First Weeks After

by Jay Vielle

  “You fell asleep sitting up on that computer. We all said we were packing it in, but you acted like you didn’t hear us. You were there all night. That couldn’t have been comfortable,” said Morgan.

  “Ugh,” he said again. “It wasn’t. I was on the computer. It’s been so long since I have been on the internet, I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Pornhub?” asked Jordan.

  “What? No. Well, maybe for a little bit. No, just kidding, I don’t go on there. No, I was surfing, and trying to research those medical treatments, and must’ve dozed off,” Mark said. “My neck is stiff.”

  “Well did you have any luck?” asked Estela.

  “Luck?” he asked.

  “Looking for what those letters meant,” she said. “That was the whole point of going on the internet.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, I’m still a little groggy. Yes. Yes! I did have some luck,” he mumbled. “Holy shit, do you have any idea what those things are?” Mark asked.

  “No. That’s why we’re asking you,” said Morgan.

  “One of them is a treatment for Ebola,” Mark said.

  “Ebola? Why would there be Ebola medicine in a church office?” asked Estela.

  “The second one is even weirder,” Mark said. “It’s a treatment for radiation sickness.”

  “What?” asked Morgan. “This just got even weirder.”

  “The radiation stuff—the PLX-R18, it said sometimes it’s used as a prophylactic,” said Mark.

  “Wait—to keep you from getting pregnant?” asked Roberto.

  “No. A prophylactic is a preventative measure for anything. We just use the term for sexual terms most of the time. The site suggested that some places used it before they thought they might have exposure to some kind of radiation, kind of like a vaccine sort of, if there was such a thing,” said Mark.

  “I don’t get this at all,” said Estela. “Ebola medicine and something to prevent radiation sickness. Why would a church have that, and why would finding it be a reason to kill someone?”

  “Two people,” said Morgan. “And one of them the daughter of a prominent church member.”

  “What else did you say you found?” asked Jordan.

  “Keys to the town water tower and a bill to someone named Sergei, who we know tried to buy us as sex slaves,” said Morgan.

  Jordan and Roberto looked at each other with strange looks, then glanced at Morgan.

  “Long story. Short version is we drove through a town that was taken over by criminals who wanted to sell us a sex slaves, and the guy who bought us is somehow connected to the church. He’s Russian, and so is the guy who tried to kill us,” Morgan said.

  “Oleg. I heard them call him that,” said Estela.

  “Yeah, Oleg. So what the hell is going on?” said Morgan.

  “Russians,” Mark said partly to himself. “I saw something new, about the Russian weapons used on us. On an internet site last night. It was new, and I remember thinking that the internet has not been universally up and running, and that lack of information must have been crippling to us. We’re all on our phones every minute of the day, tied into news, updates, everything like that.”

  “What did the site say about Russian weapons?” Morgan asked.

  “I’ll look at it again,” said Mark. He tapped the keys of the laptop until he’d found what he was looking for.

  “I don’t think this site is legit,” he said. “It’s some looney conspiracy theory group speculating about the weapons buildup in Russia. It’s dated before the bombings anyway.”

  “What does it say?” Morgan demanded.

  “Wait a minute, let me read it again,” Mark said. He mumbled the words he was reading, then his eyes bugged. “Holy shit, no way. You don’t think…?”

  “Think what?” said Estela.

  “It says here that the Russians engineered a whole new radioactive element that they had been testing. The article says here that ‘a new element called Brenerium developed by Russian scientists has proven to be a catalyst for explosive dispersion of gaseous and colloidal substances.”

  “What does that mean?” Estela asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a fucking clue. But I know someone who would,” said Mark.

  “Who is that?” Morgan asked.

  “You know him. Al DePhillipo. The scientist you rode home from Virginia with. He knows all about this stuff. I’m pretty much a social science guy. I know a little about a lot of stuff, but Al was a genius in Chemistry and Physics. I think I know how to get a hold of him,” Mark said.

  “I have his number,” said Morgan.

