Patient Zero

Chapter Fifty-One

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, June 30; 9:58 P.M.

RUDY AND I walked down the corridor together. Church had lingered to speak with Hu. I looked at my watch. “Hard to believe this is the same day, you know?”

But he didn’t want to talk about it out in the corridor. I asked a guard where our rooms were and he led us to a pair of former offices across the hall from each other. My room was about the size of a decent hotel bedroom, though it had clearly been repurposed from an office or storeroom. No windows. Functional gray carpet. But the bed in the corner of the room was my own from my apartment. The computer workstation was mine, as was the big-screen TV and La-Z-Boy recliner. Three packed suitcases stood in a neat row by the closet. And on top of my bed, head laid on his paws, was Cobbler. He opened one eye, found me less interesting than whatever he was dreaming about, and went back to his meditations. We went inside and Rudy sat down on the recliner and put his face in his hands. I poked inside the small halffridge they’d provided and took out a couple of bottles of water, and tapped him on the shoulder with one. He looked at it and then set it down on the floor between his shoes. I opened my water, drank some, and sat on the floor with my back against one wall.

Rudy finally turned to me and I could see the hours of stress stamped into his face and the unnatural brightness of his eyes. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into here, cowboy?”

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Rude.”

He shook his head to cut me off. “It’s not that. Well, it’s not all that. It’s the whole ”-he fished for the word-“ reality of this. It’s the fact that something like the DMS exists. That it has to. It isn’t that we learned about some supersecret organization. Hell, Joe, there are probably dozens of those. Hundreds. I’m enough of a realist to accept that governments need secrets. They need spies and black ops and all of that. I’m a grown-up, so I can deal with it. I can even accept, however unwillingly, that we live in post-9/11 times, and that to some degree terrorism is a part of our daily lives. I mean, find me a stand-up comic who doesn’t make jokes about it. It’s become ordinary to us.”

I sipped more water, letting him work through it.

“But today I’ve seen things and heard things that I know I know will forever alter my world. On 9/11 I said, as so many people did, that nothing would ever be the same again. No matter how much we all settled back into a day-to-day routine, no matter how indifferent we become to what color today’s terror alert is, it’s still true. That was a day like no other in my life. Today is hitting me as hard as 9/11. Maybe harder. You know what I did? I spent ten minutes in a toilet stall crying my eyes out.”

“Hey, you’re human,” I began, and again he cut me off.

“It’s not that and you know it, Joe, so don’t coddle me. You want to know why I cried? It wasn’t cultural angst any more than it was grief for all those people who died at the hospital the other day or in Delaware this afternoon. Eight times as many people died in the earthquake in Malaysia last month. I didn’t cry over that. Millions of people die every year. I can have sympathy but any grief-any genuine personal grief-would be borrowed. It is no more a true life-changing expression than the heightened sense of concern a community feels for a kid who falls down a well. Two months later no one can remember the kid’s name. Your life doesn’t pivot on that moment. It can’t, because otherwise the process of making each human death personal would kill us all. But this this is truly a life-changing moment. That’s not even a question. I’ve been marked by it. As you have. As everyone here at the DMS has. I don’t know how many of these people you’ve met but I had the whole tour and I see it in everyone’s eyes. Church and Major Courtland hide it better; but the others what I see in their eyes is going to be in my eyes when I look in the mirror. Not just for a while, but from now on. We’re all marked.”

“Yeah, I know, Rude, but it’s not like we’re talking the Mark of Cain here.”

He gave me such a long withering look that I wanted to squirm. “No? Look, I’m not pointing a finger at any country, any faith, any political party. This is a failing in the whole species. We, the human race, have committed a terrible and unforgivable sin; and before you embarrass us both by asking-no, I’m not having a Catholic moment. This is far more fundamental than church or state. This is ours to own because we know better. As a species, we know better. We really do understand right and wrong, same as we really do grasp all the subtle shades of gray. We have had thousands of years of religious leaders, philosophers, free thinkers, and political scientists explaining the cause and effect of destructive behavior. You’d think by now, at the point where we are this technologically advanced and where communication between all races is not only possible but globally instantaneous, that we’d have learned something, that we’d have benefited from all those previous mistakes. You’d think we’d have become more forward-thinking and farsighted. But we’re not. With computer modeling we can virtually look into the future and see how things will go if we follow these courses, and yet we don’t do a thing to change direction. Maybe the true human flaw is our inability to act as if the next generation matters. We never have. Individually maybe, but not as a nation, not as a species.”

