“Oh, everyone in town I’ve met is thrilled,” he said. “Not to meet me,” he said, laughing. “I mean, they already set up a viking festival to bring attention to the dig back in February, and that was before everything was official. This past spring, the Sault Ste. Marie historical committee fast-tracked construction of a viking exhibit at the Tower of History, which you can see right over there,” he said, gesturing at the 210 foot high concrete structure several blocks away. The Tower dominated the landscape for miles on the American side.
“Is the exhibit open to the public?” asked Kathy.
“Not yet—they were planning to open it during the new Scandinavian heritage festival at the end of August, but when we discovered the longboat, the grand opening was pushed back to allow time to expand the exhibit—they want to include a replica of the longboat, how cool is that?”
Lowen smiled and tucked a strand of hair over one ear. “Your enthusiasm is certainly contagious.” She looked down at the longship. “The actual boat won’t be on display, then?”
Darren shrugged. “I’m not on the committee, so I don’t know for sure, but what I’ve heard is that eventually the longboat will be on display—however there’s a time consuming preservation process that has to take place first. To prepare it for exposure to air,” he added, looking at her quizzical expression. “Remember, this thing has been encased in mud and water for over a thousand years—just pulling it up and cleaning it off could have disastrous consequences. The wood is extremely fragile right now and filled to bursting with mud and other particulate matter and who knows what else. So a replica will be made based on the original during the rehabilitation process.”
“And how long does that process take?”
Darren shrugged again. “It depends on how bad the wood has deteriorated in the substrate, and what the chemical composition of that substrate is. That’s not my specialty, but I’d guess anywhere between six months to several years.” He looked down at the ship again. “It’s pretty time consuming, and this is a fairly large longboat. We’ve got sub-surface radar returns that suggest there may be several more longboats as well, buried right where we’re standing.”
“Really?” asked the reporter. “I haven’t heard that.”
Darren nodded, noticing Professor Turgin approach behind the reporter. “This could be an ancient dock. That might mean there was a bigger settlement than we’ve predicted around here,” he said, waving his hand to encompass the island. “And if that’s true, then this could turn out be an even more significant settlement than L’Anse aux Meadows!”
She laughed at the expression on his face as he flung his arms wide. “Well, thank you very much for your time, Darren. I’m sure the people of Sault Ste. Marie are just as excited as you are, not only with the spotlight on early American history this discovery brings but also the dramatic increase in business for the local economy as people from around the world come to work and see the dig site. Thanks again.”
“You bet!” Darren said with a wave for the camera as the reporter turned away to talk to someone else.
“Ah, Darren…a word?” asked Professor Turgin, a frown on his face as they were left in private. “We have a problem.”
The smile left Darren’s face as he watched the reporter walk away. She was definitely cute. “What’s up?” he asked, watching the way her hips moved as she walked.
“I’ve just received word from the university. They’re requesting we come back.”
Darren turned abruptly to face Turgin. “Now?”
Turgin nodded. “Now.”
Darren spread his hands. “But—we just got going—why? We’re just getting to the good stuff!” he said, pointing down at the boat. “This is only the first piece—”
“It’s the quarantine in New York—”
Darren blinked. “The quarantine? But that’s only Manhattan, not the whole city—besides, that’s like a thousand miles away from here…” he complained.
“Los Angeles went on lockdown just an hour ago,” Turgin said, looking down at his phone. “And I just got word that Chicago is under quarantine now, as well,” he said, holding up his phone. “Things are getting serious, Darren. The Trustees wish to see this timber safely in the University’s possession before all border cities are locked down…”
“That’s just a rumor…you really think Washington would go so far as to shut down the border? No one out here seems sick…” Darren said, looking around at the small gathering of students, reporters, and curious locals on the eastern end of the teardrop shaped island housing downtown Sault Ste. Marie.
Cars and trucks rumbled over the I-76 Bypass Spur bridge behind them, and the hydroelectric plant produced a continuous, muted roar in front of them. Everything seemed normal, except for the crowd of scientists, reporters, onlookers, and food trucks crowding the grassy field along the water’s edge.
Darren gazed at the water slipping by the shoreline and let himself imagine what it looked like when the vikings had arrived. A thousand years ago, a community of explorers once lived right there. He could almost see them going about their daily routines, tending to animals and ships, smoke drifting lazily into the clear sky from a dozen long houses.
“It’s not a matter of seeming to be sick, Darren,” Turgin said with a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I happen to agree—most people in Sault Ste. Marie are unlikely to—”
“I thought they said it was only the people who got that free Elixr drug …” Darren mused.
“Elixr. Yes,” Turgin said, frowning at the interruption. “The miracle cure to cancer and giver of long life.” He scoffed. “Snake oil if you ask me. If that indeed is causing this mystery illness, well, that’s besides the point,” he said, shrugging. “That remains for doctors to figure out. Is staying here really worth the risk of losing such a national treasure as this longboat…if we lose access to the site? The Dean and the University Board think not.”
Darren picked at the drying mud on his hands. “I guess…” he said, totally unconvinced.
