Bioterror

by Tim Curran

  She was breathing in and out. Her eyes were seeing. Her ears were listening. She could feel the cool metal table beneath her hands. So, yes, she was tethered to reality, yet she felt wholly divorced from it. She was scared, too, because she had the most unnerving feeling that she was in a secret, secret place and dark mysteries and wild conspiracies were about to make themselves known to her.

  Soon you will know everything, a voice said in the back of her head. All there is worth knowing.

  “You should tell us about Harry Niles,” a voice said.

  Shawna let out a little cry because she was not alone in the room. A man sat across from her. He wore a dark suit. His face was white… in fact it was a bald, featureless white oblong. The only thing that distinguished it was its mouth through which it spoke.

  “Who are you?” she asked him, her voice cracking in fear. “Where is your face? Where are your eyes?”

  “You see only what I tell you you can see.”

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Tell us about Harry Niles,” he said and his voice was very loud in her head, echoing and reverberating, becoming not one voice but literally dozens, all asking the same question. Some of them whispered and others shouted and still others sobbed or screamed, but they all wanted to know the same thing.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she admitted. “He was taken. At the mall, I think. He was arrested.”

  And, suddenly, in her mind, she could see it all: him running interference for her so she could get away, the men in suits arresting him. Yes, looking back now, she realized it was the most selfless thing anyone had ever done for her. She was not surprised. He had always been there when she needed someone.

  “What are his connections to the underground press?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Think.”

  “I can’t. I’m all doped-up.” She realized there was a water bottle in her hand and she sipped from it. “I don’t… my brain isn’t working.”

  Now the voices were asking questions again, only it wasn’t dozens of voices but what sounded like hundreds and hundreds of them filling her head in a resounding cacophony until there was no room left for her own thoughts.

  “STOP IT!” she cried.

  “Tell us about Harry Niles,” the faceless man asked. “Tell us about the underground press. Tell us about his connections to subversive organizations.”

  “He works for a tabloid!”

  There was a tittering of laughter and she realized for the first time that there were two men in the room—one in a suit, another in a lab coat. Both were faceless.

  “The tabloid is merely a cover for a deeply-entrenched extremist network,” the voice said. “We need to know how it operates. Where it receives its primary funding. We know that Gabe Hebberman is the number one man. Is Niles number two? And what is your function as a whore?”

  “I’m not a whore!”

  The faceless men looked at each other and chatted in squeaking voices like mice plotting to steal cheese at midnight.

  “But you are a whore. Do you think we don’t know about your various liaisons with certain prominent, wealthy businessmen? Come now: tell us. Are these men members of your network or are you just extorting them with sex?”

  Shawna didn’t know what to say—they had created an elaborate fiction from bits and pieces of her life. Fueled by paranoia, they had crafted a conspiracy that involved not only her but Harry and Gabe. It was insane. There was no network. No extortion. No covers.

  When she got done denying it all, the man in the suit sighed and interlocked his long white fingers on the tabletop. “Now really, Miss Geddes, we don’t have all day. You told us you would be cooperative. Is this your idea of cooperation? We want you to tell us things without us having to dig deep into your mind via other means. So, please, tell us what we need to know, and you’ll be released.”

  There was a specimen jar on the table. In it was a worm. It wasn’t moving, but she knew that if the jar was opened, it could become quite lively.

  “Please, Miss Geddes,” the voice said. “We have no wish to become invasive.”

  As he said this, she noticed that through the smoky glass wall behind him and his lab-coated associate, there was a building yellow sort of glow that was pulsating in rhythm to the beat of her heart. The supernal radiance grew brighter and brighter and she could see some immense abstract shape just beyond it. It was blazing like an alien sun and if she was drawn into the cosmic furnace at its marrow, she would melt into a puddle.

  “Might I remind you that we had an agreement,” the man said. His associate nodded.

  “I don’t… I can’t remember,” she mumbled.

  “You agreed to cooperate and tell us what we needed to know,” he said, “and we agreed not to steal your mind.”