  “What?” Mark replied.

  “Well, not his, but his girlfriend’s. Maureen Kelly. She told me she’d be happy to help me in any possible way. She was so crazy nice to me during that whole insane trip we were on. I have her number right here. She lives in town,” Morgan said.

  Mark and Estela stared at each other dumbfounded.

  “Should I call her?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes!!” they both responded in unison.

  Twenty minutes later, Maureen Kelly and Al DePhillipo--both teachers at Hunter’s Run who had accompanied the Fishers and me, as well as Morgan and Estela to and from Virginia last week on a crazy trip that put us in harm’s way a number of times—arrived at the college and were looking at the laptop and the website Mark had found. Mark and Maureen were standing above Al, who was sitting in front of the website reading it carefully.

  “Mark, this story of yours is crazy. Do you think you killed that guy?” Maureen asked.

  “I don’t know. I hit him hard. Then he got up, and I hit him even harder. Right in the skull. There was blood, and he wasn’t moving when we left. But I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Mark said.

  “Jake’s right. These people are dirty. Right down to the fucking bones,” said Maureen. “Al, what do you think, honey?”

  “What I think is too crazy to say out loud,” said Al. “It will make me sound nuttier than this website looks.”

  “At this point, anything is better than nothing. These two girls barely escaped with their lives. That’s like three times in a week. That’s too many for anybody. Come on. Let’s hear your cockamamie idea,” Maureen said.

  “Okay, but remember, you encouraged this. So these two substances, REGN-EB3 and PLX-R18, are used exactly how Mark and the website say. The first is a cutting-edge medicine that has had more effect on treating Ebola than anything to date, but it’s still considered experimental due to the few number of case studies it has. Still, people on the front lines of the disease in Africa say it’s their number one choice,” Al said.

  “Okay. And the other stuff?” Maureen said.

  “PLX-R18 is used to treat victims of radiation poisoning. It’s incredibly effective and also pretty cutting-edge. It was originally developed from human stem cells, but now they’re trying to engineer it synthetically. And some places that work in constantly hazardous situations are giving it to their workers prophylactically.”

  “I told you,” Mark said.

  “But what’s the Russian connection? You’ve explained the Brenerium stuff and how it’s used. And I understand Ebola and treatments, but how do those two fit together, and what does that have to do with Russia, and the church for that matter?” said Estela.

  “Okay, so the Russians developed this radioactive element, that used with certain gasses and liquids, acts as an explosive catalyst of colloidal material.”

  “English, hon,” said Maureen.

  “It makes stuff blow up farther. Especially stuff like vapor. Liquid and gas together,” said Al.

  “Why is that a big deal?” asked Morgan.

  “It’s a big deal because Brenerium could weaponize something like an airborne virus. It could make it the most deadly airborne virus ever. It could send something like Ebola rocketing into people’s lungs, eyes, and skin at frightening speed and volume. And the radiation that followed would, I don’t know, make it more sticky,”
said Al.

  “Sticky?” Maureen asked.

  “You said in English. The Brenerium would not only send it hurtling for miles, but make it nearly impossible to shake off, wash off, or get rid of. Theoretically, it would make someone die even quicker from the Ebola. Like minutes or hours, instead of hours or days,” Al said.

  “Jesus. That’s awful. Like really, really, awful,” said Maureen.

  “This conspiracy-theory website says that the Russians could put this stuff in bombs,” Al said.

  “Wow. Like bombs weren’t nasty enough,” said Maureen.

  “But why would they bother with that?” asked Jordan. “I mean, Russia has more nukes than anyone else in the world. Even the United States. They can blow up the world like seven times over. Why use something like Ebola?”

  “I believe I can answer that one now,” Mark said. “And now that I see the connection between the virus and the Brenerium, it all makes sense, and I’m mad I didn’t figure it out before. Does anyone here know the history of conquest by Spain in the Americas?”

  “Well, yeah,” said Estela. “Spain conquered everyone. They had better weapons and better warriors. And God protected them.”

