a match. Everyone at this table was exposed to full-blown Scythe, probably every table on either side of this aisle from this point clear back to the exit doors.”
“Make a list of every country situated along this row, I want their diplomatic offices checked first. Then begin a floor-to-floor, suite-to-suite triage of the entire Secretariat Building. Any contaminated offices are to be treated as isolation rooms, with armed guards posted outside. We’ve shut down the building’s ventilation system, so you may want to offer blankets. Tell them we’ll be announcing something soon. Until then, no one is to leave their office suites.”
“How long do you think we can keep a thousand irate heads of state isolated under these circumstances?”
“It doesn’t matter, Sergeant. My orders, and yours, are to get it done.”
BIO-WARFARE PHASE IV: SOCIETAL PARALYSIS
“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name totalitarianism, or the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
“Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it.”
December 20
VA Medical Center
East Side, Manhattan
11:49 A.M.
(20 hours, 14 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name totalitarianism, or the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
“Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it.”
Dr. Jonathan Clark prided himself on being a man of intense self-discipline. Arising before dawn. Oatmeal for breakfast. Chicken salad at noon. Cardio workouts thrice a week for thirty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of weights. As the medical center’s director, he remained the ultimate disciplinarian. The leader must set the pace. Staff were expected to arrive fifteen minutes early to all meetings, what Clark referred to as “Vince Lombardi time.” Every duty had a checklist for success. In Jonathan Clark’s book, rules saved lives and no one, save God, was exempt.
He would have both to thank should he live to see the end of this day.
The deathly pale Russian woman was in agony. She was running a high fever and coughing up blood. X-rays revealed a fractured pelvis. CAT scans showed no serious internal injuries. An emergency C-section was scheduled for 11:45. IVs had been administered, blood tests ordered.
By 11:15, the patient’s delirium had turned violent. Screaming “The Devil exists!” she had carried on as if possessed. Orderlies were forced to strap her down. A nurse sedated her. She was moved to an isolation room to keep her from disturbing the other patients. No one noticed that the Russian woman was ranting in perfect English.
She was being prepped for surgery when Dr. Clark arrived at precisely 11:29 to make his 11:30 emergency-ward rounds. After reviewing the Russian woman’s chart, he proceeded to don a protective gown, gloves, and mask.
“Sir, that’s not necessary. She was only moved into isolation because she was raving like a lunatic.”
“Isolation requires us to follow isolation protocols, I don’t care if you’re going inside just to change a light bulb. Now put on proper attire before I dock you a day’s pay.”
“Yes, sir.”
“According to her chart, she works at the Russian embassy. Have the Russians been contacted?”
“We tried, sir. No answer. Apparently there’s some kind of emergency going on at the UN.”
Dr. Clark waited for the attending physician and nurse to complete dressing before leading them inside the negatively pressurized isolation room.
The woman’s skin was hot to the touch, even through Dr. Clark’s gloves. The flesh was so pale it appeared almost translucent, revealing a thin web of blue veins in her forehead, temples, and neck. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her pupils dilated. The eye sockets were dark and sunken, appearing hollow. Her lips were white, drawn tight over the partially open mouth, which kicked up a blood-laced spittle with every panted breath.
The woman’s ripe belly was exposed and swabbed. The unborn child inside was kicking and contorting violently within its mother’s womb.
“Have you started her on antibiotics?”
“Cefuroxime. No effect.”
Dr. Clark opened Mary’s gown, exposing her smallish breasts. “What are these red marks?”
“We’re not sure. At first we thought they were from the taxi’s impact, she tumbled pretty hard when she hit the street. We’re still waiting for the labs.”
Dr. Clark palpated her abdomen, then worked his way down to her groin, feeling his way along the cotton panties… pausing at a bulge. Using a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, he cut loose the fabric, exposing a swollen purplish black rounded lump of flesh the size of a tangerine.
“Sir… I swear, that wasn’t there before.”
“This is a bubo, an infected lymph node. Who else besides the two of you have come in contact with this patient?”
“The orderlies. Hollis in Radiology.”
“Plus the EMTs who brought her in.”
“This room is officially quarantined. The two of you are to remain here while we set up an isolation ward and contact the CDC.”
“Sir, I’ve had my TB shots.”
“Me, too.”
“This isn’t tuberculosis, Nurse Coffman. It’s bubonic plague.”
There was a negative energy in the air. Though not as obvious as a shrill whistle or dentist’s drill, its presence was palpable, and the occupants of Ward 19-C were clearly agitated. Those under sedation moaned in feverish sleep, their minds haunted, unable to escape the stain of war. The conscious among them clawed at their skin or joined in a chorus of F-bombs aimed at the nurses on duty. One man flung his soiled bedpan across the room, inciting a half dozen more responses.
The wounded soldiers in this ward and a dozen wards like it throughout the tri-state area were not missing limbs; nor were they suffering from bullet or shrapnel wounds. All of these veterans, ages twenty-one through thirty-seven, were dying of cancer.
Despite being outlawed, the United States Armed Forces had continued its blatant use of depleted uranium (DU) to create its munitions. A by-product of the uranium-enrichment process, DU shells were able to penetrate steel and were favored by military contractors because they were so cheap, the depleted uranium offered free to weapon manufacturers by the US government.
When fired, a DU shell burned on impact, releasing microscopic radioactive dust particles that traveled with the wind. Easily inhaled or ingested, depleted uranium was a toxic metal that weakened the immune system, could lead to acute respiratory conditions, renal and gastrointestinal illnesses… and cancer.
Staff Sergeant Kevin Quercio had spent two years in Basra as a crew member on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle that used 25mm DU rounds against enemy combatants in the town of Al-Samawah. For several months, Kevin and members of his crew had complained to their commanding officer about extreme discomfort, especially in the intestinal/rectal area. Medics dismissed the problem as hemorrhoids, but the pain only grew worse. After being passed from physician to physician, a reservist oncologist finally ordered X-rays… and discovered three cases of colon cancer, one case of leukemia, two men with Hodgkin's lymphoma and another soldier with a malignant brain tumor.
Kevin was shipped back to New York, where doctors cut into his rectum and burned the tumors off his liver, only to learn the cancer had already spread to both lungs. The twenty-six-year-old New York native woke to find himself with a colostomy bag and prognosis of incurable colon and lung cancer, the doctors giving him a year to live.
Compounding the news of his death sentence was Uncle Sam’s declaration that cancer patients did not receive benefits like other wounded soldiers, the US government refusing to recognize the disease as a casualty of war. And so Kevin Quercio and thousands of American veterans like him lay in oncology wards in VA hospitals across the country waiting to die, deserted by the country they made the ultimate sacrifice to serve — everything kept out of the public consciousness so as not to disturb the ongoing war effort.
Only today, Kevin Quercio could not remain in bed. Today his psyche felt inflamed, his anger seethed. Grabbing the call button by his bed, he rang for the nurse, summoning instead the assistant director, who was making her rounds.
Patrick was alone in the elevator, flexing his new left arm. The disabled veteran’s mind was in turmoil, the anticipation of being reunited with his wife and daughter after such a long separation causing great anxiety, the demands of the new secretary of defense unnerving him even more. What if DeBorn plays hardball and won’t allow me to see my family? What if he keeps them away, locking them up against their will just to get me to be his poster boy for a new recruitment surge?
The elevator stopped at the seventh floor, the doors opening. Patrick Shepherd headed for Ward 19-C… the sounds and smells of chaos instantly transporting his wounded mind back to the trauma center at Ibn Sina.
“Blood pressure’s dropping, sixty over forty. Hurry up with that brachial artery, I need to administer Dobutrex before we lose him.”
“You sure this was an IED? Look at the skin hanging below the remains of his elbow, the flesh melted.”
“Artery’s closed, start the Dobutrex. Okay, where’s the damn bone saw?”
“I think Rosen was using it to carve his brisket.”
“How’s his BP?”
“Ninety over sixty.”
“Let’s get another unit of blood in him before we take the arm. Nurse, be an angel and hold up that X-ray. I want to amputate right here, just below the insertion on the biceps tendon.
“Shep, it’s David Kantor, can you hear me? Shep?”
“Shep!”
Patrick snapped out of it — Leigh Nelson was crying out for help! He raced through the ward to find Staff Sergeant Kevin Quercio holding the physician by the roots of her hair as he ripped the IV tube from his arm and attempted to strangle her with it.
“Let her go, Kevin.”
The Italian-Irishman looked up… and froze. Manic rage washed into absolute terror. “No, not yet, Reaper. Please don’t take me yet!”
Shep turned around, unsure to whom the soldier was speaking.
Kevin released Dr. Nelson and collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t take me yet, please. I didn’t want to kill those people. All I wanted was to serve my time and come home. Reaper, please.”
The ward quieted.
“Kevin… it’s me, Shep. It’s okay.”
“I was just following orders! I had no choice.”
“Dude, it’s cool.”
“They lied to us. Please don’t take me yet.”
“Take you where? Kevin, where don’t you want me to take you?”
Kevin wiped back tears, his chemo-weakened body trembling in terror. “Hell.”
The orderlies burst into the room. One helped Leigh to her feet. Two escorted Kevin Quercio back to his bed.
Shep looked around. The other veterans — all cancer patients — were staring at him in fear. Several men crossed themselves.
Dr. Nelson pulled him aside, her body trembling. “Thanks, baby doll, you saved my scalp. You okay?”
“Are you?”
“Not really.” Her lower lip quivered. “Sorry. It’s been one of those days, you know? Oh my God, I didn’t even notice the new arm. Wow, it looks great. Are you getting used to it?” Her pager interrupted them before he had a chance to reply. “Now what?” She glanced at the text message. “I’ve got to run… some kind of emergency.”
“Leigh, my wife… you said you had an address.”
Her expression fell. “I gave it to DeBorn, I’m sorry. But it’s still in my e-mail. Go to the library and access it, my password is Virginia Fox. Wow, that’s embarrassing.” She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thanks again, Shep. Gotta go.”
She took two quick strides, then remembered something. “Colonel Argenti called. Your new therapist will be here this afternoon. Talk to him, Shep. Do it for Bea.”
She waved, then hurried through the ward toward the elevators—
— unaware of the security team sealing the hospital exits.
President Eric Kogelo sat back in the easy chair and closed his eyes. Surrounded by a team of advisors, he was being assaulted by a nonstop torrent of cross fire that pushed the migraine deeper until it felt as if his eyeballs were being probed by an ice pick.
“—yes, Iran is threatening an attack, but with all due respect, Mr. President, our bigger concern right now is Scythe. The CDC guys confirm the Iranian delegation was contaminated—”
“—along with dozens of other delegates and hundreds of American citizens. So let’s just table the finger-pointing.”
“The woman infected herself with a Bio-Level 4 biological she cultivated in a CIA-financed lab in Fort Detrick. She specifically sought out the Iranian delegation. You want to see finger-pointing, wait until their Supreme Leader makes his next speech.”
“That cannot be allowed to happen. Sir, I recommend we shut down all transmissions—”
The president massaged his temple, his mind searching for an island of tranquility in a stormy sea. In every great society there were opposing forces that preferred chaos over progress. Eric Kogelo had battled these forces at every step since the moment he took office, his administration attempting to negotiate a middle ground rather than upset the applecart. In doing so, he had disappointed progressives while still failing to convert Republicans, who preferred to polarize the country with fear rather than support meaningful change. Refusing to give in, Kogelo rallied his supporters and began making headway against an opposition led by the health-insurance industry, pharmaceutical companies, and the fossil-fuel monopoly. Still, the young president knew a bigger force remained cloaked in the shadow of war. Dealing with the military-industrial complex was a dangerous game.
Never had he imagined a day like today.
“Mr. President, Scythe isn’t just an Iranian problem. For all we know everyone in that chamber could have been infected… including you, sir.”
Heads turned to the chief of staff as if he had just cursed God.
Kogelo’s press secretary attempted a rescue. “Sir, the mayor’s scheduled to address the media in fifteen minutes… maybe you should be there?”
“He can’t leave the complex. The moment he leaves, the other delegates will demand to leave, and we lose containment.”
“Who says we even have containment? Have you looked outside lately? Those Army guys just added two more tents, and the entire plaza’s surrounded by military vehicles.”
“Exactly why we need to make a move now, before it’s too late. Get an EVAC chopper on the roof. Let’s get the president out of Manhattan.”
“You mean get you out of Manhattan.”
“Is that such a crime? I have a wife and kids. None of us are even infected.”
“Are you so sure—”
“Enough!” Eric Kogelo stood, the pain in his head excruciating. “Instruct the mayor. Tell him to go public about isolating Manhattan, but he’s to emphasize this is purely a precaution, more a response drill than an actual emergency. Reveal nothing to him about Scythe, the last thing we need right now is widespread panic. Where’s the first lady?”
“En route to the White House from Chicago.”
“Keep her there, make sure my family’s safe. I need to lie down… an hour to think.” The president headed for the bedroom, then turned, making eye contact with each of his advisors. All were fearful, yet none looked away… a good sign.
