The Darwin Variant

by Kenneth Johnson

  I backed away farther, shaking my head and saying, “No, Daddy.”

  He tried the door again, and as his frustration increased, he began kicking at it.

  I was really getting scared that if he got in, they’d infect me, too. Searching for an escape, I ran to the back of the unit. There was another door near the bathroom. I didn’t know where it led, but it didn’t matter because it also required a code to exit. I was trapped.

  I looked back at the thick security glass window. My eyes got wide when I saw Dad grab the metal stool and begin to smash it against the window. The impact-resistant glass just bounced the chair off. I felt a momentary relief. I looked around for a security camera in my room and saw one high in a corner. I jumped up and down, waving at it and yelling. Trying to get the attention of whoever was supposed to be watching for stuff. No response. Dad swung the stool harder against the glass again and again. Getting more furious.

  The fifth time he hit it, I saw a tiny crack appear in the glass.

  16

  THE FRIENDS

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  The imposing First Congregational Church on Atlanta’s Courtland Street had anchored the neighborhood with a stately Renaissance-style majesty for over a century.

  But for me that evening, it also held an unsettling mystery. It rose ominously above me into the dark sky. I tried to blend in among the crowd moving through the rain toward the church entrance. There was a sign: “No Recording Devices.” And a metal detector. And before them three tables were set up beneath a temporary awning. On each table was a small suitcase with some sort of biometric monitoring mechanism inside it. People in line ahead of me were required to place the palm of their hand on a sensor panel. Only if it beeped would the security squad allow anyone in. No beep, no admission.

  I saw a couple of people get turned away. Obviously neither they nor I had whatever was necessary. I stepped out of the line, pretending to search for something in my rain jacket pockets as I looked around, determined to find a way inside.

  A narrow cobblestone alley ran between the church and its rectory. I saw that the responsibility of keeping it secure that evening fell to a gray-suited guard who had taken shelter from the increasing rain inside a back door of the rectory. She had just leaned out to be certain the alley was deserted then ducked back inside, out of the rain. I watched her from behind a dumpster, waiting for a clear moment. Then I quickly climbed up onto the trash bin, very glad I was in jeans. I reached up on tiptoes toward the fire escape ladder. My fingertips could barely touch it. I jumped, grabbed on, and my weight dropped the ladder downward. I scrambled up it as quickly as I could, my hands getting scratched by the wet, rusty surface of the iron rungs.

  At the first landing I pressed against the stone wall. Rainwater was running down it. My hair streamed into my face. I pushed it back and carefully peeked in the window, but ducked back into the shadows when I saw a gray-suit passing by just inside. I looked down at the alley, checking to be sure the security woman in the rectory was staying out of the rain. Then I hustled up the fire escape to the third story of the old church.

  By the time I reached that landing, I was thoroughly soaked, but encouraged because the window on this level was dark. Droplets of rain were tickling the tip of my nose. I blew them away, took a deep breath, and used the buckle on my purse to partly break the window. I reached through the jagged opening and tripped the lock. I strained to slide the window up just far enough to climb inside.

  It took a moment for my eyes to see through the gloom. I was within the dusty rafters of the church. I could hear the muffled sound of the gathering crowd below. I walked carefully through the musty darkness toward the sound and right into a large spider web. I reacted sharply, swiping at it and wiping it away from my wet face.

  A sudden bellowing blast of organ music startled me. I was near the huge pipes of the organ at the back of the church. The low, thundering bass notes were absolutely bone rattling as I edged forward, seeking a better vantage point.

  Katie McLane. . .

  I desperately tried to jimmy the lock on the quarantine’s back door with a fork I’d found. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the double-thick window now had more cracks feathering out as my dad kept smashing that heavy stool against it. He was soaked with sweat, but his anger and determination had gotten stronger.

