Bioterror

by Tim Curran

  Kneeling before her, Sheikh Sa’ad opened one of the specimen vessels. Within were six Lucite vacuum jars of fluid. He removed one as the woman prayed and set it before him, asking Allah for guidance in this great battle against the westerners who had usurped the holy lands and enslaved the chosen people of God.

  He licked his lips.

  His limbs trembled.

  The woman was shuddering with something quite near religious ecstasy.

  When Sheikh Sa’ad had come to this country there had been ten crates, each holding three biological containment vessels which in turn held six specimen jars. This was the only vessel left in his charge. The others had been sent to the faithful in New York, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Dallas, San Francisco, and various other cities for dispersal.

  He looked down at the jar and what floated in the liquid.

  Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, he took up a forceps and unscrewed the lid on the jar.

  “Ash Hadu anna Muhamadar rasuulullah,” the woman cried, her voice wavering and choked with emotion as tears broke from her eyes. “Ash Hadu anna Muhamadar rasuulullah…”

  Sheikh Sa’ad dipped his forceps carefully into the brine and seized the pale larval worm within. It began to writhe, twisting from side to side as he removed it and held it up before his eyes.

  “God is good,” he said. “God is great.”

  The woman’s prayers were incomprehensible now as she shook and sobbed and plainly begged for mercy. Sheikh Sa’ad told her that she was the divine vessel of God and all would remember her sacrifice to martyrdom.

  Nearly out of her mind, she opened her mouth.

  Sheikh Sa’ad brought the worm to her, gripping it firmly with the forceps so that it did not escape. He held the squirming maggot-like creature an inch from her yawning mouth. A clear slime dripped from it.

  “Allaahu Akbar!” he said with great reverence. “Laa ilaaha illa-Lah…”

  He dropped the worm into the woman’s open mouth.

  Immediately she shuddered and cried out with a choking, gurgling sound as the worm gripped her tongue with appendages like fishhooks, digging in deep before sliding down her throat like a snake, its acidic secretions burning her throat and making her cry out in agony and then… something in her melted, her personality became a river of nothingness flowing into a calm gray sea. Inside, she felt warm, soft, oddly pliable in every way. No hate, no love, just a wondrous liberating neutrality which was seamless and whole.

  For twenty, thirty minutes, there was nothing. She was blanked, motionless, harmless in every conceivable way.

  Then she began to shudder. Fever sweat boiled from her face. Drool hung from the corners of her mouth. Her body twitched with pinpoint seizures and her beautiful green eyes went a glistening pink like fresh mincemeat.

  “God is good,” Sheikh Sa’ad said to her, wanting to embrace her but secretly repulsed by the thing she now was. “Seek the world of infidels and be fruitful, let what is within multiply…”

  The woman did not speak.

  She stood up, tearing off her Hijab frantically like a moth escaping a cocoon. She turned and went through the door without a word.

  There were five jars left.

  And in the corridor outside, five martyrs waiting.

  Waiting to be embraced by God.

  DETROIT, HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL:

  DETOX WARD, 6:31 A.M.

  Johnny Kopok couldn’t believe the system.

  Couldn’t believe what kind of Nazi shitfuck bureaucrats ran things. Now, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer (he would have been the first to admit his brain cut about as good as your average spoon), but even he knew what he’d seen. Knew that something not so wholesome was coming down in this city.

  Of course, nobody believed him.

  Or so they said.

  He didn’t give a good goddamn how many times he’d been in this place or what sort of crazy things he’d ranted about those other times, this time it was no hallucination. He wasn’t talking about the bugs crawling under his skin (the red spiders were the worst, those bastards really liked to bite) this time. And he wasn’t talking about the little men in the stocking caps crawling up the walls. And he sure as hell wasn’t talking about the snakes that liked to crawl up his nose sometimes. This was the real thing.

  Goddammit, why wouldn’t they listen?