“We’re in a tough fix, but let’s not lose our composure and panic the herd. The last thing we want is to give our enemies the excuse they’ve been hammering for to take over Iran’s oil reserves and jumpstart their New World Order.”
“Sir, Scythe was released just minutes before you were set to address the UN Is it possible—”
“That we have a Judas in the White House?” The president exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trust no one outside this room.”
Born in Niagara Falls, raised in the Bronx, Mathew Kushner was a New Yorker in every sense of the word. After graduating from Syracuse University and New York Law School, Kushner joined his father’s practice, specializing in immigration law. The attorney was less than a mile from his Lower Manhattan office on the morning of September 11, 2001, when the first hijacked commercial airliner violated New York’s airspace and struck the World Trade Center.
Mayor Kushner stood on the top steps of City Hall before a podium riddled with microphones, fighting the urge to kick the lectern into the crowd. Once more his beloved city had been violated, Manhattan forcefully isolated without his input or approval. He was being fed half-truths from Washington while black military Hummers raced through the streets, and men in Racal suits stoked fear throughout Tudor City and the UN. It didn’t take an immigration attorney to figure out that civil rights were being violated; nor did it take a psych major from Syracuse to know that Manhattan’s blood pressure would continue to simmer until it led to an uprising that would make the Watts riots look like a tailgate party.
And in the end, that was why Mayor Kushner had relented in playing the dutiful role of press secretary, not because he believed the story but because he had to believe it… because sometimes the difference between civil obedience and civil destruction was the white lie of politics.
“Good afternoon. As most of you know by now, all bridges, tunnels, walkways, highways… basically all means of leaving or entering Manhattan, have been temporarily shut down. This order, which came directly from the White House, is a precautionary action that allows medical personal from the Centers for Disease Control to manage, maintain, and monitor a small outbreak of a flulike virus that was detected earlier today at the United Nations Plaza. For your own safety, and to allow gridlock conditions to ease, I am asking everyone in Manhattan, whether resident or guest, to remain indoors until the CDC officially gives us the all clear sign.”
“Mayor Kushner—”
“Mr. Mayor!”
Ignoring the press, Mathew Kushner followed his aides back inside City Hall, preparing to unleash his fury at the first Kogelo administration staffer foolish enough to answer his phone call.
Built in 1898, the Sunshine Cinema first housed the Houston Hippodrome motion-picture theater, then a Yiddish vaudeville house before being converted to a warehouse. Fifty years later, the Cinema was restored as a theater, featuring five state-of-the-art screens, stadium seating, Dolby Digital Surround EX sound and gourmet concessions, along with a Japanese rock garden and a bridge that offered breathtaking city views from its third-story glass annex.
Thirteen-year-old Gavi Kantor stood outside the box office with her two best friends, Shelby Morrison and Jamie Rumson. Having voted earlier to skip the last day of school before Christmas break, the three seventh graders were arguing over which matinee to see.
“How about Sisters of the Traveling Pants-3?”
“Are you gay, Jamie? Seriously. What about you, Gavi?”
“I don’t care. I would have been fine watching Blu-Ray movies in Mrs. Jenkins’s class.”
“You mean, watching Blu-Ray movies with Shawn-Ray Dalinky.”
“Shut up, Shelby.”
“Don’t even try to deny it. He’s practically all over your Facebook page.”
Shelby’s cell phone rang. She checked the number. “Gavi, it’s your mom! What should I do?”
“Don’t answer it!”
“Hello? Oh, hi, Mrs. Kantor. No, I haven’t seen Gavi… I mean, I missed her in second period. I, uh, had bad cramps and had to go to the nurse’s office. Why? Is anything wrong?” The teenager’s eyes widened. “For real? Okay, when I see her, I’ll have her call.” She hung up.
“What?”
“There’s some kind of emergency going on. Your mom said they closed down the roads and trains.”
“How do we get home?”
“As of now, we don’t. We’ll probably have to camp out in the gymnasium.”
“Oh, yeah, baby. Gavi and Shawn-Ray Dalinky, snuggling together on the hardwood floor.”
Jamie laughed.
Gavi worried. “We’d better get back to school.”
Ignoring her friend, Shelby handed the woman working the box office her debit card. “Three for Stranglehold.”
“Shelby, what are you doing?”
“We’re here, Gavi. Why should we rush back to school? Call your mom later and tell her your phone died.”
“Forget it. I’m going back. Jamie?”
“I’m staying.”
Gavi hesitated, then left, crossing Houston Street, heading for Chinatown.
“Gavi, don’t go. Gavi!”
“Forget her, Jamie. I’m surprised she even came with us. Come on, you’re buying the candy and popcorn.”
The traffic on the New Jersey side of the bridge was backed up for miles. Center barriers had been removed, forcing drivers to make U-turns onto the eastbound lanes of Interstate 95, returning them to Fort Lee.
David Kantor held on to the bench seat in the back of the Army transport vehicle as it raced east across the now-empty upper deck of the George Washington bridge, heading toward Manhattan. The suffocating breathing apparatus covering his face echoed each labored breath. The forty pounds of gear strapped to his back caused the muscles in his shoulders to ache. The tear-gas canisters clipped to his utility belt and the assault rifle loaded with rubber bullets scared the hell out of him. But not as much as what he saw out of the truck’s open tailgate.
While an Army demolition team duct-taped munitions to suspension cables, a team in rebreathers and jumpsuits spray-painted the bridge’s roadway and undercarriage, using long reach poles.
David knew what was mixed in with the paint, and that was what unnerved him. This is insane. Something bad has happened. He cursed himself for giving up his cell phone before calling his wife to see if Gavi ever made it home.
The military vehicle skidded to a halt. As the senior officer present, David instructed the ten National Guardsmen and three Army Reservists to line up behind the back of the vehicle.
“Captain Kantor?” The booming voice rattled the two-way radio inside David’s hood. He turned to face an imposing bearded man, his physique bulging beneath a uniform marked un.
“I am Commander Oyvind Herstad. My men are in charge of this outpost. You are the senior officer for the domestic force?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Your people will be used strictly to communicate; we will maintain the gauntlet.”
“Gauntlet? What gauntlet?”
Commander Herstad led him around the truck.
At the end of the road where the bridge met Manhattan was an impediment of military Hummers positioned across all eight lanes of Interstate 95. Beyond the vehicles were coils of barbed wire, stretched across the upper-bridge roadway and the two pedestrian crossings, all backed by heavily armed soldiers in camouflage khaki uniforms, protective headgear, and hoods.
Beyond the gauntlet into Manhattan, pedestrian traffic was ensnared as far as the eye could see. Most civilians remained in their vehicles to stay warm. Others milled about in packs, yelling at the soldiers, demanding answers. Several men waited their turns to defecate behind a steel bridge support, the public having designated it a makeshift bathroom. Farther to the east, David could see the 178th Street ramp, its bridge-bound lanes lined bumper to bumper with thousands of cars, buses, and trucks. Both upper and lower arteries remained blocked on the Manhattan side of the bridge.
“Why?”
“Manhattan is now under a strict quarantine. No one is permitted to enter or leave the city until further notice.”
“What happened? Was there a terrorist attack?”
“Biological attack. Plague. Very contagious. Your men will take positions closest to the civilian walkways. Reason with the people. Keep them calm. The Freedom Force will maintain the quarantine.”
“What the hell is the Freedom Force?”
“We’re an international division. Professional soldiers.”
“Since when does the United States use professional soldiers in domestic emergencies?”
“Field studies have shown that a domestic militia will hesitate to use the force necessary to combat their fellow citizens. The Freedom Force was created to address those situations. Our militia recruits from the Canadian Military Police, Royal Netherlands Brigade, and the Norwegian Armed Forces, among others.”
“This is insane.”
“This is the world in which we now live.”
“We passed a demolition team working on the bridge. What are they doing?”
“Ensuring we do not lose the quarantine.”
“You’re planning to blow up the George Washington Bridge?”
“It is a fail-safe only. Rest assured, my men will maintain the gauntlet. Do your job and—” Herstad cocked his head and listened to commands coming over his earpiece. “Bring your men, quickly!”
David hurried back behind the truck. “Detail — with me!”
The soldiers formed two lines and fell in behind their commanding officer, double-timing it across the asphalt highway, heading for the commuter walkway located on the south side of the bridge, where a growing mob of several hundred people were threatening to push their way through the barricade, using spare tires and tire irons to attack the barbed wire. A dozen civilians were waving handguns.
“Let us through now, Comrade!”
“None of us are sick! Let us go!”
“My wife’s in the car, she’s going into labor.”
Commander Herstad pulled David aside, handing him a bullhorn fitted with a plug-in attachment for his headgear. “Order them back, or they leave us no choice.” The Norwegian fingered the trigger of his weapon. “These are not rubber bullets.”
David approached the crowd. Men mostly. Driven by desperation. Fueled by fear and the need to save themselves and their loved ones. Outgunned, yet holding the numbers to win once organized. A hundred thousand cornered cats.
His heart pounded. “May I have your attention? My name is David Kantor, I’m a captain in the United States Army Reserve—”
“Let us through!”
“We can’t do that right now.”
“Then we’ll do it for you!” A revolver was raised above the crowd.
A firing line of Freedom Force fighters raised their assault weapons in response.
The crowd cowered, even as more handguns appeared.
“Wait!” David stepped in front of the firing line.
The foreign militia never budged, their fingers remaining on their triggers.
“Where’s the pregnant woman?” No reaction. “I’m a medic. If there’s someone who needs medical assistance, let her through.”
Heads turned. The crowd parted. A Hispanic couple in their early thirties approached the barbed wire. The woman was stooped over, supporting her swollen belly.
“What’s your name?”
“Naomi… Naomi Gutierrez. My water broke. This is my fourth. It won’t be long.”
Commander Herstad pulled David aside. “What are you doing?”
“Negotiating.”
“There is nothing to negotiate.”
“We’re negotiating for time, Commander. The 42nd IDSCOM hasn’t arrived yet with their armored vehicles, and I’m laying odds your demolition team isn’t quite ready to blow a gap through all fourteen lanes of a two-level suspension bridge. At the same time, I think we both know your men can’t stop hundreds of vehicles crashing your gauntlet simultaneously. So here’s the deal: You let the woman through. We set her up in the back of the truck with some blankets, and if need be, I help deliver her child. That buys us some time. In Iraq, we called that the human touch. But hey, I’m sure there’s a field study lying around somewhere if you need to read it.”
Herstad scanned the crowd, the mob having tripled in the last few minutes. “Lower your weapons. Allow the woman through. Just the woman.”
David scanned his command. Located one of the female National Guardsmen. “What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Sir, Collins, Stephanie, sir.”
“At ease. Corporal Collins, I want you to escort Mrs. Gutierrez to the truck we just rode in on. Make her comfortable, but do not compromise your protective gear. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
David watched Herstad’s men retract a small section of barbed wire, allowing the pregnant woman to pass through. Activating the bullhorn, he addressed the crowd once again. “The woman will be fine. Now please, for your own safety, go back to your vehicles and wait until the all clear sign is given.”
The mob slowly dispersed.
The Freedom Force lowered their assault weapons.
David Kantor followed the two women to the military vehicle, his eyes focused on the demolition crew a hundred yards away—
— continuing to spray paint the underside of the bridge.
Leigh Nelson hustled to keep up with Dr. Clark, who was dictating orders to her even as he directed interns, relocating dozens of patients, who were organizing a ground-level isolation ward in the E.R. “We contacted the CDC in Albany. They’re already at the UN Apparently the outbreak started there.”
“Makes sense. The Russian woman’s a delegate.”
“We’ll perform the C-section in the E.R., then return both mother and child to the third-floor isolation ward. The infant will remain in a self-contained unit. The mother is to remain restrained.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are the antibiotics having any effect?”
“No, sir, not yet. Cold packs brought the fever down a little. Once the newborn’s delivered, we’ll start the mother on a morphine drip to deal with the pain.”
“No, keep her lucid. The CDC wants us to get as much information from her as we can. Who she came in contact with, what buildings she entered… that’s your job, Dr. Nelson. Find out everything. The CDC claims they’ll be able to contain this thing, but I know bullshit when I smell it, especially with the feds shutting down the transit system. I ordered a dozen environmental suits brought over from inventory and sent Myers on a bleach run. Prepare for the worst, Leigh, it’s going to be a long night.”
The old man entered the emergency ward. His face was serene, contrasting with the chaos surrounding him. Bypassing the turmoil at the front desk, he strolled down a corridor lined with moaning patients in wheeled beds and confused interns seeking answers from frustrated nurses. Arriving at a row of elevators, he pushed the up button.
The middle elevator arrived first, its doors opening—
— releasing a hospital administrator and three interns, all wearing gowns, gloves, and masks. They were pushing a gurney enveloped in a portable plastic isolation tent, its patient — a ghostly pale pregnant woman, her wrists and ankles bound to the bed rails by restraining straps.
“Sir, please step back.”
