The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Airman First Class Joseph Sawyer had yet to get a letter from his mother, but he didn't really blame her. A single mother, she worked two jobs to put food on the table. She just stunk when it came to picking husbands. Twice now, she'd been dumped with an infant and no child support or help of any kind. Still, making a mistake like that twice in her life, almost fifteen years apart, wasn't too bad.

Joe and his friend Ron Miller, members of the 455th Air Expeditionary Wing, came to Bagram together in the summer of 2006. The 455th served the Central Command Air Force, providing strike, rescue, survey and airlift capabilities to U.S. and Coalition forces, and they had been here since the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom. They both shipped over from Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, where they'd met the first time. While Joe had left only his mother and his teenage brother back in Mobile, Alabama, Ron came from a very large family in northern New Jersey.

Naturally, Ron got mail almost every stinking day. Besides the almost daily letters, he got a care package sent to him at least once a week from his mother, or one of his sisters, or sisters-in-law, or some PTA people in his niece or nephew's school.

The Miller family's generosity was, of course, a sweet deal for Joe. Ron got too much of everything, and after he went through the gifts himself, he let Joe have first dibs on picking what he wanted.

Paperback books were a frequent gift, as were CDs and personal hygiene items. Cookies, Joe could do without. Even though they were homemade, by the time they arrived they were rock hard. Salsa and chips fared better, but Ron usually invited a whole bunch of guys over, and they attacked that food like a swarm of rats.

The bars of dark chocolate were Joe's absolute favorite. And since he'd included a thank-you note in with one of Ron's letters home, he could always count on his friend's family to add a few for him.

A couple of hours ago, Joe had seen Ron walking back to the containerized housing unit they called home, along with the four other guys in their squadron they shared it with. The housing units were better than tents, but they were nothing like what they had at Goodfellow back in the U.S.

When Joe saw him, Ron had another package under his arm.

Both of them were off duty this morning. Usually, they'd spend the time in the gym. This morning, though, Ron was feeling worse. He'd been fighting a sore throat for a few days now, but he never was one to go to the infirmary, and Joe knew better than to bug him about it.

The door to the unit was ajar, a big negative with all the dust in Bagram. It was as hot as summers in Mobile, but dry as hell and dusty as the inside of a Shop-Vac.

Joe went in, sure his friend would be feeling better. A care package from New Jersey always seemed to do the trick.

"Hey, Ron, you in here?"

The room was dark. The shades were drawn to keep out the unbearable sun, but it was still stifling in the unit. The fan wasn't running, which meant the electricity was out again… for the third time this week.

"Christ, it stinks in here," he muttered. "Ron?"

The way it smelled, Joe figured his buddy was using the crapper. At one end of the rectangular room, a faux-wood panel partitioned off the small bathroom. Six cots and built-in lockers lined the wall. There was no shower in these housing units; the showers were in a special unit down the row.

Joe's gaze focused on the open mailer sitting on Ron's cot. He crouched down next to it.

"Ron, you alive in there?" he asked over his shoulder. "Jeez, boy. You should get your folks to send you some of that potpourri shit. Man, you're killing me out here."

It looked as if Ron had already sorted through the box. New paperbacks were stacked against the wall. Joe's bars of chocolate were sitting in front of them, and there was an envelope in front of the chocolate with his name on it.

"Bless you, good people," he murmured, opening the envelope and reading the note. It was from Ron's mother, inviting him to stay with them when he and Ron came stateside for their two weeks' leave in the fall.

"Boy, you must have been adopted or something," he called to his friend, pawing through the items on the bed. "Your folks are too good to have birthed a shithead like you."

Ron's mother had sent cold medications — bottles of over-the-counter stuff, vitamins and samples of all kinds of things. Joe noticed that Ron had already opened a couple of the boxes of cold medicines and vitamins. The wraps and cotton balls were next to the carton.

Out of habit, Joe gathered up the trash. Being in the air force had turned him into a neat freak.

"Are you coming out of there?" he asked. The sealed package of chocolate chip cookies at the bottom of the carton was still untouched.

A piece of trash had been dropped back into the box, on top of the cookies. Joe reached in and picked it up. It looked like the wrapper for a Band-Aid, but it wasn't. He smoothed it flat between his fingers. The words Sample and Not for Sale were printed all over it. He read the back.

"'Reynolds Strep-Tester Home Kit.'" Joe remembered that one of Ron's sisters was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. "Huh! Good idea."

He pushed to his feet. It occurred to Joe that he'd gotten no response from Ron since coming into the housing unit.

"Hey, Ron. You in there, boy?" he asked, walking toward the bathroom door. The smell was horrendous.

Each unit had its own self-contained sewage tank, with water brought in through a flexible hose. One problem with these units was that the small tanks under each unit had to be pumped out regularly, and it seemed like every day one bathroom or another along the rows would back up.

Joe walked toward the bathroom. The door was cardboard thin, made out of some kind of pressboard designed to look like wood. He knocked on it.

"Ron?"

He tried the door. It wasn't locked. When he pushed, it gave slightly and then closed again. It felt like a weight was propped against it on the inside. Unless someone was in there, that wasn't too likely.

"Ron?" he called louder.

Again there was no answer.

Joe pocketed the trash and put both hands on the door. He gave a hard shove. The door opened a couple of inches and slammed shut. There was no doubt in Joe's mind that someone was leaning against it. Most likely, that someone was sitting on the floor, since the top of the door gave easier than the bottom.

"Shit, man. Open up. You need help?"

Joe stepped back and looked at the door. Moving across the small living space, he yanked open his own locker and pulled out a small mirror he had taped to the door. Going back to the bathroom, he put a shoulder to the door, holding it open at the top and sliding the mirror through the opening.

He angled the mirror and saw Ron on the floor, his head tipped forward onto his chest.

"Ron? Christ, Ron? Say something "

Joe knew the right thing to do would be to run out and call for help. Instead, though, he gave the door a couple of hard shoves. The fake-wood outer panel of the door buckled. Sliding his fingers into the opening and putting everything he had into the next pull, he ripped the outer panel halfway out of the door.

Punching through the inner panel was easier, and in a moment Joe had created enough of an opening to put his arms through.

When Joe touched him, Ron slumped sideways, his head cracking on the toilet on the way down.

"Christ, boy! What happened?" Joe didn't know where the extra burst of energy came from, but the next thing he knew, he was ripping the door off its hinges.

"What's all that racket in there?" a voice called jokingly from the doorway.

Joe recognized T.J.'s voice. T.J. lived two units down. "Get in here and help. Something's wrong with Ron."

Instantly, the man was beside him. A moment later, the door was lying on the floor by a bunk.

"Pull him out," Joe ordered. "Grab that leg…. Watch his head!"

Each man took hold of a leg, and together they gently pulled him out of the small bathroom.

"I never knew how goddamn heavy he was."

They laid him flat on the floor.

"What the hell…?" T.J. blurted out, immediately backing away.

Joe looked at Ron's face for the first time. His skin had a purple hue. There were raw, open sores on his neck, on his face. A foul-looking fluid was oozing from his nose and mouth. He smelled like a week-dead dog.

Even as Joe looked at him, the skin seemed to peel right off Ron's flesh.