  Conspiracy, Johnny thought. Conspiracy of silence. I know the truth, so they’re locking me down here with all the drunks. Jesus H. Christ.

  They’d picked him up a few days before—even Johnny couldn’t be entirely sure when it had been—over near Ford Field maybe. He’d wandered out into traffic. Nearly got run down. Cops picked him up, said he was a menace. Bastards. All he was trying to do was warn people about them worms. He even warned the cops. But they wouldn’t listen either.

  Worms, is that it? That’s a new one.

  Now he was a prisoner.

  God, but a drink would’ve went down good about now. Not that he needed it, you understand, he wasn’t no rummy like the rest of these stoolies. Just a little something to calm his nerves. Some good bourbon, maybe. Or some not-so-good bourbon. Just a taste of medicine, you see. And not that dream juice they’d put him on last night. Christ, he was only just now coming out of it.

  They had him in a hospital bed, strapped down, IVs stuck in him every goddamn place. He thought he looked like the inside of a freaking radio.

  “Hey, Johnny. How ya feeling?”

  Johnny looked up. It was Jimbo, the orderly. Jimbo was ape-ugly, but he was okay. He didn’t treat you like a fucking lab animal. That was something.

  “Oh, I’m doing,” Johnny told him. “When the hell can I get out of here?”

  “Up to the doc. You know that.”

  Jimbo set down a tray of food. “Doc says you can eat, though. They’re gonna pull those IVs later today.”

  “What the hell did I need IVs for?”

  Jimbo smiled. Jimbo always smiled. “Your blood chem wasn’t too good, Johnny. Doc said your blood cells were having a bit of trouble swimming upstream against the alcohol.”

  Johnny shook his head. “Prick don’t know his own dick from a doorstop.”

  “How about something to eat, Johnny?” Jimbo said, pulling the lid off the plate. “Scrambled eggs? Bacon? Toast?”

  “Suppose you gotta feed me, too?”

  “You know the rules.”

  “How about one hand, Jimbo? Just one hand? I’ll clean that plate off, then you can tie me back up. I do anything smart, you got my permission to belt me a good one.”

  Jimbo shook his head. “Sorry, Johnny. No dice.”

  “Fuck ya then. I don’t want any. My gut’s turned to jelly anyway from that shit you been pumping in me.”

  “Johnny,” Jimbo said. “You’ve been here before. You know how things work, am I right? You don’t eat, you’ll never leave.”

  “But I gotta get out of here. I gotta warn people.”

  “Warn them about what?”

  “About the worms.”

  Jimbo sighed, clasped his hands on his lap. “Johnny. C’mon now. You have to realize that was just a delusion. There were no worms. It was the booze. You got to come up for air every now and then. There are no giant worms in people’s mouths. A delusion.”

  “Delusion my hairy ass, Jimbo. Just remember what you’re saying when they stick one down your throat.”

  “I’ve got some rounds to make, Johnny. I’m going to leave this food here. I want you to look at it while I’m gone. I want you to keep in mind that unless you eat it you’re not going anywhere.”

  Johnny watched him leave.

  They were all the same, these medical types. He’d hoped Jimbo’d be different. He had been last time... or was it the time before? No matter. One way or another, Johnny had to get out of here. If it meant eating that food, then so be it. He’d eat it and keep the worm business to himself. Then they’d let him go. That was the ticket. Because he didn’t want to be strapped down when th
ose worms showed up. When they tried to stick one down his throat, he was going to pound their teeth out their assholes.

  He looked over at the food. Steam was coming off the eggs. It made him alternately hungry and nauseous. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a sit-down like that. Usually, he’d grab a sandwich or some crackers. Very often he fished this or that out of a restaurant dumpster. But a meal... Jesus. Most mornings, his breakfast consisted of a soup bowl of whiskey. He had to take it in a bowl because his fingers shook so damn bad first thing in the morning. After that, maybe some dry Corn Flakes. He had to have a little sauce in his belly to hold things down. Lunch and supper weren’t much better.