Mary Louise Klipot opened her sunken eyes, staring aghast at the old man. He offered a simple wave hello before stepping onto the vacated elevator.
“Hey, Whitebread, phone call. It’s either your old lady or the whore you shacked up with last night.”
Patrick Shepherd grabs the payphone receiver. “Sorry, babe. Just one of my teammates messin’ with you. How’s your dad?”
“Not good. The cancer’s moved into his lymph nodes. The doctor says… it won’t be long.”
Tears roll down his cheeks. “Okay. I’m coming home.”
“Dad said no, and he meant it. He said if you leave the team now, you’ll lose your spot in the rotation.”
“I don’t care.”
“He does! Whenever the fever breaks, you’re all he talks about. How’s Shep? Did he pitch today? So… how is it going?”
Shep checks the hallway, making sure no one is listening. “Class A ball sucks. I’m surrounded by a bunch of eighteen-year-old Dominicans who can’t speak a lick of English. These guys are crazy, like they were just let off the boat.” He pinches away tears. “The truth is, I’m lonely. I miss you and the baby.”
“We’ll see you soon enough. How’s the competition?”
“Raw. But a few guys… you can tell they’re juicing.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“What if it’s my only chance?”
“Patrick—”
“Babe, I’m a nineteenth-round draft pick signed for fifteen hundred bucks out of Rutgers. A few needles, and I bet I could add at least four miles an hour to my fastball.”
“No steroids. Promise me, baby.”
“Okay. I promise.”
“When’s your next start?”
“Wednesday night.”
“Just remember what Dad taught you. Don’t take the rubber until you visualize the pitch. When the first batter goes down flailing, no smile, no emotion, just the Iceman. Shep, are you even listening?”
“Sorry. I can’t think straight. Knowing what’s going on with your dad… not seeing you and the baby… it feels like I have a hole in my heart.”
“Stop it. Stop whining! You are not a victim.”
“He’s not just my coach, he’s the only father I’ve ever known.”
“You said your good-byes three weeks ago. We all knew that. We all cried. If you want to honor him, utilize the lessons he spent a lifetime teaching you. And don’t forget our deal. I’m not marrying you until you pitch in the majors.”
“Okay, tough guy.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“We’re soul mates. You can’t leave your soul mate.”
“A deal’s a deal. Quit the team now, or start putting needles in your ass, and I’m gone in a New York minute. Me and your daughter.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because Dad’s too sick to slap you around himself. Because we agreed to a plan the day you found out I was pregnant. You need to succeed, Shep. Don’t back down now. We’re counting on you.”
Patrick Shepherd sat up in bed, panting. His body was lathered in sweat, his mind once more struggling to identify his new surroundings.
“That must have been quite the dream.”
Shep turned, startled.
The old man was leaning back in the desk chair, watching him. More aging hippie than senior citizen. A long mane of hair, silvery white, pulled back over a tan forehead into a six-inch ponytail. A matching mustache and trimmed beard framed his jaw line down to his Adam’s apple. The eyes were blue, kind but inquisitive, obscured behind teardrop glasses, their lenses tinted burgundy. He was wearing faded blue jeans, brown hiking boots, and a thick gray wool sweater over a black tee shirt. Bearing a slight paunch, he resembled an elderly, healthy version of the late Grateful Dead singer, Jerry Garcia, had he lived to see his mid to late seventies.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”
“A friend of yours sent me to speak with you. Something about your needing help. By the way, who’s Trish?”
“Trish?”
“You yelled out her name.”
“You mean Beatrice. Beatrice is… was my wife. DeBorn sent you, you’re the shrink.”
The old man smiled. “Not what you expected when you asked for help.”
“You look more like a refugee from the sixties than a psychiatrist.”
“How should a psychiatrist look?”
“I don’t know. More brainy.”
“This was the best I could do on short notice. Should I lose the beard?”
“Dude, I could care less what you look like. And just to set the record straight, DeBorn’s not my friend; he’s just using me for some new Army recruiting deal of his. You should know up-front I’m not doing it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that?”
“Well, we could torture you, I suppose, but I’ve always been a proponent of free will.”
“DeBorn’s not going to pay you if I don’t do as he says.”
“Let’s not concern ourselves with Mr. DeBorn. Besides, what’s said between us stays between us, isn’t that the rule?”
“It’s more complicated than that. He can keep me from seeing my family.” Shep slid off the bed and pulled the sweat-soaked tee shirt off with his right hand, carefully working it around his new prosthetic arm.
“Has he kept you from seeing them up until now?”
“Well… no.”
“Then why haven’t you seen them?”
“I guess I wasn’t ready.”
“But you’re ready now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How long has it been since you last saw them?”
“Too long. Eleven years, give or take. It’s hard to remember.”
“Then why see them at all? Seems like you’d just be opening up old wounds.” The psychiatrist picked up the leather-bound copy of Dante’s Inferno lying on the desk. Casually flipped through the dog-eared pages.
“Old wounds? They’re my family. I just found out they’re here, in Manhattan.”
“Don’t you mean, your estranged family. Eleven years is a long time, give or take. As your shrink, I’d say it’s time you moved on.”
“You’re not my shrink… and could you put that book down! Borrow it from the library if you want to read it so badly.”
“Oh, I’ve read it.” He turned the book over, reading the summary aloud. “Dante's Inferno, written by Dante Alighieri between 1308 and 1321, is widely considered one of the greatest and most revered works of world literature. Divided into three distinct parts—Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven — Inferno describes Dante's journey through Hell, depicted as nine circles of suffering. Allegorically, the Divine Comedy represents the journey of the soul toward God, with Inferno describing the recognition and rejection of sin—”
Patrick snatched the book from the old man. “I know what the story is about. I’ve read it so many times I’ve practically memorized it.”
“And do you agree with the author’s conclusions?”
“What conclusions?”
“That the wicked are condemned to an afterlife of misery without any hope of salvation.”
“I was raised a Catholic. So yeah… I believe it.” The question weighed on Patrick. “Just out of curiosity, what do you believe?”
“I believe that even in one’s last instant of life redemption can still be achieved.”
“You don’t believe God punishes the sinner?”
“Every soul must be cleansed before it moves on, but punishment… what I prefer to call obstacles, are opportunities to gain access to the Light of God.”
“You sound like some sort of New Wave guru. What religion are you?”
“Honestly, I’m not a big fan of religion.”
“So you don’t believe in God?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t believe the Creator intended spirituality to be an open competition. What about you? Do you believe in God?”
Patrick sneered. “I believe God fell asleep at the wheel long ago. As useless as teats on a bull. I have zero faith in Him. The guy’s a bigger screwup than I am.”
“You blame God for the loss of your arm?”
“I blame God for the world. Look at all the evil, all the needless suffering. Two wars going on, another one looming. People starving. Dying of cancer—”
“You’re right. Screw God. If He was any kind of creator, he’d have cleaned up this mess eons ago. Lazy no-good bastard.”
“Yeah… no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, some of it’s our fault, free will and all that.”
“But you blame Him for your life.”
“No. I blame Him for separating me from my family.”
“Didn’t you say they’re in New York?”
“Yeah, but—”
“They lock you in at night?”
“No.”
“So leave. Go find your wife and kid… or don’t. But stop playing the victim.”
The blood drained from Patrick’s face. “What did you say?”
“I think you heard me.”
“You think it’s that easy?” Shep sat on the corner of the bed, the edginess returning. He fidgeted with the steel pincers, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. “There are things, you know… in my head.”
“Ah… the nightmares.”
“You’re a real man of genius. Yeah, the nightmares. And don’t ask me about them either.”
“You’re the boss.” The old man sat back, flipped through Dante’s Inferno. “An interesting read. I enjoy books that deal with challenges of the human spirit.”
“Inferno deals with justice. Punishment for the wicked.”
“Back to God being asleep at the wheel?”
“I’ve been in combat. I’ve seen innocent people suffer. Why must there be so much hatred? So much senseless violence and greed… so much corruption. There’s no justice in the world. That’s why these things keep happening.”
“You want justice or happiness?”
“Justice would give me happiness. If God’s really out there, then why does He allow evil people to prosper while the good among us suffer?”
“Are you counting yourself among the good?”
“No.”
“Are you suffering?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, there’s justice in the world. Be happy.”
“Ugh! You just don’t want to get it, do you?”
“I get it. You want God to strike every sinner down the moment they sin. But what good would that do? Ever watch how they train animals? When the animals complete a desired action, they get a treat. When they do something bad, they get shocked. Spirituality isn’t about being conditioned, it’s about free will and resisting the negative urges to react to temptation. It’s about controlling the human ego… the true Satan. Satan is clever. He removes time from the equation of cause and effect, making it confusing to track rewards to good deeds and evil acts to punishments.”
“Okay, but real justice still comes, right? Say I’ve done things… things justifiable in war, only maybe I’m no longer sure. Will I be punished?”
“Let’s be clear: Sin is sin, there’s no wartime exemption for killing or rape. As far as real justice — the fire and brimstone of Dante — no soul returns to the Light without being cleansed. For some, the cleansing process can be quite painful.”
“You keep saying the Light.”
“My apologies. By Light, I’m referring to the Light of the Creator. The infinite. Endless fulfillment.”
“Like Heaven?”
“If you want to simplify it.”
Shep pondered this. “What happens when evil surrounds you… when it seems to be everywhere all at once, when every choice is the wrong choice, and you can’t escape it?”
“When wickedness achieves a critical mass, when it becomes widespread like a runaway plague so that it shuts off access to the Creator’s Light, then even innocent souls are subject to destruction. In that case, a cleansing must take place, on a scale that transcends the depravity of the wicked. You remember the story of Noah? Of Sodom and Gomorrah? Ah, but I guess those cleansings took place before God fell asleep at the wheel.”
Shep didn’t reply, he was staring at the old man’s left wrist. The sweater’s sleeve had ridden up, revealing a number tattooed along the outside of his forearm. “You were in the Holocaust?”
“I was there.”
“Then you know evil better than most.”
“Yes.”
Patrick’s eyes teared up. “I know evil, too.”
“Yes, son, I believe you do.”
“I’ve done some terrible things.”
“Things your wife would never approve of?”
“Yes.”
“And now you want her back?”
“And my daughter. They both left me. I miss them so much.”
“What makes you so certain your wife wants to see you again?”
“Because she’s my soul mate.”
The old man sighed “Those are powerful words, my friend. Do you even know what the term means? A soul mate is two halves of a single soul, divided by God.”
“I never heard that before.”
“It’s part of an ancient wisdom, one that predates religion. The reunification of soul mates is a blessed event, but know this: Soul mates cannot be reunited until both parties complete their tikkun… their spiritual correction. And you, my friend, are far from ready.”
The old man stood to leave.
“Whoa, Doc, wait a minute. I changed my mind. I do want your help. Tell me what I have to do to get my soul mate back, and I’ll do it.”
“Everything has a cause and effect. Fix the cause, and you’ll fix the effect.”
“What the hell does that mean? She left me, remember. You want me to apologize? Would that make it right again?”
“Take some time. Think about things. Decide what it is you want out of your life. When you’re ready to stop playing the victim, come and see me.”
The old man fished through his sweater pocket, extracting a business card. He handed it to Shep and left.
Patrick Shepherd stared at the card.
virgil shechinah
inwood hill, new york
Located at the very northern tip of the island, Inwood Hill was a Manhattan neighborhood unlike any other. There were no skyscrapers here. The Harlem River marked its northeastern border, High Bridge Park and Washington Heights situated directly to the south. Among its western landmarks were athletic fields belonging to Columbia University, nestled close to a heavily wooded mountain terrain that seemed a thousand miles from the Big Apple.
This was Inwood Hill Park, the only natural forest left in Manhattan. Climb its rocky summit, and one was rewarded with a magnificent view of the Hudson River. Explore its dense wood, and you might discover ancient caves once inhabited by the Lenape Indians long before the first Europeans arrived.
The Black Chevy Suburban entered Inwood Hill, made a U-turn at the intersection of Broadway and Dyckman Street, then parked.
Bertrand DeBorn exited the car. Slammed the rear door. Crossing the street, he walked to a new i-pay phone, verified that it was operational, then dialed a number on his cell phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Call me back at 212-433-4613.” The secretary of defense hung up and waited. Snatched the payphone receiver on its first ring. “What happened?”
“Someone unleashed Scythe.”
DeBorn’s skin crawls. “Where? When?”
“The UN Plaza. About five hours ago.”
“Five hours? Five hours is a lifetime. You have no idea how fast this biological can spread in a major metropolis. I need to get to the UN before they run out of vaccine—”
“Bert, Scythe was genetically altered. It’s not responding to any of the harvested antibiotics.”
A cold sweat broke out across the defense secretary’s forehead.
“Homeland Security shut down access in and out of Manhattan. Where are you now?”
“North. Still on the island.”
“Are you clean?”
“For the moment. I’ve been in a secure location, meeting with key council members.”
“And?”
“They support the plan, all of which has just been rendered moot.”