  I realized working the lock was hopeless. “Goddammit!” I threw down the useless fork and looked around the sterile environment as my father continued smashing at the window behind me. I was really scared, but hanging on, trying to stay focused. On the wall just below the ceiling I’d noticed an air vent. It had looked too small. Now it was looking better. I dragged the desk under it, put a chair on top, and climbed up. It was really small. Even if I could get in, I’d be like a sardine. And the snap-on vent cover had a warning sign: “Removing This Filter Triggers Alarm.” I stared at it for a nanosecond, then said, “Oh, screw it,” and pulled it off. An alarm started beeping, but I squirmed up and inside the vent pipe. It was so narrow I had to keep my arms straight out in front of me and could only wriggle along like a snake an inch at a time. I could still hear the crashes of the steel stool against the glass down in the room below me.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  In the church rafters, I’d carefully crept closer through the dust so that I could peer out between the organ pipes and into the large neo-Renaissance sanctuary below. It could hold maybe nine hundred but was only half-full. Latecomers were filtering into the pews. They were all ages and ethnicities.

  I saw the ones I’d followed from Ashton, but the majority could have come from anywhere. A man in a Beaumount High sweatshirt might have been the coach of that team in the bus accident. Overall the people were a mixture of all classes from well-off to even some street people. Several were in city, county, or state police uniforms. A few military, too. They were a true cross section of Georgia’s citizenry.

  The majority seemed intense but cautious, studying each other warily. Most seemed to recognize that dominant superior attitude in the body language and eyes of others. I noted that a few seemed more subdued, less into the undercurrent of dark energy the others possessed. Teenage Darren was among those quieter souls. And so was another man who caught my eye: Joseph Hartman, our gentle, religious CDC custodian whom I’d always been so fond of. It saddened me to see him among them, though he seemed uncomfortable.

  The organ music stopped. The crowd began to focus their attention toward the front. I adjusted my view and saw Bradford Mitchell, in suit and tie, step forward toward the carved wooden pulpit. He had been sitting on a chair beside Lauren, who was focused on her cell, hastily typing a text message. Dr. Levering and several others were on the raised altar area.

  Mitchell squared his strong shoulders and looked out over the gathering as their conversations ceased and they settled in to listen with rapt attention. But the taut faces and stiffness of many suggested a decidedly cynical attitude. I clicked on my cell phone’s video recorder.

  “Good evening, and welcome.” Mitchell’s voice was commanding but cordial. I saw that the crowd, however, eyed him very critically.

  “We’re all here because each of you and I share a common bond that is unique and amazing in history. A bond that raises us above the rest of humanity. And gives us a very special role to play in humanity’s future. The role of leadership.”

  In the midst of the crowd, a woman stood up whom I’d seen in Ashton and who fit Katie’s description of her biology teacher, Shelly Navarro. Her voice was strong. “And who put you at the top of that leadership?” Several other steely-eyed people around her shouted angry agreement.

  I noticed Mitchell’s gray-suit security man with the bulldog look and shaved head, standing to one side of the altar, touch his tiny earplug, listening carefully to a radio communication. Then he whispered something into his lapel mike.

  Mitchell stared at Navarro a moment. Then he smiled calmly to her and then the crowd. “Very good questi
on. Look up around you.”

  The assembly did and saw a dozen gray-suited people appear on the clerestory level above them. They wore gas masks, and each held up a gas canister.

  Mitchell lifted a gas mask from behind the pulpit. “Without one of these, the nerve gas in those canisters can kill everyone here in less than a minute.”

  The crowd gasped. I was fumbling with my cell phone to dial 911, but when I saw Mitchell dramatically toss his gas mask aside and hold up a calming hand, I paused.

  “There is no nerve gas.” Mitchell smiled. “But there could’ve been. Just making my point: that it would be foolish for you not to listen. For us not to work together. We want each of you to share control of power.” His eyes scanned across the faces before him. “In the last few weeks all of us here have been catapulted light-years ahead of most people. Wouldn’t you say?” There was definite agreement. “Right,” he agreed, focusing on Navarro. “So everyone here deserves to be in a position of leadership.”