  But a meal?

  Well, if he wanted out, there really was no choice.

  “Hey, Jimbo!” he called out. “Hurry up, will ya? I’m gettin hungry in here! I’m so hungry I could eat the asshole out of a skunk.”

  THE COLLECTIVE:

  LOCATION UNKNOWN, 10:05 A.M.

  While Mr. Brown waited for the others to arrive, he sipped his tea and thought about the decline of western civilization and his own part in the same. And as he thought about that, he pondered the corridors of power of this great country and how very intricate it all was. If his mind had been any less disciplined, he would have long ago gotten lost in them.

  But that wouldn’t happen—an architect could always find his way through a house he had built.

  And it is my house, he thought with some delight. I stand with the others, but in the end, it is my hand that rocks the cradle of this nation, this very world.

  He finished his tea and picked up his sat phone. So many calls, so many briefings and emails and texts, snippets of intelligence, hearsay and rumor, wiretapping transcripts and video. So much information constantly pouring in. Keeping a steady hand on those that served The Collective directly and a constant eye out for traitors and those that might threaten it.

  It was really a matter of control. And one of the most effective—and simplest—methods of control was the management of information. Creating it, exploiting it, withholding it, disseminating it. Creative misdirection was a powerful tool, as were spin and perception management and complete deception. The common man could easily be manipulated like a hungry rat in a box if you gave him too many choices and assailed him with a constant flood of conflicting information—newspapers and magazines, movies and TV, radio and particularly the Internet. Inundate him and he’ll beg for someone to sort it out for him, make sense of it, streamline it. Sell him your agenda properly and he’ll buy it if for no other reason than to save his sanity.

  Basically, that’s what politics were—the hard sell, the packaging and presentation. Marketing. It was all a matter of careful social engineering and experimental psychology. Make sure the masses had their bread and circuses and they would give you all the power you desired, they would slave their lives away to support you, defend you even as you stepped on them, and gladly sacrifice their children in wars you created (as long as they were offered in a pretty box of patriotism). You could kick them like dogs and they’d keep coming back for more. That was the idiot beauty of the system and the ma-and-pa drones that supported it.

  Mr. Brown called his friend at the NSA. “Hello, Gordon,” he said. “And how are things proceeding from your end?”

  “Very well. Everything is proceeding according to the scenario. It’s moving like clockwork.”

  “No problems? No troubles? No minor inconveniences?”

  “None. The BioGen incident is keeping the country quite busy and we’ve been disseminating a steady stream of half-truths and utter fiction to our journalistic friends…so the media is doing a lot of our work for us.”

  Mr. Brown smiled. Of course they were and they always had. Gordon knew many things, but like so many in the military-industrial complex and security services, he did not understand the bigger picture. He did not know that there was no such thing as an independent press in the United States any longer. 98% of the newspapers, magazines, and media outlets were owned by corporations, gigantic monopolistic entities which themselves fawned at the feet of The Collective, whose elite membership included representatives of the Trilateral Commission and the Bilderbergers. And all of whom were disciples of the Skull and Bones society.

  “And the installations?” Mr. Brown asked.

  “They’re online,” Parks said, a bit of nervous tension under his words. “We’ll begin testing at the end of the week, but I don’t foresee any problems.”

  “That’s what we like to hear, Gordon. That’s why we selected you to be our friend. You realize the importance of the scenario and that nothing can stand in its way.”

  As Parks rambled on, again nervously, concerning classified psychotronics and biocybernetics, bioelectromagnetic experi-mentation and psychotropic weapons, Mr. Brown grinned broadly. Elizabeth Toma was right—he did have a big mouth. But he would serve his purpose as did all. Later, he would be dispensed with.

  “All very interesting,” Mr. Brown said. “Unfortunately, I must break off this conversation. My granddaughter has a dance recital I don’t dare miss.”

  He does go on.