“Not necessarily. Think about it. If Scythe broke out in Tehran next month, no one could possibly blame—”
“Enough! You have no idea what you’re even saying. If Scythe leaves Manhattan in its present form, we’re all dead. All of us! Without a vaccine, Scythe is a runaway train. I need to get off this island quickly before I’m infected. Where’s POTUS?”
“He’s being held in quarantine at the UN. No one’s allowed to leave.”
“POTUS will be airlifted out, so will the others. They’ll all be sent to Fort Detrick and held while a cure is found. I need to get to the UN, it’s my only hope. Call me on my cell with any updates.”
“Bert, it’s not a secure line.”
“No one’s listening. Plague has infested Manhattan.”
Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac
The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.(translated from its original French)
Plague has infested Avignon.
What began as a whisper in the night has blossomed into the wails of the dying and bereaved. And there seems no escape.
Within days of the first mortalities, the dead and dying had passed the death onto their caregivers and loved ones. Bells tolled each hour as the graves filled quickly. Terror consumed the living while Death’s cold hand wound through the streets, sparing barely a soul from its invisible embrace. Neither parent nor child. Cardinal or prostitute.
Villagers collapsed in pubs and in pews.
Entire households were vanquished of the living.
Last rites were canceled, lest our remaining priests catch the scourge.
The sick were robbed while they lay dying in their beds, the thieves succumbing to the Great Mortality days later.
And oh how the body count did rise; dozens yielding to hundreds, hundreds to thousands. When the churchyards were filled, the Pope purchased a new cemetery. When it, too, was filled, massive graves were dug outside the city walls. When the grave diggers fell ill, rustics came down from the hills to claim a beggar’s wealth — Avignon paying them a small ransom to cart off its dead each morning and afternoon, burying them by sunset. Piled atop one another, the deceased are wheeled to mass burial pits and laid out in neat rows by the hundreds. By nightfall, the top layer of the day’s collection is covered by dirt, only to be decimated hours later by wild dogs and pigs that tear the toxic flesh from the bones, leaving the scraps to the rats.
Every night I bed to incessant weeping in the streets, with each new dawn I awaken to the sound of pull carts and my own fearful breaths as I check my vital signs. By midmorning the newly afflicted form lines at my door, coughing mothers cradling their crying infants, husbands their fallen wives. All seek aid I cannot give, and they are far too numerous to treat even if I knew of a cure. The Pope requires my services, and so I take my leave, tending to those I can upon my return from the palace if only so I might live to understand this sickness and one day find a cure.
When it comes to disease, I have been taught that it is the body out of balance that is prone to sickness. For so many to have perished would require a mighty imbalance… and one has come to light. Months earlier, a rare galactic phenomenon became evident in the night sky, bringing Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn into alignment. This cosmic imbalance has no doubt cast its toxic vapor upon the Earth, infecting mankind. The vapor may indeed be worse in the city, causing the rich among us to flee to their chateaus in the countryside.
I have begged Clement VI to leave Avignon, but the Pope refuses. Instead, he has allowed me to place fire pits in his personal chamber, the heat and flames perhaps capable of incinerating the toxic miasma vapor. So far it has proved effective in keeping the Pope free of the sickness—
— but the stench of evil lurks all around us and I fear the worst is yet to come.
— Guigo
BIO-WARFARE PHASE V: SOCIETAL BREAKDOWN
“Seeing the swine flu virus spread within a raft of countries, the United Nations health agency today raised the international alert to Phase 5 on a six-point scale, signaling an imminent pandemic and urging all countries to intensify preparations.”
“Disruption of life-as-usual could come from economic collapse, runaway climate change, war, peak oil, pandemic, or some unforeseen combination of these and other factors. What makes these prospects especially terrifying are potential human responses to them. We could see either societal breakdown — in which each person turns on others in a battle for dominance or survival — or fascism, in which people allow all-powerful leaders to run things out of fear of chaos.”
December 20
Secretariat Building
United Nations Plaza
2:39 P.M.
(17 hours, 31 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“Seeing the swine flu virus spread within a raft of countries, the United Nations health agency today raised the international alert to Phase 5 on a six-point scale, signaling an imminent pandemic and urging all countries to intensify preparations.”
“Disruption of life-as-usual could come from economic collapse, runaway climate change, war, peak oil, pandemic, or some unforeseen combination of these and other factors. What makes these prospects especially terrifying are potential human responses to them. We could see either societal breakdown — in which each person turns on others in a battle for dominance or survival — or fascism, in which people allow all-powerful leaders to run things out of fear of chaos.”
The thirty-nine-story Secretariat Building loomed high over the United Nations Plaza. Rectangular with a green glass facade, it was one of the more easily identified structures in New York. As part of the UN, the building was considered “international territory” and its delegates had never been subjected to the laws of New York or the United States—
— until today.
Heavily armed members of New York’s Emergency Service Unit (ESU) were posted in the Secretariat lobby and on every floor. Electricity had been shut off to prevent the spread of Scythe through the ventilation systems, the cold temperatures adding insult to injury. Updates were delivered every hour, the stall tactic allowing six teams of CDC units to make their way floor by floor, office by office, performing triage on the UN’s imprisoned diplomats.
The elevator was powered by a generator off the grid. Two ESU escorts and Dr. Roy Mohan rode in silence to the seventeenth floor. Mohan understood tragedy all too well. A drunk driver had stolen his wife and infant son six months ago. Now the physician put in sixty-hour workweeks at the Centers for Disease Control, using his job to blunt the pain. In the last four hours, he had examined more than seventy civilians and thirty-one police officers. What he had seen had churned up all the bad memories.
Scythe was a ruthless killer, designed to spread faster than any virus the microbiologist had ever worked on. Its effect was sinister. Almost supernatural. Within minutes of being infected, the new host was already infecting others. A kiss. A cough. A hug. A handshake. Sometimes simple proximity. As Scythe continued its lethal spread, the Secretariat Building had become an incubator of toxic bacilli.
“Doc, you ready?”
He nodded to the ESU officer. The three men exited the elevator. One of the officers tapped on the door of Suite 1701 with the butt end of his Taser. A plaque identified the tenants as the Democratic Republic of Congo.
After a moment, the door cracked open, revealing a cocoa-skinned male in his early twenties. Wrapped in a blanket. A bloody hand towel held over his nose and mouth. His dark, jaundiced eyes were wide in fear. “Mai… poladó.”
The security officer looks looked back at his partner. “Anybody speak African?”
“It’s Lingala.” Dr. Mohan reached into his backpack and extracted a bottled water.
The man grabbed it from him, draining it.
“Do you speak any English?”
“A little. Just what I learned at Tasok… the American school in Kinshasa. My name is Matthew Vincent Albert Hawkins. My parents work for the government. You will tell me what is killing us.”
The first police officer answered “It’s just a bad flu. We need to examine everyone in the suite, then we’ll come back with medicine.”
“You are a liar. This is not flu.” Hawkins opened the suite door wider.
There were at least a dozen of them inside, mostly blacks, a few whites, including a Caucasian woman in her fifties. Their faces were covered by newspaper. Streaks of fresh blood were visible on the print.
“Fourteen dead. Five more in the adjoining office, alive but infected. I am a premed student, so you will not lie to me again. What is killing us?”
“Bubonic plague,” Dr. Mohan replied. “A strain that spreads very quickly.”
“Why have you not issued antibiotics?”
“Unfortunately, we haven’t found any that are effective.”
Hawkins teared up, his nostrils sniffling, his brow knitted in anger. Lowering the blanket, he tore open his dress shirt — revealing the tattoo of a lion over his heart, encircled by the words Mwana ya Congo. Above the tattoo, situated along his neck, was a swollen black bubo the size of an apple. “We deserve better. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“My brother and sister… they are also thirsty.”
Dr. Mohan handed him his backpack. “There’s water and some supplies. Go with God.”
Hawkins nodded. Closed the door.
Leigh Nelson hovered outside the portable plastic isolation tent. Directed her light into the half-open sunken eyes of the Russian woman. The pupils responded.
Beneath the feverish hot water within the ebb and flow of nausea in the endless sea of pain, Mary Klipot followed the light to the surface of consciousness.
“Dana, my name is Dr. Nelson. Can you understand English?”
“My baby?”
“Your child is safe. We had to perform an emergency C-section.”
Baby Jesus is born! “I want to see my baby.”
“Dana, listen to me. Your baby is fine, but you are very sick. We have to wait until you feel better. The antibiotics should take effect soon.”
“Bring me my child.” The words rasped in her throat, gurgled in blood.
“Dana, you’re contagious.”
“The child’s protected. I inoculated him against Scythe.”
“Scythe?”
“Bubonic plague. A new strain. Harvested in my lab.”
The color drained from Leigh’s face. “What lab?”
Mary coughed up blood, then licked the residue away, staining her lips. “Fort Detrick.”
“You did this?”
“Known antibiotics won’t stop it. The antidote… is in my car. In the spare-wheel hub.”
“Where’s your car?”
“It was towed this morning… near the UN. Bring me the antidote, and I’ll show you how to use it.”
The real-time satellite map of Manhattan featured on the 140-inch projection screen was a hybrid, listing streets and identifying buildings. Red dots represented the verifiable number of infected individuals in a given neighborhood, the tallies quantified along the border of the image.
Most of the damage appeared in the Lower East Side along a four-square-block area encompassing the United Nations Plaza, where the numbers of infected were approaching two hundred.
Of greater concern to Colonel Zwawa’s team were the growing number of cases being reported in other areas of Manhattan, including Lenox Hill, the Upper East Side, and Central and East Harlem, where Scythe had leap-frogged west to Lincoln Square and Manhattanville. Each locale had begun as a single case, only to blossom into a patch of red Xs as the infected individual had unknowingly spread plague to unsuspecting family members, friends, and, finally, medical workers.
Colonel Zwawa glanced at the wall clock. Seven minutes until Mayor Kushner’s next press conference and still no word from the president.
As if reading his thoughts, a blank wall monitor activated, revealing President Eric Kogelo. Drained. His complexion a pasty gray. “My apologies. With the power out, we’ve had to deal with some technical challenges. Our conference monitors aren’t working… is the vice president on the line?”
“Right here, Mr. President. I’m in the Situation Room with Secretary Clausner and the Joint Chiefs. I’ve asked Lieutenant General Folino from the National Guard and Admiral Ogren from the Coast Guard to join us. They’ve mobilized their forces to help secure Manhattan’s bridges, tunnels, and waterways.”
“Whose decision was it to mobilize the Freedom Force?”
The vice president offered an irritated frown. “You’d have to speak with Secretary Clausner about that, sir.”
Harriet Clausner refused to cower. “It was my call, Mr. President. The director of Homeland Security called me personally while en route to New York and flatly stated that it would take him three hours to mobilize the Guard and have them in position to seal all of Manhattan’s exits and entry points. We were given minutes. I contacted the Freedom Force. They sent a squadron from Jersey City. I did what I felt was necessary.”
“Understood. Who’s in charge of the foreign militia?”
“That would be me, Mr. President.” A blue-eyed man appeared on-screen. Short-cropped blondish gray hair. His accent classic Sandhurst. “James O’Neill, British Armed Forces, Acting Commandant of the Freedom Force. Let me put your mind at ease, Mr. President. Dealing with civilian populations is our specialty. My units have served in Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Northern Ireland, as well as—”
“I’m not questioning your qualifications, Mr. O’Neill, only my secretary of state’s decision to employ a private international militia in a domestic matter.”
“With all due respect, sir, today’s events are exactly why your predecessor funded our unit. When it comes to domestic challenges, the Freedom Force can mobilize quicker and more efficiently than the National Guard.”
“We appreciate your service, but this is a delicate matter, and your presence could make matters worse. General Folino?”
“Here, sir.”
“How quickly can we replace the Freedom Force with US troops?”
“We’ve mobilized the Third Infantry Division’s First Brigade Combat Team; they’re en route from their home post at Fort Stewart, Georgia. As for the Guard, we’d have to free up a division or two helping to reinforce levees along the Mississippi.”
“Whatever it takes, General, I want the Freedom Force replaced. Colonel Zwawa, what’s the situation at the UN?”
“Not good, sir. A.I.T. and CDC teams are being overwhelmed by the sheer number of the infected. We’re preparing to pull out and relocate to Governor’s Island.”
“Wait… are you saying we’ve lost the United Nations?”
“Mr. President, we lost Manhattan hours ago.”
“Manhattan? Dear Lord…”
“Sir, we expect to have a suitable facility set up on Governor’s Island by seven o’clock this evening. We’ll be bringing in choppers to evacuate your party as well as the surviving delegates. To reiterate, we have every Bio-4 lab facility in North America working on developing an effective antibiotic on this mutated version of the virus.”
“Straight talk, Colonel. You’re moving us to Governor’s Island so you can keep us quarantined. Is that essentially it?”
“Quarantined, yes, but also you’ll be more readily accessible so that we can quickly administer an effective antibiotic once we have it.”
“But we’ve lost Manhattan?”
“Yes, sir. While we haven’t received a single report of plague outside Manhattan, Scythe is spreading across the island, each infected area similar to a small brush fire capable of burning out of control.”