  “That’s your father talking,” said Mark. “The reasons they speak Spanish in Mexico City and Lima instead of Nahuatl and Quechua in Madrid, are the same three reasons they speak English here instead of Algonquian in London.” Maureen’s eyes bugged and her mouth dropped.

  “Oh my God, I know this one. Guns, Germs, and Steel,” she said.

  “Exactly. Guns, Germs, and Steel,” said Mark.

  “What’s that? What does that mean?” asked Morgan.

  “Guns, Germs, and Steel is a Pulitzer Prize-winning book and a National Geographic series by Jared Diamond. He postulated that by virtue of Europeans having access to those three items—the most powerful of which arguably was the immunity to smallpox—Europeans have successfully conquered on every single continent. Their proximity to certain kinds of disease-spawning animals like pigs and chickens actually made the survivors of Middle Age plagues genetically stronger than the Aztecs or the Inca. Those were two of the most dominant warrior cultures in the history of the world, but the Spanish were able to defeat them because smallpox killed or sickened an estimated eighty percent of the Native American population.”

  “What’s that have to do with Russians keeping medicine in a water tower in Maryland?” asked Morgan.

  “Well, even though the Spanish had unknowing help from germ warfare, they were greatly outnumbered, so they had to use their guns. More specifically, their cannons. The Spanish won the war by blowing the shit out of things. Cannons demolished buildings, which allowed them to find enemies hiding inside them. It left an enormous mess, and the Spanish had to reconstruct everything right on top of the conquered people’s buildings. Their cannons demolished the Plaza Mayor of Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztecs. It took millions of dollars in gold and the enslavement of an entire people to rebuild those cities destroyed by Cortez and Pizarro. And in addition, entire cultures worth of history were wiped out permanently, erased and replaced by Spanish Catholicism. That kind of thing couldn’t be repeated here today. We moved in on the Taliban when they toppled the giant Buddhas of Afghanistan. And when we went into Iraq, we didn’t just blow stuff up because nobody wanted that. But what if the Russians could build something that just took out the people. Something that just went for human casualties?” asked Mark.

  “They could move in lock, stock, and barrel to that country and not have to build anything,” said Al. “All they’d need to do is get rid of the dead bodies.”

  “Ew,” said Morgan.

  “Brilliant,” said Maureen. “Evil, but brilliant.”

  “So again, I ask, why these chemicals in the water tower?” asked Estela.

  “My turn,” Al said. “These two in combination could theoretically protect a population from the coming attack. If the townspeople were drinking this stuff months in advance, they’d survive. Again, in theory.”

  “But I thought Jake and the Colonel said Emmitsburg was spared thanks to the defense systems of Camp David. That lead-exploding ordnance that created the temporary protective shield,” said Maureen.

  “Maybe it was, in part. But the Russians wouldn’t have known that such defensive weapons were available in a tiny town like Thurmont, Maryland. They certainly couldn’t guess that Camp David’s timing would be that perfect as to spare a town by luck,” Mark said.

  “No, but they could ensure it, by putting it in the drinking water of a town,” said Al.

  “But foreign entities just can’t access water towers in American towns. They’d need help from someone inside that town. Someone who could get access to that kind of thing. Someone who would be communicating with Russians and planning this with them,” Maureen said.

  “Holy Jesus crikey-fuck,” said Mark. “Father Joe. He set this whole thing up ahead of time with the Russians. That’s why he is doing all this outreach. That’s why he’s having this town meeting. He’s taking over, and he’s doing it in partnership with the fucking Russian government. Oleg and Sergei are part of that alliance,” said Mark. “And you two stumbled onto all of that by accident.”

  “Oh my God,” said Morgan.

  “Híjole,” said Estela.

  “No wonder Oleg was trying to kill you. You had gotten dangerously close to figuring this all out,” said Mark.

  “But we actually did figure it out,” said Maureen.

  “So now what do we do?” asked Al.

  “That is an extremely good question,” said Mark.