Rudy rubbed his eyes.

“Today,” he said slowly, “I watched video proof of the criminal indifference of the human race. People who are certainly intelligent enough to know better have created a weapon so destructive that it could destroy the entire human race, and why? To further a religious or political view. If this was the act of a single person I’d say that we’re dealing with psychosis, a fractured mind but this is a deliberate and careful plan. The people involved have had sufficient time to think it through, to grasp the implications. And yet they continue with the program. Today you saw them experimenting with children. Children.” He sighed. “They know better and they still don’t care. If there’s a better description of the Mark of Cain I haven’t heard it.”

“That’s them, Rudy. Not us.”

“No, no,” he conceded tiredly. “I know that. It’s just that I don’t trust that our government is any wiser. Or any government. We did, after all, invent the bomb; and we’ve experimented with bioweapons and germ warfare. No, cowboy, we all bear some trace of Cain’s mark. All of us, whether we’re directly involved at the policy level or not.”

“Some of us are trying to do something about this shit, Rudy. Let’s not paint everyone with the same brush.”

He sighed. “I’m tired, Joe and I’m not attacking you. I’m feeling my way through this.” He looked at me for a long time. “But, you’re marked, too. Not with guilt, but with the awareness of the beast that lives in all of us, in every human heart. The awareness is in your eyes. I’ve played poker with you; I know that you can hide it better than me, better than most. Better than Grace Courtland. Not as well as Church. Point is that you carry the same mark as everyone else here. As I do.” He made a grimace that was his best attempt at a smile. “It’s a bonding experience. We’ll always be linked by this shared knowledge. All of us linked by the human race’s most recent demonstration of its absolute bloody-minded determination to commit suicide.”

“Like I said, not everyone’s part of the problem, Rude. Some of us are trying our damnedest to be part of the solution.”

He gave me a bleak and weary smile. “I hope that’s not bravado, cowboy. I sincerely hope you believe that.”

“I do. I have to.”

He closed his eyes and sat there for a long minute saying nothing, but every few seconds he let out another long sigh. “I haven’t had near enough time to process this yet. If I’m going to be of any use I’m going to have to get my own ducks in a row. I mean I’ve been kidnapped, had a gun to my head, found out that terrorists have an actual doomsday weapon you’d be surprised how much of that we don’t cover in medical school.”

“Not even in shrink school?”

“Not even in shrink school.”

We sat with that for a bit. “Church told me that you’ve signed on to the DMS. Why’d you go and do that?”

Rudy gave me a wan smile. “Because Church asked me to. Because of what happened at St. Michael’s. Because of you. And because I know. Not only the secrets, Joe I know the truth of all of this. I’m marked. That makes me a part of this from now on. If I don’t do something to contribute to the solution I think I’d go mad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hear you. But how do you feel about being on the ‘team’?”

“That’s too complex a question for a simple answer. On the surface I guess I appreciate the opportunity to do some good for the people who are in turn trying to save the world.”

“And below the surface?”

“I know where your morals are, Joe. You’re too reasonable to have a red state/blue state agenda. You’re much more of a right and wrong personality, and that works for me. I think Church may be built along some of the same lines. So, I guess that one of the strongest rays of hope I see in this whole thing is the fact that what we have standing between us and a destroyed future are three people-Church, you, and Grace Courtland-who actually see the way the trend is going and are in the position to do something about it.”

“That’s a lot to put on our shoulders, brother.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is.” He rubbed his eyes. “We all have so much to do. You have to be a hero. I have to get my act together so I can help everybody else keep their acts together. And Church and Courtland have to do whatever it is that they do.” Rudy got up and patted me on the shoulder. He looked a little bit more like his old self, but I knew that there was a lot of road still to travel. “I’m going to try and get at least an hour’s sleep. You should, too.”

I said that I would but knew that I wouldn’t. There was too much to do and the clock was ticking. I stood in my doorway and watched him shamble off to bed. I felt impossibly tired and was just turning to go back inside when a door banged open at the end of the hall and a white-faced Dr. Hu yelled two words that sent a chill of terror through me: “Room Twelve!”

Behind him I could hear the sudden staccato of automatic weapons fire.