“General Folino, can your troops maintain the quarantine?”
“For the moment. It’s like herding cattle. A dozen cowboys on horses can do it, provided there’s no stampede. Once these neighborhoods reach a saturation point, the herd will panic, and suddenly you’ve unwittingly organized a mob of several hundred thousand people. Our forces simply cannot maintain containment against those odds.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Instruct the mayor to clear the streets. Order everyone indoors, then institute martial law. Civilians congregating in public places are Scythe’s kindling, every riot a threat to overwhelm our containment.”
“Admiral Willick?”
Steven Willick, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, appeared on-screen. “I agree. As it stands now, our biggest concern is the hundred thousand commuters stuck in gridlocked traffic along Manhattan’s bridges and tunnels. Panic that herd, and we’re looking at a mass vehicular exodus that will overwhelm our gauntlets. Should that happen, we collapse the bridges. Then there are the Hudson, Harlem, and East River escape routes. We’re patrolling shorelines along the Bronx and Queens, and we’re treating Roosevelt Island as part of Manhattan. Two more Coast Guard cutters are en route to guard the waterways, along with a cargo plane loaded with our latest combat aerial drones. Right now, we need the mayor to buy us enough time to get our units into position.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Two hours.”
The president massaged his temples, closing his eyes to think. “Put me through to Mayor Kushner.”
Shelby Morrison fed from the trough of popcorn perched in her lap. Her friend Jamie texted in the dark movie theater. “Brent Tripp just asked me out.”
“The buzz cut from Georgia?”
“He’s cute.”
“Shh!” A heavyset woman two rows back scowled at them.
Shelby lowered her voice. “He’s like a Boy Scout or something.”
“Eagle Scout. So what? The guy’s cool. He’s like, going to be a filmmaker.”
“Seriously?”
“Shh!”
“Oh shush yourself!” Shelby grabbed another handful of popcorn — screaming as she tucked both feet onto her seat. “Jamie, something just ran across my foot!”
“A dog?”
“I think it was a rat.”
“Oh my God.” Jamie Rumson pulled her feet up and looked down as a two-pound black rat scurried up her leg!
“Ahhh! Ahh!” Using the tub of popcorn, the horror-stricken teen swatted the creature into the next row as an army of black rats scurried along the floor and over the seats, sending waves of screaming patrons hurrying into the aisle.
“Run!” Shelby tried to walk across the seats, gave up, and stepped on a rodent’s back, twisting her ankle. The houselights turned on, revealing the heavyset woman struggling up the main aisle ahead of them, rats leaping upon the back of her fur coat.
Jamie grabbed Shelby’s hand, and they pushed through the crowd toward the screen for a sliver of daylight coming from the open exit door. Bodies pressed in from all sides. Wedged between a wall of human overcoats, they shuffled along blindly, grabbing for balance, praying not to fall. A cold blast of December followed gray daylight and they were in an alleyway, hurrying past a trash bin overstuffed with plastic garbage bags and a homeless man. He was writhing on his side, inebriated and ranting. A dozen rats swarmed over his ragged clothes, tearing into his flesh.
Screaming all the way through the alley, the teens followed the dispersing crowd across Houston Street, stopping traffic.
“Oh my God, oh my God… I’m going to be sick.”
“Shelby, my leg is bleeding. I think it bit me.”
“Seriously? Oh my God, Jamie, you are bleeding.”
“Oh my God, am I going to die?”
“No, it’s okay. People get bitten by rats all the time. We better wash it off or something before you get rabies. Come on.”
Manhattan’s Chinatown was home to more than 160,000 people living and working in a maze of narrow streets crowded with vendors and greengrocers, fishmongers and jewelry shops and more than two hundred “authentic” Chinese restaurants. But there was more to Chinatown than dim sum and cheap perfume. An undercurrent of black-marketed goods flowed through this Asian ghetto, luring bargain hunters seeking illegal imitation designer sunglasses and handbags into storefront back rooms and alleys and basements.
Gavi Kantor had detoured to Mott Street in search of a Christmas present for her new beau, Shawn-Ray. The “spotter” took inventory of the Caucasian teen from one corner. Radioed his “tout” as she approached.
"Prada… Gucci… Coach. You want Prada? Gucci? I get you good deal.”
“Actually, I’m looking for a watch. For my boyfriend.”
“How much you got?”
“Forty dollars.”
“Hmm. Seiko. Timex. Wait! How ’bout Rolex?”
“For forty bucks? Come on.”
“Slightly used. Look brand-new. Work perfect. You like very much. Even have box. Come on, I show you.”
With visions of an overwhelmed Shawn-Ray Dalinky floating in her head, the naïve thirteen-year-old chased her Pied Piper through a twisting alleyway and down a flight of steps leading into a redbrick building’s basement corridor and the darkness that awaited…
It was the heart of Manhattan: A brilliantly lit twelve-block Mecca of multiplexes and Broadway shows sandwiched between glass towers and computerized billboards. Now, a quarter of a million people paused amid gridlocked traffic to gaze up in silence at the multiple images of their mayor broadcast over half a dozen giant HD screens.
“…in order to prevent the spread of the virus and allow health authorities to properly treat those infected, we are instituting a mandatory 5 P.M. curfew. Anyone remaining on the street after 5 P.M. will be subject to arrest. Those of you who are stranded on Manhattan’s bridges and interstates will be transported by buses to Madison Square Garden for the night. This mandatory curfew will remain in effect until the Department of Health issues their all clear sign.”
A collective moan took the crowd.
On the big screens, reporters shouted over one another to be heard. “Mr. Mayor, the United Nations is under quarantine. What about President Kogelo?”
“President Kogelo, his staff, and the rest of the United Nations delegates are under lockdown orders until the danger has passed. The president is asking all of us to take similar precautions.”
“How lethal is this virus?”
“It’s extremely contagious. Nobody said it was lethal.”
“Come on, Mayor Kushner! There are teams of health workers dressed in environmental suits bagging bodies in the UN Plaza. It’s all over YouTube! How can you stand here and tell us it’s not lethal?”
In the crowded intersection, among a quarter of a million suddenly uneasy shoppers and tourists and businessmen, Santa Claus arrived on foot to spread a different kind of “holiday cheer.”
Still in uniform, Heath Shelby staggered through the crowd. Feverish. His body ached. Strands of white hair from his wig stuck to the sweat beads lining his forehead and pasty complexion. Droplets of coughed-up blood stained the fake beard and mustache adhering to his face. Another wave of nausea built.
“Mr. Mayor, how can you stand here and tell us it’s not lethal?”
Lethal? The Salvation Army volunteer looks up at the big screen mounted on the side of the truncated triangular building known as One Times Square. The pregnant woman at the UN? She was sick.
Heath Shelby’s heart pounded with the rapid rhythm of a man who had just received a death sentence. He needed to flee… to get to a hospital, but he was surrounded by a sea of people, his very presence among the throng threatening their existence, the crowd’s overwhelming numbers denying him the privacy to succumb to the hot bile rising from his gut.
Pushing bodies out of his way, he staggered to a trash can and retched.
“Mommy, look! Santa Claus is sick.”
The mother shakes her head. “He’s not really Santa, honey, he’s just some hopeless drunk.”
“No, Mommy, he’s really sick. Look at all the blood.”
The mother turned to look again. “My God… he’s got the virus. He’s infected!” Picking up her six-year-old, she pushed her way through the crowd, screaming, “He’s sick! Get out of my way!”
Heads turned.
Realizing his secret was blown, Heath Shelby wiped his mouth and stumbled forward, forging a path through the urban forest of humanity—
— Scythe infecting a new crop of hosts with every step.
The cab driver glanced up at his rearview mirror at the pretty brunette in the backseat wearing a mask over her face. “Traffic’s not moving. The police station’s six blocks away. Probably quicker if you walk.”
Leigh Nelson paid the driver, then forced her way onto the crowded sidewalk. She paused to get her bearings, only to be jostled by tides of angry pedestrians sweeping past her in both directions, cell phones plastered to their ears, their conversations anything but private.
“…then call the senator! I dropped twenty grand on his last campaign, he’d better find a way to get me off this godforsaken island!”
“Honey, I don’t know when I’ll be home, they’ve shut down everything. I guess I’ll just sleep at the office.”
The police depot was located en route to the Lincoln Tunnel, the busiest underground vehicular passage in the world. Located in midtown Manhattan, the three-tube passage and its six traffic lanes descended beneath the Hudson River bed, transporting over 120,000 vehicles a day to and from central New Jersey.
Leigh followed signs for I-495 West. Reaching Ninth Avenue she stopped, the scene ahead surreal.
Having been dammed at its mid-Manhattan toll booth, the Lincoln Tunnel had spawned a logjam of cars and buses that clogged the city streets as far as the eye could see. Many passengers had abandoned their vehicles to scream obscenities at armed Port Authority workers and police officers. Others congregated in small groups, discussing options for a revolution.
“What the hell are we supposed to do in Madison Square Garden?”
“Do you remember what happened to those people trapped in the New Orleans Superdome during Hurricane Katrina?”
“All I know is that I need to eat and use the bathroom. Lock the car and grab a kid. We’re walking.”
It took Leigh Nelson twenty minutes to negotiate the mile-and-a-half walk to the impound lot. The police station was chaotic, patrolmen and SWAT team members moving in and out, many wearing gas masks.
She pushed her way to the front desk. “My name is Dr. Nelson. It’s very important I search one of the vehicles towed to this location early this morning.”
“Sorry, Doctor. We’re not releasing any vehicles until the city reopens.”
“I don’t want the vehicle, I just need to search it. There’s medicine inside the trunk. My patient’s dying.”
She argued another ten minutes before relinquishing her credit card to pay the city impound fee.
The white Honda Civic with the Virginia license plate looked innocuous enough. Still, the sight of it sent chills down Leigh’s spine. She watched as the police officer applied a tire iron to the trunk, popping open the lock and setting off the alarm.
Donning rubber gloves, she removed the spare tire, exposing a polished wood container the size of a cigar box. Unlatching its two hinges, Leigh opened the lid, revealing a dozen small vials of clear liquid, secured in styrofoam pockets. A typed note lay folded on top.
SCYTHE MK-36 Vaccine/Antidote.
INSTRUCTIONS: Take orally. One dose per patient.
WARNING: This antibiotic contains a powerful neuro-transmitter that crosses the brain-blood barrier. May cause hallucinogenic effects. Anger and reactive behavior exacerbate symptoms. Keep patient calm. Do not leave unsupervised for the first six to twelve hours.
Leigh removed her cell phone and pressed a preset number. “Dr. Clark, its Dr. Nelson. I have it!”
“You’re certain it’s the right vaccine?”
“I won’t know for sure until we test it on a patient, but the woman was practically begging me for it.”
“How soon until you can get back to the VA?”
“Give me an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll alert the CDC. Well done, Dr. Nelson. You may have just saved us from a pandemic.”
Her heart pounding with adrenaline, Leigh removed her backpack and opened it, carefully positioning the case between her surgical gown and wool scarf. Adjusting the carbon-filter mask over her face, she headed for the impound lot’s exit at a brisk jog.
Situated at the very center of Manhattan, it was the most frequented city park in the United States. Two-point-six miles long and half a mile wide. A perfect rectangle of nature, yet completely man-made. Comprised of 136 acres of forest, 250 acres of lawns, and 150 acres of waterways, the largest being the 106-acre, billion-gallon Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. There were 58 miles of pedestrian paths, 4.5 miles of bridle paths, 6.5 miles of park drives, and 7 miles of benches. Twenty-one playgrounds. Thirty-six bridges and archways. The highest structure was a seventy-one-foot, 244-ton granite obelisk made in Egypt in 1500 b.c., the oldest was Central Park’s most important natural feature — its underlying geology — a glaciated metamorphic schist bedrock that dated back 450 million years.
Thirty-six-year-old Marti Evans and her life partner, Tina Wilkins, followed the flow of humans moving south along West Drive. The winding pedestrian walkway took them past a boulder grotto, known as the Pool, where the women had first met. The grassy banks from that spring day eleven years ago were now blanketed in snow, the willows, laid bare by winter, bent over the lake’s partially frozen surface.
Marti pushed the stroller holding their five-year-old daughter, Gabi. The lesbian couple resided in Des Moines, Iowa, but had decided to spend the Christmas holiday in New York. They had visited Radio City Music Hall earlier in the day and promised to show Gabi the giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center after dinner.
Now they just wanted to leave Manhattan alive.
The two women followed thousands of other frightened civilians, everyone moving to one rallying point advertised on a hastily printed flyer. They passed the reservoir on their left, the waterway so vast it covered ten city blocks. American Elms closed in on either side of the winding footpath, the bare branches creating an arching briar-patch effect overhead. Spindly fingers cast against the gray afternoon sky like a vision out of Sleepy Hollow.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the Great Lawn. Ahead, Belvedere Castle rose out of Vista Rock. The stone structure loomed above Delacorte Theater, where ten thousand people have gathered, with more on the way, their presence on the fifty-five-acre lawn turning the blanket of snow into slush.