  “You can’t steal my mind!”

  “How wrong you are,” said the lab-coated man. “There is a book on the table. Pick it up.”

  Shawna blinked and, yes, there was a book on the table. It was… it was Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss. She held it in her hands. They shook terribly. “My favorite book… when I was little, this was my favorite book.”

  The lab-coated man nodded. “We know. You told us all about it.”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “Yes, you did. The book is important. Very important.”

  The other man whispered something to him, and he nodded. “I’m so sorry, Shawna. You’ve left us no choice. We must begin…”

  The pulsing light seemed to consume the entire room and she could feel its awful gravity pulling her in as she screamed and screamed. Now they would take something private and intimate from her, handle it with clumsy, crude fingers, then shove it back into her head, dirty and damaged.

  Sam-I-Am, oh please dear God, help me, Sam-I-Am…

  WASHINGTON, D.C:

  WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM

  2:10 A.M.

  "So, I think, in essence you can see the insurmountable problems this administration is facing,” Roger Thorogood said from the podium. “God knows I would like to stand here before you and tell you the situation is well in hand, but I’d be lying. This country is going to hell in a fucking handbasket and that’s the name of that tune, ladies and germs. The Veep has been gunned down and the National Security Advisor died under… dum-da-DUM—mysterious circumstances. Who will be next? Only The Shadow fucking knows.” He sighed, then shrugged. It was simply out of his hands. “My advice: keep your mouth shut and your asshole puckered. That is essentially the nature of our dilemma, ladies and gentlemen.” He cleared his throat, sipped some water—why, Jesus and the Saints, that’s vodka and the good stuff, too!—and adjusted his 18kt yellow gold cufflinks, brushing his fingertips over their blue topaz faces. Fancy, shmancy. “Now, I’ll be fielding questions if there are questions to be fielded in the field.”

  The Secretary of Defense checked the white gold Cartier Roadster on his wrist. Plenty of time. There was no hurry whatsoever. Just fine and dandy.

  One of the reporters held up a hand. The others deferred to him. My, but they were a well-mannered and considerate crowd this evening. SecDef Thorogood listened to the question and sipped his vodka, good shit, feeling that funny burning in his throat. He’d felt it ever since he’d pricked himself on that needle left carelessly on his office chair. No matter. That burning seemed to be in his nostrils, too. Like pine cleaners and he wasn’t even drinking gin.

  What?

  The journalist was shouting his question and the sound of his voice was at once maddening and at the same time hilarious. Why, his voice— WHOP-WHOP, WHOP-WHOP-WHOP-WHOP— sounded like the voices of the parents on the Peanuts cartoons. God, that was funny! Or… maybe it was disturbing. The SecDef could not make up his mind. He had watched a Peanuts cartoon with his granddaughter, Kaitlynn, last Halloween. The one about the Great Pumpkin. Hee-hee, that one was just as funny as this press conference. He wondered if Kaitlynn was watching him on TV. He knew she�
��d be impressed. He was wearing his Gianni Manzoni single-breasted charcoal pinstripe and he always cut a sharp figure in that. His wife told him so. Hadn’t the President commented on it once? Or was that the British PM? Regardless, he was certain he looked dashing, absolutely dashing. With his silver hair and gold specs, he was a world beater, yes sir.

  “But to your question,” he said, clearing his throat and swallowing some more vodka. Mmmm, good booze. “The worms are the result of a highly-classified black budget operation green-lighted by this administration… more or less. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.” He set his vodka on the podium and took up a heavy, sealed folder. On its cover was printed PROJECT BIOGENESIS and beneath that, POTUS/EYES ONLY. “Yeah, okay, technically the Prez didn’t know he was green-lighting this baby because it was vetted above top secret and it was strictly need-to-know. The worms were created using cutting-edge biogenetics and molecular biology. It’s really quite technical and I can’t say that I understand it that well myself. It involves transgenics, selective mutagens, genome transfer…crazy shit I can’t begin to wrap my brain around. What it comes down to, brothers and sisters, is that the MAN has made hisself one motherfucker of a flatworm. And them bitches is everywhere and I do mean everywhere. Even in your underwear.”

