The Genesis Plague

6

Roselli’s fists throbbed as he pounded on the door again, leaving splotches of perspiration on the cold metal. Helpless anger blinded him to the futility of escaping the vault.

He’d tried unsuccessfully to access the sealed shelving units containing the bronze tools, thinking he might somehow be able to use an axe or chisel to pry open the door lock. With every fixture in the room bolted to the floor, and no loose implement to use as a striker, however, he’d resorted to using his fists on the glass. That effort, too, proved a waste of time and energy. Even if he’d been able to get to the tools, he knew that the primitive bronze would be too flimsy to have any effect on the formidable security door.

So he’d been reduced to what amounted to a child’s tantrum.

The ceiling vents steadily hummed. Instead of the climate control system scrubbing away contaminants, however, it was now sucking oxygen out from the room. The air reeked of ozone.

Finally, he turned and put his back against the door in defeat, slid down to the Berber carpet. He loosened his necktie, unbuttoned the shirt collar. Scanning the room again, he cursed the fact that there were no windows or secondary doors. Even the air ducts, he’d observed, seemed too tight for a mouse, let alone a 205-pound middle-aged man.

Each laboured breath became more shallow, more painful. It felt as if he was being slowly strangled by invisible hands. The grim reality quickly settled over him: there’d be no escape. This vault was to be his tomb. Ironically, what angered him now was that the cunning preacher had not made good on delivering the Scotch. All those years watching each other’s back in the most inhospitable war zones on the planet, and it came down to this. ‘If you’re going to kill me, a little civility would have been nice,’ he grumbled.

He wondered where Stokes would dump his body: at home, where his wife would assume high cholesterol and runaway blood pressure had finally gotten the best of him? At his office, where his secretary would grumble that he’d finally succeeded in working himself to death? Or in a Caesar’s Palace hotel room, where one might think his mounting gambling losses and excessive boozing had finally taken their toll?

‘Devious bastard,’ he said in a thin, wheezy voice.

His starved lungs made his chest heave up and down. His senses were beginning to feel foggy.

Perhaps this was a fitting end for what he’d done to assist Stokes these past years — to enable his ambitious plan for world domination, Armageddon, or whatever moniker might be ascribed to the delusional end game. Would justice ever find Stokes for what he’d done? If there was a God, why would He grant victory to such an evil prick? Whatever happened to good ole wrath, retribution and smite?

Determined not to go down without a fight, Roselli tried to think of how he could warn the others whom Stokes would consider a threat. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out his BlackBerry, confirmed that not one signal bar showed on the screen.

Lethargically, he moved towards the room’s centre with the PDA held close to the ceiling, hunting for a signal. Nothing. ‘That’s just great,’ he huffed.

The room started to spin, so he sat on the floor and propped himself up against the plinth. Every breath was a struggle.

Using the PDA’s stylus, Roselli navigated his address book and began drafting a mass e-mail — a warning to all who’d worked on the project, plus an admission of his participation in a most egregious act with consequences that potentially threatened humankind’s existence. That should get their attention, he thought. Maybe then the scientists would learn how they’d unwittingly participated in a sinister plot that would make the Manhattan Project seem like child’s play. Maybe then they would rally together and seek justice. The possibility gave Roselli hope.

Finally … full disclosure, he pondered.

Next, he prepared a second e-mail message, but assigned it a later delivery time. This one was meant for Stokes. What would prove to be Roselli’s shocking final message from the grave. When he finished the draft and read it over a final time, he couldn’t help but grin, despite the bleakness of his predicament.

Roselli edited delivery instructions for the two messages to ensure completion of two tasks: attempt delivery every minute until a signal is obtained and delivery confirmed; auto-delete the messages upon successful transmission.

The wheezing was heavier now; his vision, spotty.

From his pocket, he withdrew a tiny glass vial filled with white powder and uncapped its rubber stopper. With utmost care he sprinkled the tacky granules over the PDA’s keyboard and control buttons. Then he slipped the empty vial back into his jacket pocket, followed by the powered-on PDA.

He let his arms drop limply to the floor. The room seemed to be crushing in around him.

Burn in Hell, Stokes, he thought.

A minute later, darkness crept in from the corners of his vision. Then everything slipped into oblivion.