  Mr. Brown set the phone down on the conference room table. It was amazing that after so many years now, what The Collective sought was only days away from fruition. This made him grin again. Out there in the streets and cities and towns, tucked away in houses and offices and sweating away in mills and factories, were all the mindless white mice seeking their cheese, following their inborn animal instincts to feed and procreate. And all of them completely ignorant that they were manipulated every day of their pathetic little lives. That their unseen masters created the reality they held so dear. That as they toiled about in their pitiful existences, events were orchestrated, conflicts created, wars engineered, economies destroyed and politicians mass-produced. And all to have the very effect it did have—minds molded, insecurities exploited, tastes and intolerances generated.

  And that is our job, Mr. Brown thought. To pull the wires and make the puppets dance in a way that we find both pleasing and constructive. We guide them by harnessing their minds and subverting their intellects. Chaos brings terror and through terror there is control.

  As the philosopher Hegel had said, the State is the absolute reality and man is subordinate to it, finding fulfillment only by serving it and offering his obedience.

  Mr. Brown could not have agreed more.

  Reality is what we make it.

  Conflicts were created every day and all of them with predetermined outcomes. If the proper bell was rung, the masses would always salivate. It was known as operant conditioning. Reinforcement of negative stimulus and punishment, must be followed by positive stimulus and reward. In other words, with controlled chaos society can be rendered to a blank slate where it will not only willingly, but gladly submit to greater control by its masters. The Freemasons had a legend for it, “Ordo Ab Chao.” Order out of chaos. With proper technique, desired beliefs can easily be implanted in the common man or woman. Once they are sufficiently disturbed or disassociated by fear or anger or excitement, they’re easy to control. They become frightened children begging to be led.

  Such a mindset followed the bombing of Pearl Harbor and 9/11. And it would follow BioGenesis as well, in a much more enhanced manner. Exactly as it had been planned, right down to the smallest detail.

  For BioGenesis was only the first stage of something much larger known as MINDWORM. The world was about to change for the better.

  CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:

  THE WAREHOUSE, 12:05 P.M.

  They were beautiful.

  You had to give them that much. Maybe not beautiful the way a fine horse or a sleek greyhound was beautiful, but aesthetically pleasing on some primitive level. The worms were unmistakably hideous as all huge invertebrates were, but handsome in their very deadly design. Perfect machines of dread.

  The Old Man stood there in his biosuit looking down at the thing.

  And
what did he feel? Was it awe? Was it fear? Was it maybe even something akin to pride? Was he proud that his team had created a creature that was far worse than their wildest expectations? A biologically engineered flatworm that even now was threatening the future of the human race?

  Was he proud of that?

  No, it was far from pride.

  They had set out to create a biological weapon. A parasite that could seriously weaken an enemy and their will to wage war. The weapon would first infest livestock and ultimately the enemy himself. Such a weapon would be the prelude to an invasion. By the time the attacking force was on the ground, the enemy would be weakened beyond even simple resistance. It was a good idea. A sound scenario: it could and would save lives.

  And this was what the Old Man told himself.

  This was what he had to believe... for if he didn’t, then he would have to start thinking about all the blood on his hands. And guilt would do the rest. That simplest of human emotions would destroy him day by day, piece by piece.

  And there wasn’t time for that.

  Maybe I am proud. I headed a team that created the perfect weapon. So goddamn good even we can’t stop it.

  He moved slowly through the laboratory. Everything was sterile, white, utilitarian. BSL-4 Containment was like that. Not so much as a crust of bread or a dust bunny got into this area. Negative air pressure kept anything within from getting out. The Old Man wound his way past the electron microscope and the spotless, gleaming shelves of instruments and chemicals.

  The specimen had to go back in the freezer.

  It probably wasn’t a good idea to leave it out in the warmth too long. No one knew for sure if the worms could survive freezing and no one wanted to find out. Not now, anyway. Maybe later when there was time for such trivialities.