A large vinyl banner on wires stretched high above the stage:
city of n.y. presents disney on ice
december 28—january 7
Volunteers had set up a microphone and PA system on the amphitheater stage. All eyes followed a Caucasian man in his sixties, sporting dark, slicked-back hair and a south Florida tan. He strode purposely across the stage and took the microphone.
“My name is Lawrence Hershman. I served as deputy assistant to the undersecretary of defense for policy during the second Bush administration. I’m here to tell you that all of us are being lied to, and unless we act soon, we’re all probably going to die.”
The restless crowd hushed one another to hear.
“What I’m about to tell you is confidential. For years now, the United States and other Western governments have been preparing to unleash a new pandemic that would be even more devastating than the Spanish Flu epidemic that wiped out 30 million people back in 1918. The pharmaceutical industry is in it up to their elbows, having been secretly awarded huge government contracts to mass-produce vaccines for genetically engineered hybrid viruses. These viruses, developed by lunatics over at the Defense Department, were designed to wipe out the populations of targeted hostile nations. One of these biological weapons was unleashed this morning at the UN. Somehow, the crazy bastards screwed up the vaccine and lost containment. The military’s keeping everyone away, but the bodies of the dead are piling up faster than they know what to do with. In a city like Manhattan, the virus will spread like a wildfire.”
Tina gripped Marti’s hand, the two women shaken.
“There’s only one chance to survive, and you need to act now, before they start shooting people in the streets: Cover your mouth, nose, and skin as best as you can, then find a way off the island. Take to the subway tunnels, swim if you have to… just get out of Manhattan before you end up in a body bag.”
BIO-WARFARE PHASE VI: S.I.D (SATURATION-ISOLATION-DEATH)
“Five to one, baby
One in five
No one here gets out alive, now
You get yours, baby
I'll get mine
Gonna make it, baby
If we try…”
December 20
USAMRIID
Fort Detrick — Frederick, Maryland
3:47 P.M.
(15 hours, 28 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
“Five to one, baby
One in five
No one here gets out alive, now
You get yours, baby
I'll get mine
Gonna make it, baby
If we try…”
Colonel John Zwawa jumped as the cell phone reverberated in his back pocket. “Go ahead, Jay.”
“We may have caught our first break. CDC just took a call from one of the local hospitals claiming they have a plague patient who says she has access to Scythe’s vaccine. Her description fits the Klipot woman.”
The colonel’s heart raced. “Where’s the vaccine now?”
“In the trunk of her rental car, being held at a police impound.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s moot, the administrator sent his assistant to retrieve it. She’s on her way back as we speak.”
“How far is the hospital from you?”
“It’s East Side, but in this traffic it’ll take me an hour, and I can’t spare the detail. We’re scheduled to bug out at 1900 hours.”
“Okay, okay… we’ll send in a retrieval team. Which hospital?”
“The VA on East 23rd Street.”
For the last two hours, the irate female driving the Black Chevy Suburban had been using her siren and police emergency light to force her way through and around bumper-to-bumper traffic. Inching her way south on Park Avenue, she approached a neoclassical four-story limestone building located on the northwest corner of East 68th Street.
Turning to the man slumped in the passenger seat, Sheridan Ernstmeyer violently roused Ernest Lozano from his catnap.
“What?”
“We’re passing the CFR. Maybe we should hole up inside?”
“Maybe.” Lozano leaned over the seat and gently nudged Bertrand DeBorn on the knee. “Sorry to wake you, sir. We’re passing the Council’s headquarters. Should we stop?”
“What the hell good would that do? You think the Council on Foreign Relations is immune to the Black Death?”
Sheridan smiled to herself.
“No, sir. I just thought—”
“If you had thought, you would have gotten to the Klipot woman instead of her flaky fiancé!” The reverberation in his pocket cuts him off. The secretary of defense rubbed sleep from his eyes and answered his cell phone. “Speak.”
“Good news. Turns out there is a vaccine.”
DeBorn’s heart jump-started. “Who has it?”
“It’s being delivered as we speak to the VA hospital. Inoculate yourself, then we’ll airlift you out. Claim you were part of a DARPA medical team collecting blood samples for a new antibiotic. You’ll play the hero… the press will eat it up.”
“Well done. I’ll phone as soon as I arrive.”
“Just be careful out there. I’m watching the news. The natives are growing restless.”
In the quiet emptiness of an antiseptic room that held neither memories nor a future, Patrick Shepherd stared at the painting of a beach house hanging from a yellowed wall and contemplated what his life should have been. What was it the shrink said? Everything has a cause and effect. Fix the cause and you’ll fix the effect. I went to war, and Beatrice left me. I’m back from war, and my family is in New York. After all these years, why now? Maybe she wants a divorce? Maybe it has nothing to do with me? How am I supposed to know?
Reaching for the painting with his prosthetic arm, he attempted to grab its wooden frame with his pincers. Failed. Tried again and failed.
Seething with rage, he swept the steel arm sideways, knocking the painting from the wall. Stop being a victim. Find Bea. Find out why she’s here. One way or another, it’s time to move on.
Beatrice Shepherd searched the last of the cardboard moving containers. Old manuscripts, bound in rubber bands. Sentimental, but her new apartment lacked the closet space. She tossed them into a trash box reserved for paper recyclables.
At the bottom of the container was a plastic file box. She hauled it out. Peeled away the sticky yellowed tape and opened it. Removed a stack of unopened letters. Found the picture frame. Wiping dust from the glass, she regarded the photograph of the bare-chested, strapping twenty-five-year-old in his Army desert fatigues.
Her eyes welled up in tears. For a long moment she stared at the photo, then set it on the bookshelf by the flat-screen television and wondered how she would explain her decision to her daughter.
Her eyes caught the muted news report on the TV. Locating the remote, she turned up the sound. Heard the words pandemic and mandatory curfew and grabbed her phone, speed dialing her daughter’s cell-phone number. After four rings, it switched to voice mail. “It’s mother. Call me as soon as you can.”
The phone rang the moment she replaced the receiver. “Where are you?”
“Mrs. Shepherd?”
The older man’s voice startled her. “Yes? Who is this?”
“Ma’am, you don’t know me. I’m calling about your husband, Patrick. He’s in New York, and he needs to see you.”
The Tibetan monk sat in a lotus position on the polished bamboo floor before the open laptop. Microthin wires ran from the back of the computer and out the open door onto the seventh-floor balcony facing the Hudson River, connecting to a small satellite dish mounted on the brick facing.
The Elder meditated.
A Coast Guard cutter rolled south along the waterway and the monk could feel its twin engines gurgling thunder, the disturbance reverberating in his bones.
At precisely 4:08, Gelut Panim opened his eyes. He reached for the Japanese Kabuki mask by his right knee and slipped it in place over his face
as the satellite uplink connected, the screen instantly splitting into three rows of three. Eight different ornamental masks stared back at him, including his own in the upper left-hand corner. Slot number seven remained blank.
The Society of the Nine Unknown Men convened what more than a few members feared would be their final transmission.
The Elder confirmed his brethren’s biorhythms before he spoke. “My friends, the world is changing before our eyes. The first domino has been toppled.”
“Scythe was never intended to be the first domino. The Klipot woman was a wild card.”
“Yes, Number Four. But was she a wild card, or was it divine intervention? Either way, it altered the Illuminati’s plan.”
“I’d wait a few days before calling it divine intervention. By then, every person on this planet not wearing a loincloth may very well be dead.”
“Perhaps, Number Two. But I sense something important is happening. That the Creator chose to intervene before the evil ones could ignite World War III is… encouraging.”
“DeBorn and his enlightened brethren won’t go quietly into the night,” uttered Number Five, the accent distinctly French-Canadian. “They’ll spin this as easily as Cheney convinced the American public that Saddam had to be brought down for 9/11. Next thing you know, the Klipot woman becomes a Muslim fanatic and a US-led coalition will be invading Iran. Russia and China will mobilize, and DeBorn will have his war.”
“Number Four, where is DeBorn now?” Number Eight asked.
“My contacts confirm he is still in Manhattan.”
The Elder nodded. “He must be dealt with before the end of this day.”
“What about Number Seven?”
“He and his family are trapped in New York. Cell-phone transmissions are being blocked, but I can sense his presence.”
“You will continue to use him as bait?” Number Three asked.
“If this is truly the End of Days, as we believe it to be, then the Creator has selected a righteous man to offer humanity a last chance at salvation. For reasons that remain unclear, Number Seven’s family has been chosen to serve the cleansing process as a conduit, linking this righteous person with the supernal world. By monitoring Number Seven’s biorhythms, I can determine if and when contact is established and offer my services to the righteous one, should he or she require it.”
“What about Scythe?”
“My immune system can handle it.”
“Seven isn’t immune. He and his family could be dying as we speak.”
“In fact, Number Six, I fully expect Seven and his family to be stricken before this night is over. And yes, there is a good chance they may perish, along with the rest of us.”
Verbal responses were at odds with the eight unyielding expressions.
The Elder waited for silence. “Many people are going to die before the winter solstice dawn. What remains to be seen is whether our species survives the cleansing. Scythe is not the executioner, my friends, it is the test.”
“What else can we do?”
The Kabuki mask remained placid. “Pray.”
Leigh Nelson jogged down East 23rd Street, the VA campus in sight. She slowed as she reached First Avenue, shocked by the changes that had occurred over the last ninety minutes.
The ambulance parking lot had been converted into a triage zone. Hundreds of people formed a line that snaked from First Avenue all the way up to East 25th Street. Faces were concealed behind carbon-filter masks and scarves. Mothers rocked screaming infants in blankets. Husbands and wives. Friends and families and single workers. The silent killer’s work made easy.
Medical personnel, dressed in gowns, masks, gloves, and yellow plastic ponchos performed quick examinations before segregating patients into tented waiting areas by the main entrance (suspected plague) and the staff parking lot (confirmed plague).
She spotted Dr. Clark as he hustled out of the emergency-room entrance, followed by two interns carrying blankets. “Children under twelve only. Make sure the cops know.”
“Dr. Clark!”
He saw her. Signaled her to wait. Grabbing a clean poncho from a stack, he met her halfway across First Avenue and slipped the waterproof sheeting over her head.
“Sir, all these people—”
“If they weren’t infected when they arrived, they’re infected now. We’re just stalling for time, shuffling them from one waiting area to another. Where’s the vaccine?”
“In my backpack.”
“We moved the redheaded woman to the fourth floor to prevent her from seeing her newborn. Administer the vaccine and report back to me with the results.”
They looked up as a Black Chevy Suburban, its siren wailing, pulled onto the sidewalk on 23rd Street.
“Secretary DeBorn? What’s he doing back here?”
“I’ll deal with him. You get that vaccine started.”
“Yes, sir.”
Patrick Shepherd entered the hospital library, surprised to find the media center deserted. He moved past shelves of donated books. Located the row of computer stations and situated himself at one of the terminals.
He typed in Dr. Nelson’s e-mail address and password, accessed the Internet, and sorted through her old e-mail. He stopped at the subject line: lost person inquiry and clicked open the e-mail.
Dr. Nelson:
Thank you for your inquiry regarding the whereabouts of BEATRICE SHEPHERD, age 30–38, ONE CHILD (female) age 14–16. TOP 5 Search States Requested: NY. NJ. CT. MA. PA. The following positive matches were found:
Manhattan, New York: Ms. Beatrice Shepherd
Vineland, New Jersey: Mrs. Beatrice Shepherd
See also: Mrs. B. Shepherd (NY — 4)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (NJ — 1)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (MA — 6)
Mrs. B. Shepherd (PA — 14)
To provide you with the highest-quality results, we suggest our LEVEL 2 Detective Service. Fee: $149.95
He fumbled with the mouse. Clicked on the address link and printed the page. Hurried to another booth, this one containing an i-pay phone. He sat at the built-in desk and swiped the machine with a prepaid phone card:
credit remaining: 17 minutes
He began to dial the Battery Park phone number, then crumpled beneath a wave of anxiety so unnerving it stole his breath. “What am I doing? What do I say? Hey, baby, it’s Shep. So, I’m back. Wanna get together? Ugh!”
He slammed the phone back on its receiver in disgust.
Think it through, asshole. Remember what the shrink said… cause and effect. Try beginning with an apology. “Hey, uh, it’s Shep. I’m sorry for leaving you and the baby and enlisting… ugh! This is all wrong, I need to write it out. Better yet—”
He left the booth and hustled to the information desk, searching through drawers until he found what he was looking for — a palm-size recording device used by amputees for dictating letters. Returning to the booth, he cleared his mind, then pressed record.