  Another question was posed. “Ah yes,” said the Defense Secretary, staring out at the rows of empty seats before him. “The project was called BioGenesis. It was but one op in a series of genetic engineering experiments with military applications. Don’t get me going on that! Your tax dollars are paying for some seriously scary shit. Case in point: these fucking worms. What’s that? Oh, it was all done under the umbrella of the Cee-Eye-Ay. Hush-hush shit, peoples. Ssshhh, ssshhh!” he said pressing a trembling finger to his lips.

  His eyesight blurring, his head leaping with hallucinations, he sipped more vodka. “Okay, now where was I?” he asked. “Yes, I’ll field a question from…hmm, let me see…yes, the leggy blonde from Fox News. And may I say, madam, that you have some seriously juicy-looking tits. What’s that? The Worms? Who created them? Glad you asked, Miss Jugalicious.”

  Thorogood cleared his throat because this was important stuff here.

  “They were engineered by a unit known as Section Five. Yes, that’s correct, my bro-bros, Section Five. As in the section after four but preceding six. You got it. They are, of course, top secret and we do not openly acknowledge their existence. S5, as we spin doctors like to call them, reaches its dirty fingers right back to the early days of the Cold War. I believe it was known as SIG back then, Scientific Intelligence Group or Scientific Investigation Group. I forget. Serious X-Files shit. No, I can’t tell you who runs it. We call him the Old Man. He has another name but if I told you I’d have to kill you. So, don’t get me started!”

  The SecDef finished his vodka.

  (Am I telling them too much? Am I going too far? Nah, I just have to keep it on the old up-and-up so I don’t blab on about the Aurora stealth aircraft or those things on ice down at Area 51… did they move them? Ssshhh! State secrets! Be quiet! Next thing you know you’ll be telling ‘em about those things they thawed down in Antarctica… now there’s a word that’s hard to say when you’re a little fucked-up)

  Thorogood cleared his throat. Damn, but if he wasn’t feeling funny.

  “Next question. Yes, sir! You are correct, sir! CBT does have their filthy hands all over this. Very astute of you. Just keep that on the down low, if you dig. You know what they say on the hill, you piss off Liz Toma and you’ll be shitting blood in forty-eight hours.”

  He blinked his eyes a moment and thought he saw no one out there as if he was talking to himself or something. Such an idea was preposterous, of course. He was Roger Thorogood. He was the Secretary of Defense and the fucking SecDef did not hallucinate and talk to himself like some crazy homeless fuck with turds in his pockets.

  “Now, my fellow Americans, ladies and gennlemen of the Press Corpse… I mean Corps,” Thorogood said, his voice echoing. “Will there be any more questions? I’d like to wrap this up because it’s martial law time.”

  Thorogood stood there, wishing he had a guitar so he could show them some of those moves from when he was a teenager. But that would have been unprofessional… the SecDef laying out some Hendrix for these peeps. No sir, must maintain the old dignity and the SecDef knew that. He began to sweat. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t hold his papers still, even if there actually were papers in his hands which there were not.

  Jesus, he felt like he was tripping his brains out here.

  Had somebody drugged the vodka?

  He was watching the faces of the Press Corps through bleary, watery eyes and they were changing. Each one of those happy/pretty/smiling/staring faces was beginning to stretch. Yes, they were swelling and making the rubbery sounds of inflated balloons. And why not? They were balloons. He watched the heads of the Press Corps drift free of their necks and then pop one after the other.

  “Ladies and gentlemens,” said the SecDef. “I want to thank you for coming and engaging in this most fascinating discussion with me. Unfortunately, I can answer no more questions as I have a very pressing engagement that requires my immediate attention.” The sweat pouring off of him, his body shuddering with convulsions, he took a lock-blade knife out of his pocket and opened it up. Without further ado, he slashed both wrists until he got the arteries and bright red blood began to spurt over the podium, staining his Gianni Manzoni, and spattering his face with crimson droplets. “Now… if there are no further questions… I will… exit stage left…”

  Thorogood stumbled forward, crashing into the empty chairs and hitting the floor on his back, staring up at the lights above as the life drained out of him.

  CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:

  THE WAREHOUSE, 2:46 A.M.

  Harry woke up, shielding his face, trying to pull away from the hand that kept slapping him. A light was clicked on. It was directed into his face. Hands grabbed him and pulled him out of bed and he hit the floor with a thump. He looked up and a man was standing there. A man with a sharp blonde crewcut. He did not recognize him or the other guy with him. And then, the very scariest thing of all was that he could not remember where he was. He looked around and nothing registered. There were gray blobs at the edge of his memory when he tried to recall anything.

  Crewcut grabbed him, hoisted him up, sat him on the end of the bed. “Easy,” he said.

  “Sure,” said his friend. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to liberate you.”

  Harry just looked at him, stunned, senseless, feeling very loopy and tired. “I… ah… I…”

  Crewcut looked him in the eye. “You’ve been injected with a psychochemical. It’s erased your memory temporarily. Certain areas of your hippocampus are still asleep, but we’ll wake them up.” He handed Harry two white pills. “Take those or it’ll be hours before you remember who you are.”

  Harry just looked at him. That’s fucking crazy. Not remembering who I am. But the ugly thing was he couldn’t. He really couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t know who he was or when he was born or what day it was or what fucking city he was in. He sat up straight, panicking, his eyes darting around, head thrashing from side-to-side. Crewcut took hold of him. He patted his shoulder, calmed him.

  “Take those fucking pills.”

  Harry swallowed them, slugged them down with water. What the fuck was this all about? Last thing he remembered he was… he was… hell, he had no idea. It was a blank. Just a darkness there. Nothing else.

  “Your name is Harry Niles,” Crewcut told him. “You’re a journalist. You write for a tabloid. You live here in Chicago. This place is called the Warehouse. You were brought here and given a drug that erased your memory. It’ll come back. Right now, you can’t access it. Those pills will help. Now do exactly what I tell you or you’ll end up a fucking robot.”

  Harry did not know who this guy was and if he should even trust him, but what choice did he have? A ray of light wa
s a ray of light. His only fear was that these two guys would take him somewhere worse.

  Crewcut said, “We got here just in time. In an about an hour, you would have been given another injection and some intensive hypnotherapy. That’s a road to hell you don’t want to walk, my friend,” he explained. “But breathe easy, we’re taking you away from all this.”

  Harry still did not know what any of this was about. Nothing was making sense.

  Crewcut led him away down a cramped corridor whose floor was soft rubber and whose walls and ceiling were draped in plastic sheeting. A turn to the left, another turn to the right. Then a guy was stepping in their direction. He looked almost like Crewcut. He had the same flat, dead eyes. Something in Harry’s mind was triggered by the sight of him.

  “Taking away our prize Guinea pig?” the guy said.

  “Yeah, orders is orders,” Crewcut told him.

  “The Old Man won’t like it.”

  “Fuck him. These orders come from way above his pay grade.”

  They led Harry through a maze of corridors and out into a van waiting in the parking lot. When they drove off, none of the armed men at the gate even dared challenge them.

  “What the hell is this about?” Harry asked him as they pulled away.

  “You’ll see,” Crewcut said. “Until then, enjoy it. You won’t like it when it all comes back to you.”

  CAMP PEARY, WILLIAMSBURG, VA:

  THE FARM, 4:04 A.M.

  DCI Pershing knew he would never sleep this night because things were happening on every front and his phone was ringing off the hook. Thus far into the operation—which had no file except the file he kept in his head and no operational name save the one he had given it: COLDCASE—was proceeding like clockwork, exactly the way he had mapped it out originally. There would be snafus and he expected them, but by morning, as things worsened, there would be a decided shift of power in the nation. If not, then the situation would exist that would be advantageous to the same.