“Good,” said Turgin, clapping Darren on the arm. “I’m pulling the others off the site to help me load the van. Those who want to leave at least. There’s a few that are hesitant. We’ll take the sample back to campus tonight. You’ll come with us…?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air.
Darren shook his head. “No thanks, professor. This is too exciting to pass up for a rumor. I’ll stick around with others and see what else I can uncover before I head out.”
Turgin looked at Darren for a long moment, the breeze off the river ruffling the tufts of white hair that ringed his bald head. “Very well. Remember, your stipend only covers the next two days. Please don’t wait that long, though, Darren. You should leave as soon as possible. Here’s the keys to the second van. Morgan, Piper, and Daniel can ride with you—they’ve expressed a desire to stay behind as well, but as you’re my senior assistant, the van stays in your custody. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Darren said, taking the keys. “We might have the rest of the ship uncovered by then, who knows?”
“That’s the spirit,” Turgin said with a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll, uh, get the rest of the team moving then,” Turgin said, looking over Darren’s shoulder with squinted eyes. “It appears traffic is starting to build on the roads.”
“Yeah, sure—sounds good, professor,” Darren replied as his mentor moved off, following the others who carried the carefully wrapped timber. He looked down at his pants.
“Damn…I shouldn’t have done laundry yesterday…”
“Darren!” cried one of the guys who’d been in the pit with him. “C’mon! The bar down the street is giving us free drinks and the crew from Northwestern wants a photo op with the boat, so we need to clear out, anyway.”
Darren laughed, helping his colleague up out of the pit. “Well, I’m not going to turn down a free drink.”
5
Abandoned
New York City, New York
Edith was better prepared for the smoke this time and held her breath going up the stairs. She emerged onto the roof in a cloud of smoke through the access door and charged for the helipad, then froze.
The helicopter was gone.
“No, no, no…” she muttered, feeling panic writhing in her stomach. Edith put a hand to her eyes and scanned the gloomy morning skies over New York City. Smoke obscured the view to the west. Sirens wailed down on the surface streets far below, and now and then a gunshot echoed up from people coming unhinged as the city died.
The helo was nowhere in sight. She checked her watch. “It was only five and a half minutes!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the next building. “You asshole!”
A gust of wind buffeted her, tugging at the ungainly pack strapped to her back. A column of black smoke rose up over the edge of the helipad, reminding her that somewhere below her, there was a fire eating away at her own building.
She wanted to stay put and wait it out in her apartment until she could leave under cover of darkness, but the fire complicated things—combined with the fact that the city was in the early stages of tearing itself apart. She couldn’t stay. Everything—maybe the fate of mankind itself—rode on her getting out of the city.
“Dammit,” she muttered, taking a knee and lowering her pack to the ground. She lamented the fact that the pilot had left without her, but felt worse about his family. She really did have access to a secure compound owned by Desmond Martin—one of his favorite hunting cabins in upstate New York—and would have been happy to give them the place…but now…
She sighed. I doubt they’ll have a place to go to now at all. What a waste.
She pulled free the medical kit strapped to the side of her BOB and removed a dust mask and swimming goggles. If she was going to ruck it down twenty flights of stairs through a soupy smoke, she may as well go into it prepared. Edith slung the pack over her shoulders again, then poured a little water from one of the bottles onto the mask to dampen it. She strapped on the little cloth mask and cheap swimming goggles, then hefted the rifle and stepped into the darkened stairwell, out of the swirling winds on top of the hi-rise.
Edith used the little catch at the corner of the door to keep it open, which allowed the smoke to billow up and out of the stairwell and provided her with a little ambient light for the first couple floors. After that she had to rely on the dim emergency lights that mostly just illuminated more smoke. Red flashing strobes warning in silence that there was a fire somewhere in the building and she could hear alarms going off through the fire doors as she passed each floor.
Being trapped in the city during a massive crisis was always one of her more vivid fears, and as a result, she gripped the rifle tighter than normal. She realized that fact as she passed the 16th floor and forced herself to loosen up. The last thing she needed was to shoot someone trying to escape.
That thought made her pause, halfway to floor 14. Where the hell was everyone? She looked up the stairwell at the smoke curling out of view. The upper five or six floors in her building were for the most discerning of tenants—hers occupied the entire top floor, except for some facilities and maintenance areas.
Edith looked down through the smoke and finally saw flashlights lancing through the smoke, swinging this way and that as people moved. So there were still people in the building. Where the hell was all the smoke coming from?
She turned and retraced her steps back up to 16. Carefully she put her hand near the door—she didn’t feel any heat, so she touched it. The door was cool, the steel at normal temperatures. Edith turned and quickly made her way to 15, noticing the smoke was darker and thicker. The smoke had increased to the point that her eyes watered inside the goggles. She couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to see if she hadn’t put them on.