“Bea… it’s Shep. Remember me?” He stopped, erased, then started again. “Bea, it’s Patrick. I’m back, honey. I’m in New York, at the VA hospital. Maybe it’s fate we’re both in Manhattan. Babe, I was wounded. I can’t be whole again without you. You’re my soul mate, Bea, I need to see you and our little girl… only I guess she’s not so little anymore.” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “I made a bad mistake. I was angry. I didn’t think things through. Babe, I’m so lost without you. If there’s any way you could find it in your heart to forgive me—”
He paused as the library door opened…
Mary Klipot lay on her back in the self-contained isolator, her wrists and ankles shackled to the bed rails. A plastic hood enveloped the bed, preventing the escape of contaminated air. The hood also sealed in the combined stench of her breath, her sweat, and the vomit staining her hospital gown. Despite the morphine drip, the pain and nausea she felt remained overpowering, pushing her delirium toward the brink of madness. She had become a mindless wretch, her thoughts consumed by the fever. Every breath was panted. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, her open mouth locked in a gnarled grimace. Her lips, white and curled back, exposed bloodstained yellow teeth.
The cool liquid washed through her bloodstream like a cleansing tide, soothing the rhythm of her breathing. Within minutes, it had drawn away the fever, bathing her irritated internal organs with blessed relief.
Mary’s eyes rolled back into place, and she looked up.
Leigh Nelson hovered outside the isolation bed, holding the empty vial. “The vaccine — is it working?”
Mary attempted to speak, but her throat was still too parched, her coughs lubricated in bloody spittle.
Leigh adjusted Mary’s mattress so she was sitting up at a forty-degree angle. Using one of the isolation tent’s plastic sleeves, she passed through a bottle of water, positioning the straw in her patient’s mouth.
Mary drank. “Bless you, sister.”
“Who are you? What is Scythe?”
“Release my restraints, and I will tell you everything.”
Positioning her free hand in an open sleeve, Leigh reached inside the tent and unbuckled the leather strap pinning Mary’s right arm to the bed rail.
Mary flexed her arm, then freed her other wrist.
“Now tell me, what is Scythe?”
“A biological weapon… a genetically harvested pandemic. Part of a black ops biological program. The disease feeds on negative emotions, especially anger.”
“Anger? How?”
“As the infected individual becomes more reactive, adrenaline and noradrenaline are released, affecting the heart rate, blood pressure, and the pancreas. The greater the anger, the faster the disease spreads throughout the body. The vaccine… did you bring both boxes?”
“No. I only found the one.”
“Take me to the car, I’ll show you where the second is hidden.”
“First tell me who released Scythe in Manhattan?”
“God. He sent me as his vessel.”
“God told you to unleash a man-made plague?”
“After He impregnated me with His child. Where is he? Bring me my baby!”
She’s insane. Clark told you to keep her restrained. You need to put her under again and—
“The End of Days is upon us. Scythe is the deliverer, it will save us from the heretics. I have delivered the Messiah. Where is my son? Bring me the Christ Child!”
“Your child is being cared for in a specially designed incubator. Oh, by the way, the Christ Child… it’s a girl.”
“What? No… that can’t be. You’re lying!”
“I’m lying? Listen to me, you pathological murdering bitch. Your plague has killed thousands of innocent people, maybe tens of thousands, maybe millions before we can harvest your antidote.”
“Wait… today’s not the twenty-fifth.”
“Are you even hearing me?”
Mary’s expression darkened her voice crackled. “The child was supposed to be born on the twenty-fifth. You took him out too early!”
Leigh backed away, moving toward the nurses’ station phone on the wall—
— when the room was suddenly overtaken by a deep thrumming sound, the disturbance growing louder until it reverberated the windowpane. Mary heard it, too, her eyes growing wide and intense, her pulse rate leaping on the heart monitor. “Satan. He has sent his minions to kill me. How did they find me so quickly?”
Leigh walked to the window, raised the shade. “Now what?”
Three black helicopters hovered overhead, releasing dozens of Special Ops commandoes, who rappelled several hundred feet to the street below. They were all heavily armed, dressed from their hooded heads to their boots in black uniforms, their faces masked behind air rebreathers.
What Mary Klipot saw was something entirely different — the Scythe vaccine had moved from her bloodstream into her brain, affecting her central nervous system while disrupting the release of serotonin, a neurotransmitter that modulated mood swings and sensory perception. The sight of the Special Ops commandoes had unleashed terrifying thoughts — flashbacks from Mary's earliest grand mal seizures. The images distorted her senses and sent her tattered mind on a hallucinogenic trip that filtered present-day events into nightmarish visions of Hell.
Black-winged demons flap past the fourth-floor window. Crimson eyes stare through her. Voices whisper sulfurous thoughts into her brain: “There is no escape, Mary Louise. Our claws shall tear the flesh from your bones. Your existence shall be blotted from the book of the living, your soul cast into the rivers of Hell, basking in Satan’s light for all eternity.”
“Santisima Muerte, Most Holy Death, I ask you with all my heart, chase these demons away!” Mary turns to her left—
— the female Grim Reaper materializing before her eyes. Purple satin robe. Candy-apple red wig.
“Santa Muerte!”
The Goddess of Death animates, her scythe cutting the air with a short chop, her skull protruding from its hood as its jaws bellow a silent command at the demons circling outside the window.
Hell’s minions disappear.
Leigh’s attention was drawn below to the commandoes, who were ordering everyone to the ground. A mother holding her sick child was too slow to react and was struck in the head by the butt end of a 5.56mm assault rifle. The attack sent Dr. Clark rushing across the ambulance parking lot. The commandoes in black opened fire.
Leigh screamed as she saw Dr. Clark’s bullet-pummeled body dance, then spiral backward into a heap—
— the room abruptly spinning into blackness.
Mary Klipot straddled the unconscious physician. She dropped the aluminum bedpan, the sudden exertion causing her to stagger. “Santa Muerte… is it true? Is the child female?”
The hooded figure nods.
“The child… whose is it? Is it… God’s?”
The female Grim Reaper’s bony left hand motions to its cloth-covered loins.
“Oh, no… no!” Mary stumbled over the doctor and took her white lab coat. Then, wrenching open the window, she climbed out onto the fire escape, fleeing the scene.
Shep hid beneath the i-phone station’s built-in desk, his paranoia on overdrive, his left eye tracking Bertrand DeBorn through a slit in the corner of the booth. The secretary of defense crossed the library. He entered the i-phone station next to Shep’s and dialed a number.
“It’s me. I’m back at the hospital… Yes, I made an appearance, now I need an extraction. Make it for three, my security team’s coming, too.”
Shep held up the recording device and taped Bertrand DeBorn’s conversation.
“I don’t give a damn what strings you have to pull. Scythe’s already reached stage-six saturation levels, I’m in danger of being infected… No, I can’t get to Kogelo, the roads are jammed, we were lucky to make it back to the hospital… No, you listen! I’m sitting in the middle of plague central, now you either find a way to extract me within the hour, or I’ll leak everything I know about Amerithrax and Battelle on the six o’clock news… You’re damn right I’ll name names, beginning with your two FBI pals shredding files in West Jefferson.”
The muscular contraction in Shep’s left shoulder became a tremor. Try as he might, he could not maintain his balance on the slippery prosthetic elbow. Shifting his weight, he fell back, banging his head against one of the legs of the desk.
“Who’s there?” DeBorn disconnected the call and peered over the shoulder-high cubby.
Patrick stood, revealing himself. “Amerithrax?” He stared at DeBorn, his mind piecing together the plot. “You crazy bastard. You’re trying to initiate another war.”
DeBorn backed out of his booth, reaching for his cell phone. “Every war serves a purpose, Sergeant. In this case, it preserves the American way of life while reducing the threat of communism. We’re on the cusp of instituting real change in the world… you could have been a part of that. Instead, you’ve just become collateral damage.”
DeBorn pressed an intercom button on his cell phone. “I need you.”
Sheridan Ernstmeyer entered the library from the outer corridor.
“Agent Ernstmeyer, I just caught Sergeant Shepherd on the phone making a bomb threat to the United Nations. Under section 411, subsection B of the Patriot Act, I order you to arrest Sergeant Shepherd using extreme prejudice.”
The former CIA assassin grinned. Removing the Glock.22 from her shoulder holster, she methodically screwed an AAC 40 Evolution suppressor to the end of her gun barrel.
Shep dived over the back of the i-phone booth, his steel arm shattering the glass partition as he scrambled on his hand and knees to reach the nearest row of bookcases.
Her silencer in place, Sheridan methodically moved through the stacks, stalking her quarry, her pulse barely over seventy.
Patrick Shepherd ran down one of the twelve parallel rows of eight-foot-high bookcases until he reached the back wall. Hiding behind the end of one stack, he ducked low and peered around the corner.
The female assassin had removed her shoes and was quietly moving from right to left along the opposite end of the bookcases, visually checking each row before moving on.
DeBorn’s voice bellowed from the librarian’s desk. “Come on out, Sergeant. We’re not going to shoot you. You’re a veteran… a hero. I’m sure whatever threat you made can be chalked up to post-traumatic stress.”
The woman was three rows away. Two rows. The gun in her left hand aimed down each row before she showed herself.
She’s a lefty.
The shard of memory replayed in his consciousness like an inescapable jingle.
Clear the negativity. Visualize success. Retake the mound only when you’ve regained control of your emotions.
Shep’s breathing slowed, his mind clearing.
It’s not about power, Shep, it’s about cunning. With lefties, you have to use your change-up to keep them off-balance.
The female assassin was one row away.
Use your change-up. Set her up.
Shep removed his left shoe and positioned it on its side so the sole protruded slightly along the bottom edge of the bookcase to his left. Then he crawled to the end stack on his right. Peering between books, he waited for the woman to appear.
Sheridan Ernstmeyer peeked around the far end cap, looking down another empty aisle. She knew her target was pinned down, hiding behind one of the end caps. She searched the next row. There! Seeing the sliver of shoe, she slid along the tile floor in her stocking feet, moving silently down the aisle, her gun sight trained on the exposed left sole—
— unaware that Shep was quietly crawling up the previous aisle. Reaching the midway point, he pressed his right shoulder against one of the long case’s vertical supports, driving his powerful legs.
The twenty-foot-long, eight-foot-high bookcase wobbled, threatening to topple over.
Books rained down on Sheridan Ernstmeyer’s head. She instinctively leapt, sliding to the end of the row, where her eyes caught sight of the empty shoe. She looked up—
— as Shep’s steel appendage slammed against the back of her skull. “Change-up. Strike three.” He grabbed the woman’s gun, retrieved his left shoe, then hurried up the next aisle to confront Bertrand DeBorn. He aimed the Glock at the secretary of defense’s forehead.
The gray-blue upturned eyes showed no fear. “Think it through, Sergeant. Kill me, and you’ll never find your family. That’s right, I know where they are. Think you can reach them before my people? Maybe you can. Or maybe I’ve already sequestered them away.”
“I taped you… your entire conversation. I’m going to play it on the six o’clock news.”
DeBorn’s expression changed. “You have nothing.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“A trade then — the tape for your family. Colonel Argenti spoke with your wife earlier today. After all these years, she still wants to see you. Don’t blow it by doing something stupid.”
Shep’s right arm trembled. “He spoke with Bea?”
DeBorn’s voice softened. “Put the gun down, Sergeant, and I’ll take you to her.”
His thoughts were fragmented, his mind unable to focus, unable to reason. He lowered the weapon—
— as the sound of gunfire exploded outside the library, shattering the outer glass doors.
Confused, Patrick pushed past DeBorn and ran, heading for the small alcove on the other side of the lobby. Hurrying past the librarian’s office, he kicked open the fire door at the end of the corridor—
— finding himself in a concrete stairwell.
Leigh Nelson opened her eyes, dazed and a bit queasy. She sat up, the lump on the back of her head throbbing from where Mary Klipot had struck her with the bedpan. She looked around.
The redhead was gone.
She staggered to the swivel exam chair and her overcoat. Hidden beneath her jacket was the polished wood case containing the vials of vaccine, exactly where she had left it.
Leigh heard the gunfire and panicked. They killed Clark, they’ll kill me, too! Gotta get this vaccine to the CDC in New Jersey… but how?
The thunder of the Special Ops helicopters diminished in the distance. The medevac chopper. Find the pilot… where would he be? Maybe upstairs in the lounge.
She cracked open the door to the isolation ward and looked down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. Three female nurses were lying on the floor, their wrists bound in plastic cuffs, as two commandoes pinned a male nurse — John Voyda — against a wall.
“Where’s the vaccine?”
The former collegiate football player glanced down the hall at Leigh and looked away quickly. “What vaccine? Nothing we tried works.”
A commando lifted one of the nurses off her feet and pressed the barrel of his assault rifle beneath her neck. “Tell us where Dr. Nelson is, or this nurse dies.”
“She left about an hour ago. I swear I haven’t seen her since.”
The other commando shook his head. “He’s lying. Take her out and shoot her, see if that jars his memory.”
Leigh darted from the room, sprinting for the stairwell.
“There she is! Freeze!”
She ducked low, yanked open the steel fire door, and raced up the steps to access the roof.
The two commandoes entered the stairwell, radioing ahead. “We’ve got her. Northern stairwell, heading for the roof.”
A bullet whizzed past her ear, then something bit her in the left calf muscle, and she went down.