  That brought more positive reaction and a smattering of applause. Navarro sat back down, willing to listen. From my vantage point, though unnerved by the proceedings, I could sense a spectrum of individual reactions. Those who had been naturally more dominant, like Tim Green, whom Katie had called the “natural quarterback,” sitting by his brother Darren, had their innate tendencies extremely accentuated by the virus and seemed the most gung ho. Others seemed to have much less personal intensity. Darren and a girl, who I thought might be the Stephanie that Katie’d described, were clearly among those. My colleague Joseph seemed particularly uneasy. I watched the gentle older man look around at the unsettling dark enthusiasm of the majority. Then he rose and quietly headed out a side aisle. He was intercepted momentarily by a gray-suit who seemed to be taking his information, but then Joseph left.

  Meanwhile Mitchell continued, “We’re going to establish a democratic rotation of leadership among this, our sacred brother- and sisterhood.”

  There was somewhat more applause. Then my cell phone vibrated in my hand. I jumped, ducked back out of sight, saw who was calling, and whispered into it, “Hutch! Where are you?”

  He sounded stressed, breathing hard, “On my way to you. And Suse, I’ve got some really important new information. Where are you now?”

  “Inside the congregational church,” I whispered urgently. “Bring the police. No, the FBI! And a news crew! I’ll meet you outside at Courtland and Auburn. How long?”

  “Twenty minutes. If I’m lucky.”

  I clicked off and looked back down with growing apprehension at the applauding crowd below me.

  Martin Middleton, 34, Pastor, Ashton Methodist Church. . .

  I’d just met this Mitchell person briefly that evening when our Ashton group arrived. Schoolteacher Shelly Navarro had made contact with his people and helped organize our trip.

  From the pulpit Mitchell said, “Many of you know the man I’m about to introduce. The pastor of this magnificent church and one of the founders of an important new idea.” I didn’t know what that idea was, but the man was indeed familiar. “Please welcome,” Mitchell continued grandly, “the Reverend Dr. Abraham Brown.”

  There was respectful applause as the imposing preacher took the pulpit. Brown was a robust African American about sixty with a charismatic, commanding, serious presence. I’d met him at a convention a year prior. He had warmth and charm, but could marshal the intense power of a Dr. King, Jr. He had begun his ministry in an all-black church in rural Appling, Georgia, but Brown’s rhetorical ability to capture and invigorate any congregation quickly caught the attention of the Southern Baptist Convention, which moved him to ever larger venues. His services in this multiracial church had been televised each Sunday for years. He had celebrity, but also substantial moral weight.

  At six-foot-four, most everyone he met literally looked up to him and was impressed by the grip of his large, firm hand. His physical and intellectual presence could dominate most any gathering.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  His face had roundness to it; his skin was very dark and tight. A modest mustache crowned his full upper lip. He looked out over the people, saying modestly, “Thank you.” His voice was deep, rich, stentorian. I made sure my cell was still recording.

  “My friends, I have been privileged by the grace of God to serve this community for three decades. But as I look around at it and other nearby communities where many of you live, I am saddened by the fact that they are not all they could be. They have not lived up to their promise. But I know now who can change that”—his finger suddenly flashed out arm’s length, pointing toward the audience as his voice exploded like a cannon shot—“YOU!”

  Everyone blinked. His word echoed around the stone walls of the vast church. He had our attention. And he knew it.

  From my perch in the loft overhead, I heard a low rolling of thunder outside. The storm was growing as Dr. Brown continued: “The time for a gentle, procrastinating approach to society’s problems has passed. What we need is a sharper, smarter one. It’s time to shake things up, to face the tough challenges.” His voice assumed a searing intensity as he made a sweeping gesture with his hand over them. “And I say that we—we here—are the ones who know we can do it! Am I right?”

  Lisa McLane. . .

  “Yes!” I said with many others. Some applauded. Charley, Tim, and a couple of team guys hooted. Navarro looked like she was dissecting every single one of Brown’s words. And approving. As was the crowd. So far.

  Dr. Susan Perry. . .

