I wuz embarrassed, tryin’ to keep up a tough expression, butch it through. But it didn’t fool Poppa and Claire. They knew I wuz scared shitless ’bout where I wuz headed. Poppa looked like his whole body wuz achin’. Claire put her arm round him, and he put his hand flat ’gainst the chain link. He could barely speak, but I heard him say, “I’ll pray for ya, son.”
I could only manage a kinda surly nod, then I climbed onto the bus with my chains rattlin’. Bus smelled like guys over a lotta years had pissed or puked in it. And we wuz jammed in tight. Fuckin’ bus wuz way overloaded. Me and a bunch had t’stand. Couldn’t hardly breathe. Through the narrow barred winders, I seen Poppa and Claire watchin’. He wuz wipin’ tears, but her face wuz tight as a drum. Then the door hissed closed. The bus rumbled alive and rolled down the street, headin’ me to what I heard wuz a bad place. It wuz way worse’n that.
FOLKSTON, GA GSP Station 372 Sec Cam 014 04/01/21 Time: 06:58:49
Transcript Analysis by: Takamoto, Leon J., GSP #664545
Weather: Cloudy, Wind N/NE 12 MPH
ARPC GSP Unit 774: on pad. Condition: preflight
Description: Folkston ARPC unit awaiting arrival of inbound Ashton unit for search and recovery mission of Perry, Dr. Susan A. into Okee. Pilot: Schoengarth, John, GSP #767540, black male; Copilot: Miller, Alicia S., GSP #846530, white female; outside craft performing preflight.
Audio:
PA Announce: Ashton 504 is on final. Unit 774 stand by for departure and backup.
Miller: Incoming, Sarge. Half a click out.
Schoengarth: Playin’ backup for them suckers. Pisses me off.
Visual Desc: Unit 504 comes in fast, 29 MPH, 27% over regulation speed; pivots 360 directly over 774; severe turbine ground wash; Miller nearly blown down; shouts up at 504.
Miller: Hey, assholes!
Schoengarth: They’re just fucking with us. Let’s hit it.
Visual Desc: Schoengarth climbs into 774. Miller makes crude gesture at 504, which departs W/NW.
Miller gets into 774, which lifts off, follows on 504’s six, heading back into the swamp.
Courtesy GSP, ATL PD
22
HERMITAGE
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
A snowy-white egret with its long neck like a question mark stood motionless on spindly legs in a patch of the shallow water, staring patiently down. Then its sharp beak shot in like lightning, and it came up with a small, wriggling fish. The egret tossed its head back, swallowed its living breakfast, then turned to look coolly toward us two humans gliding by. At that moment in my life, I identified with the fish.
The sun was fully up, and the high humidity of the swamp was slowly intensifying the heat. I splashed some water on my face and noticed some yellow flowers on the surface. “Bladderwort,” Crash said. “Pretty, huh? Also carnivorous. Bugs crawl in, then can’t get out. Kinda like folks in the swamp.” He gave me a sideways glance. “So, is this Smith guy your main squeeze?”
“No.” Then I relented. “Well. A few years ago. We met and worked together at the CDC and in the field. After a year or so we got . . . y’know, involved.” I drew a long breath. “But this trip isn’t personal. We need him to help find a way to—”
Crash raised a hand to quiet me as he killed the engine and glided our boat onto the bank. Amid the low sounds of the swamp animals and the high-pitched cries of ibis and herons, we could faintly hear a clarinet. It was being played in a low register. The tune was a slow jazz riff on an old melody from the 1940s, “The Nearness of You.” It gave me pause.
Crash nodded. “Well, here’s your big chance.”
A few butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I stepped out of the rickety boat and moved through the foliage toward the soft sound of the woodwind.
The first thing I saw was the top of an old log cabin. Crash had told me that several in the swamp had been abandoned by loggers decades ago. I could see that its roof had been rebuilt and covered with layers of fan-shaped saw palmetto leaves, carefully laid to act as natural shingles. They were also shaped to funnel rainwater down into a barrel for drinking. The chimney had been rebuilt. I approached from the back of the cabin with Crash following. I walked alongside a vegetable and herb garden, well cultivated and thriving. The smell of the freshly turned earth was pleasant, and I saw that cherry tomatoes and cucumbers were nearly ripe. There was a small shed with tools nearby and a stash of several propane bottles near the shoreline.