The two black-clad militiamen stood over her.
“Please don’t kill me! I have two young children.”
“Get the case.”
One of the commandoes knelt to take the wooden kit from Leigh—
— the other screamed as a white-hot chunk of lead tore through the back of his left leg and exploded out his kneecap. “ Sonuvabitch —”
Patrick aimed the Glock at the second commando. “Drop the gun and move away from the doc. Now!”
“You’re making a big mistake, friend. You and me… we’re on the same side.”
“Shut up.” Shep kneed the man in his groin. As the commando doubled up in agony, he smashed him in the back of the head with the butt end of the gun.
Leigh leapt to her feet and hugged Shep around the neck. “Come on, baby doll, we need to get to the roof.” She grabbed the wooden case and limped up the stairwell.
Shep grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Doc, what’s happening? Who are these guys?”
“One of my patients, a redheaded woman we had in isolation, she released a man-made plague at the UN. Manhattan’s under quarantine. These assholes killed Dr. Clark. They’re after the vaccine.”
“So give it to them.”
“DeBorn’s people created this monster. You think I trust them with the only vaccine? We have to get this container to the CDC in New Jersey before this thing becomes a pandemic.”
“Jersey? How?”
“The medevac chopper. Shep, you’re a pilot, you can fly it!”
“No I can’t.”
“Yes you can!”
“No, I can’t. Leigh, my family’s in Battery Park, I need to find them before DeBorn kills them.”
She reached the roof, too winded to ask about DeBorn. “We’ll find your family. First fly me to Jersey.”
“I can’t—”
“Shep, listen to me. We need to harvest this vaccine. If we don’t, Bea, your daughter, and two million New Yorkers will be dead by tomorrow morning. Now come on.”
Leigh unbolted the roof fire door and pushed it open, greeted by a burst of frigid air. The wind swirled around them, the daylight fading fast. Bullets ricocheted inside the stairwell as a dozen more commandoes joined the hunt.
She slammed the door closed behind them. “Give me the gun. Take the vaccine and start the chopper. I’ll hold them off.”
He hesitated.
“Go!”
Patrick ran for the helopad and the Sikorsky S-76 Medevac helicopter. Climbing into the pilot’s seat, he tucked the wooden box between the copilot’s chair and the center console, then powered up the two five-hundred-kilowatt turboshafts.
Slowly, the four-blade main rotor came to life, gradually picking up speed.
Leigh cracked open the roof door, blindly squeezing off several rounds with the Glock in an attempt to slow the commandoes’ stairwell assault. Slamming the door shut, she looked around—
— spotting the fire hose mounted along the outside of the brick wall.
Dropping the gun, she grabbed the hose’s nozzle, dragged a twenty-foot length of the eight-hundred-pound test off its wheel, feeding it through the roof door’s steel handle.
Shep’s right hand gripped the cyclic control stick — a throttle used to steer the aircraft once the chopper was airborne. His feet were situated on the two rudder pedals on the floor, enabling him to control direction using the tail rotor.
Sweat beads poured down his face as he struggled to direct his prosthetic arm’s pincers to open, allowing him to grip a horizontal control stick located on the floor alongside his left hip. The collective pitch controlled the angle of the main rotor’s blades, enabling the chopper to ascend and descend. If he could not manipulate the stick, he could not take off. Worse, if he failed to coordinate the movements of his still-alien appendage with his other three working limbs once they were airborne, his actions could cause the chopper’s blades to spin down more than fifteen percent from their normal velocity, transforming the airship into a seven-thousand-pound rock.
Come on… open!
The rotors had reached their required rpm for liftoff. He signaled to Leigh with his right hand, still unable to open the pincers.
Pulling up the slack on the fire hose, Leigh looped the nozzle back through its wheel, tying it off in a knot. She ran toward the waiting chopper as the commandoes reached the top of the stairwell. They attempted to open the roof door, but the hose held.
Leigh Nelson was twenty feet from the helicopter when the door was blasted open and she was struck from behind by a burst of gunfire. She went down. Bullets ricocheted off gravel. A few struck the helicopter. Unable to move and in agony, the thirty-seven-year-old physician and mother of two looked up at Shep, her cry of “go” lost beneath the roar of the spinning rotors.
The wave of adrenaline coursed through Patrick Shepherd like an electric shock. Commanding the prosthetic pincers to open, he gripped the collective pitch and lifted it away from the floorboard, launching the airship off the roof in a sudden, dizzying forward lurch.
The commandoes aimed their assault rifles—
— the medevac chopper barely clearing the roof before it plunged out of sight.
Special Ops Commander Bryant Pfeiffer signaled his team to cease fire. Crossing the asphalt helopad, he jogged to the west end of the roof and looked down. “Damn.”
Three stories from the street, the helicopter’s rotors had caught air. For a moment it remained suspended above the fleeing crowd, then it slowly headed west, following East 25th Street, remaining well below the Manhattan skyline.
Pfeiffer switched channels on his two-way radio. “Delta One — Delta Six. Suspect has escaped with the Scythe vaccine in a medevac chopper. Target is heading west above East 25th Street, approaching Park Avenue. Intercept at once — repeat, intercept at once.”
The commander looked down at the disheveled figure of Leigh Nelson. The petite brunette was moaning, her battered body surrounded by a half dozen spent rubber bullets. “Gag her and bag her. I want her on the next transport to Governor’s Island.”
Swirling blades, threatened by lampposts and buildings. Metallic thunder echoed in his ears. Shep slowed his airspeed, matching the vehicular traffic moving thirty feet below his landing gear. He was afraid to risk a higher altitude, his pincers barely maintaining their grip on the collective pitch, and so he flew through a maze of skyscrapers, maneuvering west, then north, then west again. The blistering wind scattered pedestrians, the noise as deafening as a howitzer. He had passed midtown Manhattan above 40th Street when his pincers slipped. The chopper dropped precariously, the upper branches of elm trees in Bryant Park threatening his tail rotor.
Releasing the throttle, Shep lunged across his body with his right hand. Pushing the pincers down, he squeezed them into a locked position around the collective pitch and quickly raised the now-secure stick with his prosthetic arm.
The helicopter soared upward like an elevator past buildings and architectural spires. His right hand back on the throttle, Shep headed west, soaring high over Central Park, the Hudson River in sight, New Jersey only minutes away.
Land in Jersey just long enough to drop off the vaccine. Pocket a few vials for your family, then hightail it back to Manhattan. Bea lives in Battery Park. All I have to do is land this bucket of bolts on a nearby rooftop and—
The black airships appeared out of nowhere. Apaches. Flanking him from above. Two M230 machine guns swiveled into position beneath the military gunships, the menacing barrels aimed squarely at his cockpit. A house cat cornered by rottweilers.
“Easy, fellas, I’m on your side.” He held up the vaccine kit.
The pilot in the Apache on his starboard side signaled him to land.
Shep offered a thumbs-up, stalling for time as he descended at a shallow angle, his chopper still heading west toward the Hudson River. Don’t let ’em force you down in Manhattan. Get out over the water. He saw the George Washington Bridge to the north and headed for the landmark.
The air ripped apart behind two hundred 30mm rounds spit from the starboard Apache’s turret, the bursts crossing his path, forcing him into a steeper descent. Heart thumping with the rotors, Shep eased down on the collective pitch, the medevac rattling dangerously as he fought to maintain control in the rough air over the Hudson shoreline.
Land, and they’ll kill you or capture you. Either way, you’ll never see your family again. Desperate, descending fast, he scanned the geography below, his eyes focusing on the George Washington Bridge…
“Easy, don’t push, I need to turn her.” Sliding his gloved fingers deeper along either side of Naomi Gutierrez’s fully dilated vaginal opening, David Kantor gently maneuvered the unborn infant’s tiny shoulders. “Okay, one more good push.”
A moist blotch of matted black hair squeezed through the widening womb, the crown preceding a tiny head and scrunched face guided gently by a latex-covered palm, then suddenly, miraculously, emotionally, the entire squirming purplish pink eight-pound, ten-ounce body squeezed free of the opening, dangling two legs and trailing a twisting length of umbilical cord.
“Congratulations, it’s a boy!” David’s mask fogged up as he cradled the infant. Using a moistened towelette, he cleared the newborn’s airway with his little finger. A gurgling wail turned into a baby’s healthy cry, the infant’s purple face flushing pink with the infusion of air. Stephanie Collins wrapped the newborn in a blanket, the teary-eyed corporal passing the baby to its weeping mother.
“Gracias… gracias.”
“Mazel tov.” David had turned his attention to the umbilical cord and emerging placenta—
— when the sound of gunfire erupted like the Fourth of July.
“Damn it.” Quickly tying off the chord, he severed it with the blade of his pocketknife, then peeled off the bloodied rubber gloves. “Corporal, stay with the mother—”
“Sir… your hands!”
“Oh, yeah, right.” David slipped on the environmental suit’s gloves and jumped down from the back of the truck. Leaving his assault weapon, he ran toward the gauntlet… stopping halfway across the expanse of interstate, panting in his rebreather as all hell broke loose.
Cold, hungry, angry, and desperate with fear, the pedestrian mob positioned directly behind the razor wire and concrete barriers were shooting at the Freedom Force. The Freedom Force were tossing gas grenades… and the National Guardsmen were caught in the cross fire. Some crawled to cover. Others joined their countrymen and fired upon the foreign militia, and suddenly it was war, blood spilling and bodies falling, and that was it, there was no turning back, as drivers gunned their engines and honked their horns, signaling the launch of an all-out assault. The front rows of vehicles rammed the concrete barriers, only to be met by the lethal barrage of heavy artillery.
Cars exploded, igniting like gasoline-powered bombs, torching passengers whose fate had been determined hours earlier by their place in line.
The second wave of vehicles plowed into the back of the first, pushing the burning debris forward, driving it beyond the two-ton barriers into the bumpers of the Hummers, and all of a sudden it was a demolition derby, the gauntlet’s survival measured in seconds.
Through the chaos, David spotted Colonel Herstad. The militia commander was lying on the roadway, covered in blood—
— yelling orders into his walkie-talkie.
David’s eyes went wide. “No… no!” He sprinted back to the military vehicle. Climbing inside the cab, he gunned the engine, tossing his stunned passengers about as he raced the truck west over the George Washington Bridge.
The two Apaches herded the slowly descending medevac helicopter toward a patchwork of tennis courts located south of the bridge between the river and the Henry Hudson Parkway.
Now!
Shep plunged into a sudden steep descent, looping away from the two gunships and out over the water. Whitecaps sprayed his windshield as he leveled out, the choppy surface less than ten feet below his landing gear. Wind whipped at his cockpit as he soared west over the waterway—
— the Apaches cutting him off, forcing him to loop north on an intercept course with the undercarriage of the George Washington Bridge!
Shep dropped his altitude until his landing gear skimmed the lead blue water, guiding the chopper beneath the suspension bridge’s lower deck. An echo of rotors rattled his eardrums, then he was out the other side—
Boom… boom… boom!
Sound disappeared behind a hollow ring, the December air heated as suddenly as if the sun had swapped places with the moon, igniting blinding orange bursts of incinerating fireballs that mushroomed into the heavens. Steel girders basted with thermite-laced paint exploded into white-hot flames exceeding five thousand degrees, melting metal girders and support cables as if they were butter in a microwave. Thick belches of black smoke partially concealed a section of westbound Interstate 95 as the liquefying upper level collapsed upon the still-erupting lower deck, the entire midsection of the George Washington Bridge and its sixteen lanes of highway toppling into the Hudson River—
— the avalanche of sizzling steel taking the two Apache helicopters with it!
Debris slammed into the sides and tail section of the fleeing medevac chopper like hail from a flaming meteor. The pedals beneath Shep’s feet went limp as the tail rotor snapped into kindling, and the main rotor fought to catch air as he soared north over the Hudson like a fluttering pelican. Fighting to maintain altitude, Shep yanked back hard on the collective pitch, sending his chopper leaping into the overcast sky in a dizzying tailspin, the river disappearing below, replaced by a hillside covered in trees.
The angle of his rotors violated the rules of aerodynamics. With a sickening lurch, the medevac helicopter plunged landing gear first through the forest canopy, the snapping branches tearing great gashes through the plummeting airship. Rotors sheared, cockpit glass shattered, the unforgiving earth greeting him with a final, bone-rattling wallop that collapsed the interior compartment around him.
Chaos deadened into settling metallic ticks, then silence.
A cold, harsh wind whistled through the violated cabin.
Patrick Shepherd opened his eyes. Through the haze he could make out dark pillars, each a massive tree trunk. The roots were knotted with age, partially buried beneath a blanket of dead leaves and a patchwork of snow.
A downed sign leaned against his crippled landing gear. He struggled to bring the words into focus.
welcome to inwood hill park
He turned his head, sensing another presence lurking in the shadows. The lanky figure’s head and body were cloaked in a dark robe. Hollowed eyes stared. Waiting.
The vision disappeared, absorbed within the blackness of unconsciousness.
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