  Even from as high up as I was, I could see that Mitchell’s dark eyes were cold, purposeful, imperial, as his spokesman Reverend Brown went on: “All of us here know we’ve been given a great gift. Each of you here has been chosen to be a dominant force in your local communities—in your various areas of expertise. It would be foolish, self-destructive, and just plain stupid to waste our energies working against each other. We must set aside distrust. My friend Bradford Mitchell is right: we must all unite! To take control of our communities for the good of the masses.”

  I saw an Ashton deputy sheriff, probably that Brice Patton Katie’d mentioned, and others among the audience murmur approval. They were catching the reverend’s flow, except for Darren, Stephanie, and a minority who were silently glancing around or frowning with discomfort. And me. I was outright stunned by the proceedings and the direction the reverend seemed to be heading. I glanced around at the gray-suited men and women who were stationed at strategic points all around the hall. They were cool eyed, watching the crowd carefully, their expressions unreadable.

  The reverend lowered his voice and his head slightly, in the manner of a supplicant. “Now, I’ll admit something very private to you, my friends: at first I had my doubts.” He seemed contrite, ashamed to admit what he was saying. “When this great gift from heaven was visited upon me, I thought selfishly at first: How can I use this to my own advantage? For my own personal benefit? I’m sure that many of you had that same thought. But then I remembered my personal savior, Christ Jesus, walking in the garden of Gethsemane, shaking off the temptations of Satan.”

  From among the congregation came a few overlapping shouts of “Praise Him!” “Yes!”

  “And by the grace of his divine help, I”—the reverend snapped his arms wide apart—“shook off the temptations which were coiling around me!”

  “Yes!” “Bless you, Brother Brown,” came the responses, more enthusiastic now.

  “I shook them off!” he reiterated forcefully. “And you must do the same, my dear brethren, with help from whatever higher power you believe in. You must also realize that our bond—the gift we’ve each been given—transcends individual religions. You must realize what a force—what an invincible army we can be. Together! Why, the power for good we hold in our hands—and in our amazing heads—is unmatched in human history!”

  Another wave of murmuring agreement swept through those gathered in the sanctuary. I scanned the individuals in the crowd with
increasing worry. Most all were smiling, mesmerized. They liked being a part of such a great force.

  “This gift of ours is a glorious tool.” Reverend Brown held up his large fist as though it grasped the handle of a mighty hammer. “A magnificent tool that a higher power has handed to us. It didn’t fall on Russia, did it?!”

  “Hell no,” many responded. “No, it didn’t!”

  “Did it fall on Japan, or China, or Germany?”

  “No!” came the collective, louder shouts.

  “No, it did not,” the reverend emphasized. “It did not even fall across all of America.” His finger pointed up at the heavens. “That comet was a fiery line written in the sky by the omnipotent hand of Almighty God! And his all-powerful finger pointed at us. We right here are his chosen people!”

  The voices of the assemblage were gaining strength. “Yes! Say it, brother! Goddamn right!”

  His booming voice dropped low into an urgent whisper, “And you can feel it, can’t you, my friends?” There were shouts of affirmation. “Down deep in your soul, can’t you feel it!?”

  Louder shouts then of, “Yes! We feel it!” “Damn right we do!”

  “Of course you do. Well, the good and devoted people beside me up here feel it, too.” Dr. Brown gestured toward Mitchell and Lauren. “And want you all to join with us to reshape our communities and our great state into a driving force!” The reverend’s volume increased, to be heard overtop the crescendo of positive reactions. “To give the masses a good swift kick in the backsides! And get them going!”

  The crowd cheered his words. Outside, the thunder rumbled louder.

  Then he smoothly changed gears; his tone became very confidential. “But our gifts are a secret—a secret we must guard vigilantly amongst ourselves.” There was general affirmation from all. “If we encounter others gifted like ourselves, we must draw them into our special fold so that we can all work together for the greater benefit of our communities as well as our own secret society, which we are calling”—he paused dramatically—“The Friends of America.”