I reached the corner of the cabin, inhaled a nervous breath, then peered around. In front was a flat area about twenty yards square neatly covered with peat. It extended down to the waterline of the channel that curved through the verdant swamp. A netted hammock was strung between two trees, with a palmetto leaf awning arranged over it. Chris sat near a stone fire pit near the shore with his back to me, but that thick red hair was unmistakable. My heart lifted inside me. I could see his fingers moving expertly on the clarinet’s keys, playing an easy, bluesy version of Hoagy Carmichael’s old, romantic tune. I stood watching him for a private moment, remembering that sunset beside our small campfire on the beach in Tanzania. The balmy sea breeze had wafted around us. He’d played the same enchanting melody that day.
This time he stopped right in the middle of the final phrase. He’d sensed something behind him. Then he slowly turned to look at me.
His brilliant individualism, that vibe of quiet, confident intelligence, which first had attracted me five years ago, was still instantly apparent. They marked him as a man of depth and substance. At first glance people thought his eyes were gray, but closer inspection, which I had frequently undertaken, revealed them to be fascinatingly multihued, symbolic of his amazingly multifaceted way of thinking. So often stunningly outside the box. He’d grown a full beard as red as his head since I’d last seen him two years ago. His skin was freckled, ruddier. Appealing. My gaze held his as I had quick flashes of memory: rolling rambunctiously in our bed, interlaced and enjoying it; laughing together with village children we’d inoculated outside Katmandu; sitting close together on the old porch swing at his grandmother’s; that happy day in New Orleans he gave me the little opal ring I’ve worn ever after. And the last painful night, arguing hotly in a CDC laboratory. I sensed that he might be remembering similar moments.
I really didn’t trust my voice, but finally managed, “. . . Hey.”
Chris just nodded back and was the first to look away. I saw that he had decidedly mixed emotions. Crash later told me he’d seen there was still a spark between Chris and me and had personally been a little disappointed.
Chris set his clarinet aside and grumbled, “Out of all the swamps in all the world—”
“I had to walk into yours. Yeah. Sorry to disturb you.” I moved toward him. We were both awkwardly uncertain about how to proceed. I decided to reach out and give him a friendly hug and a kiss on his bearded cheek. I thought of all the times we had held each other and lay comfortably side by side. I’d been very unsure what this reconnection might rekindle. Chris clearly didn’t want to consider it immediately. He looked at Crash.
“Why the hell did you bring her here?”
Crash was helping himself to a wooden bowl of nuts and shrugged. “It amused me. And by the way, she coulda got here without my help.”
A little bell tinkled, Chris stepped over to it and pulled in a fish that had hit one of several lines. I pried my eyes away from him and looked around his homestead. “Pretty nice. Sort of Swiss Family Robinson Crusoe. Although they didn’t have solar panels.” They were on the south side of his roof. “If it wasn’t for needing a Diet Coke now and then, I could probably live in a place like this.” He glanced at me, and I held up both hands, palms toward him. “Not why I’m here, don’t clutch.”
“So, why?”
“How long have you been out of touch?”
“Couple years, I guess.” He was taking the fish off the hook.
“Then we’ve got a little catching up to do.”
“Uhhh, spe
akin’ of catchin’ up,” Crash’s tone was cautionary as he gestured toward the swamp behind him, “I ain’t sure those guys’re done with you, Doc.”
Chris glanced from his friend to me. “What’s wrong? You in trouble?”
“The world is, Chris.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not interested in the world.” He put the large trout on a cutting board and prepared to splay it. “Except my little corner right here, so if you don’t mind—”
“Hey, don’t be an asshole,” Crash said sharply. “This chick ’bout got her tits blown off gettin’ in here. Least you can do is be a gracious goddamn host and listen to her, or I won’t bring you any more cigars.”
Chris glowered at Crash, then glanced back at me and grudgingly gestured as if to say, “So?”
ARPC GSP Unit 774 Cockpit Cam A/V - Date: 04/01/21 Time: 07:42:18
Transcript Analysis [Abridged] by: Fields, Vernon, GSP #876254
Dash Cam: ARPC Unit 504 seen thru windshield, flying on point thru Okee., bearing 323.