Again, she approached the door, but this time stopped. She could feel the heat emanating from the door a foot away. She turned and immediately double-timed it down the next three flights of stairs until she reached 12. People emerged into the stairwell in front of and behind her, all carrying bags and suitcases, some still in pajamas or robes. They were talking and yelling to each other, complaining about the smoke. One woman just screamed, a blood-curdling cry of terror—even as she chased a man bouncing mismatched suitcases down the suddenly crowded stairs.
The door on 12 was warm, but not hot. Two more flights down, the door was cool again. The smoke cleared considerably, and by the time she’d made it to 8, the smoke was almost non existent. She paused in the crush of panicked people and retreated into a corner long enough to pull off her mask and goggles, then stow them in an external and easily accessed pouch on her pack. The last thing she wanted to do was stand out—even more than the BOB and rifle drew attention.
She stood there in the corner, watching as people shoved and cajoled each other to keep moving at a breakneck speed down the stairs, dragging whatever possessions they thought most important. Men cursed and sweated, stepping on toes and muttering half-hearted apologies for clipping other people with their bags, women either walked in a daze, or pushed and shoved even more than the men, some dragging sleepy children behind them.
Edith waited patiently for a gap in the flow of bodies, but none appeared, so she took a breath and tried to step into the stream. A shoulder caught her in the chest and she found herself pressed back against the cool cinderblock wall again. She tried again and again found the press of bodies too much to break into.
Now regretting her decision to step aside and remove the protective gear from her face, she was faced with two options. Force her way into the crowd at all costs—her fingers twitched on the smooth metal and plastic of her rifle—or wait for the tsunami of bodies to ebb and slip in at the tail end of the evacuation.
Every minute I stand here is another minute closer to the lockdown. If shit is getting crazy now, it’ll be biblical when people realize they can’t get off the island. Fuck it. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.
Edith raised the rifle—it had the desired effect.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, lady!” a big guy in a wife beater and pajama pants cried when he tried to force his way past her and found the barrel of her AR shoved into his double-chin. His arms went up and his trash bags full of food and clothing hit the ground with a meaty thwack.
Edith stepped boldly into the now-stopped flow of people, ignored the screaming infant behind her and the shouted insults, threats, and swears from the people packed in on the stairs above her, and raced after those retreating out of sight below. Edith Traviers was getting the hell out of the building, and to hell with anyone else who got in her damn way.
6
Everything Falls Apart
St. Charles, Illinois
Four grueling hours and two near-collisions later, Seneca Roberts found himself approaching Saint Charles from the south along State Highway 25, running right along the famous Fox River.
While the river was pretty, it wasn’t exactly famous—but that’s what his grandfather had called it when he’d been just a kid. Every time they’d crossed that damn river, he’d heard, “Senny, look—it’s the famous Fox River!” The memory of those long-ago, sunny days of his youth brought a small, rare smile to his face.
His headlights illuminated a person walking along his direction of travel. Though the sun had crested the horizon hours ago, 25 snaked through the trees along the river where twilight still reigned. Seneca slowed down and prepared to hurl a colorful metaphor out the window, but ended up slamming on the brakes instead when the person turned and he saw the man’s face.
Blood leaked from the corner of one eye—the sclera had turned bright red in both eyes, giving the man a demonic look. A red stain streamed from his nose, dribbling down his chin. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and blood seeped through his clothes in dark spots all up and down his body but especially centered around his chest and waist.
The man coughed, hacking up mud-black blood onto the pavement, then looked away a
nd shuffled on down the road, one slow, unsteady step at a time. He only wore one slipper and looked to be wearing pajamas with a light robe hanging off one shoulder.
“What the actual fuck…” Seneca breathed, his hands suddenly gripping the wheel with white knuckles. No one, not the news, not Martin, had warned him this shit was hemorrhagic fever.
Seneca had done a tour in the Congo a few years back during one of the worst Ebola outbreaks in history and had decided after that particularly joy-filled mission that his days with Delta were numbered. If the US Government was willing to risk his life for a bunch of ignorant yokels who decided to attack the fucking doctors risking their own lives to help them—knowing full well the risks he and his men had to take to secure the AO…
He shook his head. No, he wasn’t going down that path right now. He didn’t have time to rehash the blame game with Washington again—especially now that he’d seen the face of the Elixr Syndrome.
“Jesus,” he muttered, taking his foot off the brake, eyes still on the poor bastard shuffling down the road. He’d seen plenty of people, men, women, and children, with that same thousand-yard stare through blood filled eyes, that same look of having been painted in blood, the same all-hope-is-lost shuffle. They didn’t know where they were going, they were just going, because it beat laying in the dirt and bleeding to death.
He reached into the passenger seat and opened the medical kit, removing a face mask and sanitation gloves. While he didn’t put them on—his windows were up and the doors were locked—he wanted them close at hand. He also pulled his sidearm from its concealed holster under his seat and put it barrel-down in the cupholder behind the gearshift. Open carry bans be damned—if things were bad enough to have Mr. Ebola walking down a busy road leaking blood, the cops would have more trouble to worry about than harassing him for keeping his piece within easy reach.
Elixr Plague (Episode 2): Infected Page 4