  CHAPTER 25

  I stared slack-jawed at my parents for what had to be nearly a whole minute. Their expression was a combination of relief, shock, pain, awe, and wonder. My mom said my name out loud in disbelief.

  “Eduardo?” she said. “Eres tú?”

  “It’s me, Mama!” I shouted, and ran towards them. We slammed into one another in a giant group hug, touching foreheads. I had tears streaming down my face almost immediately. My father was patting my back, saying “Mijo”—my son—again and again. The Colonel walked up with a big close-mouthed smile. He waited a moment patiently, then I turned to introduce him.

  “Colonel Cannaveral, these are my parents, Javier and Teresa Reyes. Mamá, Papá, this man has done more for me—for all of us—in the past few days than I can ever repay.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Reyes. Your son is a wonderful, brave, and heroic young man. He has also done a great deal to help me, and it’s actually me that has to repay him,” said the Colonel.

  “But mijo, what are you doing here?” said my mom.

  “Well, in part, to look for you. But the rest is a really, really, long story,” I said.

  “Is it safe to be outside now, Sir?” my dad asked the Colonel. “We have been in a bunker at the bottom of this building for nearly a week. Thank God the facilities were well-prepared for such an emergency.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reyes, it is safe. Eddie, Eduardo here can catch you up on all of this. Do you need a place to stay? We are having guest quarters set up near the Pentagon right now for our brigade who is working on major projects, but two more beds are easy to set up,” the Colonel said.

  “Thank you, sir. Perhaps just for a while, to catch up with our son and re-orient ourselves. Our goal is to return home, but we would need to get our car from the Wheaton Metro Station,” my dad said.

  “I’m afraid the city is under Marshall Law and the Metro isn’t running right now. It’s actually too dangerous. But I can arrange transport for you. Hop in my vehicle and I’ll take all of you back to the Pentagon with me and we can sort everything out. Does that sound okay?” the Colonel said.

  “We cannot thank you enough, Señor,” my mother said. My parents followed me to the Humvie, and I introduced Tommy, who was wondering just what was going on.

  “Tommy, it’s crazy. These are my parents. They were here, in a bunker, the whole time,” I
said.

  “That’s unbelievable,” Tommy said. “How do you do, I’m Thomas Fisher. We’ve met before, many years ago.”

  “Are you Jake’s oldest boy?” my father asked.

  “Yes sir,” said Tommy.

  “Wow, You’ve really grown. You’re a big one,” my father said. “Where’d you get your height from?”

  “My mom I guess,” Tommy said.

  That comment made my father’s smile drop as he remembered the last time he had seen Tommy’s mother. The bombings had just begun, mass hysteria had hit the city of Washington, and my parents were being shuffled into the EPA building and ultimately into the bunker. His last view of the outside world was of Laura Fisher running down the street. He had told us this in a voice mail left from the bunker land line telephone, the only evidence at the time that any of us had that my parents or Tommy’s mom were possibly alive. Of course, now we knew a lot more.

  “I saw your mother when the bombing started. Do, do you know anything about her fate?” my father tried to ask delicately.

  “Actually, I do, sir,” said Tommy. “She, she’s alive. We are trying to connect with her.”

  “I wish you the very best of luck,” my dad said, placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

  “We’ll catch all of that up when we get to the Pentagon, Dad,” I said, urging them into the vehicle. The Colonel picked up his walkie.

  “Eagle One to Badger One. What’s your status, over.” We waited for a moment, then heard nothing.

  “Eagle One to Badger One, do you copy?” the Colonel asked.

  “Jake? Vinny? Are you guys alright?” the Colonel said.

  “Eagle One, this is Charlie One. Badger is occupied at the moment. We have a situation.”

  “Charlie One, explain. What situation?” the Colonel said.

  “We were riding support to Badger One and we came upon a group of mutates huddled in the trees by the mall. We all stopped to regroup and make a plan. We pulled up beside them and were about to discuss a strategy, when we were overrun, over.”