Alt: 15 FT over water level; AIRSPD: 32 MPH
Displays: TRKNG computer heads-up active.
CKPT REC: Active.
Co-P Miller: Whoa! Lookit him cut round them trees. Them Ashton boys’re hot.
Pilot Schoen.: Got nothin’ on me.
FDR [Flight Data Rec.]: ARPC swerves sharply, takes heavy jolt.
Co-P Miller: Jesus! ’Cept you’re tryin’ to cut down the goddamn trees!
Pilot Schoen.: Chill out, Miller. Just clipped a knee. [keys his com] Unit five-zero-four, this is seven-seven-four. You read?
Courtesy GSP, FBI
The Documentarian. . .
Note the names of the Ashton pilot and copilot below: the former Ashton deputy sheriff, Brice Patton, had been co-opted into the Georgia State Patrol. Timothy Green, former Ashton quarterback, had entered Georgia Tech with his football scholarship and new mental acuity, but hadn’t improved his self-control. He was quickly suspended for improper behavior and sexual harassment. With help from one of the Friends who was an Ashton county supervisor, both Patton and Green had been accepted for GSP airborne training. This despite documentation showing neither was as qualified as other candidates. They had, however, completed the orientation with the ARPC beta test protocols and had been performing acceptably, if somewhat overaggressively.
ARPC GSP Unit 504 Cockpit Cam A/V - Date: 04/01/21 Time: 07:43:17
Transcript Analysis [Abridged] by: Fields, Vernon, GSP #876254
Dash Cam: Traversing forested swamp.
Displays: TRKNG heads-up active.
CKPT REC: Active. Pilot: Patton, Brice J., GSP #976535; Co-P: Green, Timothy R., GSP #986538
COM: I say again, five-zero-four, this is seven-seven-four. Do you read?
Pilot Patton: [keys his com] Gotcha five by, brother.
COM: How’s it lookin’ up there, guys? Got anything yet?
Pilot Patton: [keys his com] Oh, yeah. Forgot to tell ya. We caught Dr. Perry ’bout five minutes after we took off. She’s got her face planted in my lap right now. [keys off] Dumb-ass yokel.
Co-P Green: Got that right.
Pilot Patton: [keys his com] I promise we’ll keep y’all posted back there. Keep taggin’ along so y’don’t get lost. [keys off] He just cain’t stand us flyin’ point.
[Tracking alarm sounds. Heads-Up Display: Target Acquired. Data scrolls.]
CENTCOM: ARPC five-zero-four, CentCom. Do you copy?
Pilot Patton: Roger that, CentCom, five-zero-four here.
CENTCOM: We got a high-altitude drone sighting from forty-three minutes ago. Two individuals in open boat on suspect’s original bearing. Probability factor eighty-five percent. Coordinates just uploaded to your onboard.
Co-P Green: Copy that, upload successful.
Pilot Patton: We’ll get on her, CentCom. Five-zero-four out.
Co-P Green: Hot damn, Brice.
Pilot Patton: Fine-tune that little sucker, Timbo. You know how bad the high-ups want this bitch?
Co-P Green: Shit yeah, I do. This is gonna look great on our records, man.
Pilot Patton: [keys his com] Seven-four, stand by to receive tracking data. Stay on our tail. [keys off]
COM: Copy that.
Pilot Patton: Okay, Timbo. Let’s bring her to ground.
Flight Data Rec: Notes airspeed increases to 57 MPH. Ground speed 59 MPH.
Courtesy GSP, FBI
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
We were sitting in the shade of a spreading oak at the dining table Chris had created from the bottom of an old flatboat, using some kegs for legs. Crash had nosed his boat ashore nearby. We’d been eating the trout plus some green beans, okra, and cherry tomatoes. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. While gobbling it all, I gave Chris a quick overview: told him about the comet, the startling discoveries Katie and I had made; also about the arrival of Dr. Hutcherson, though I skipped over the cowboy-handsome part and how the appealing widower and I had become intimate, until he went over to them.
Chris was intrigued about how those infected really were intellectually superior.
“But,” Crash interjected, relighting his cigar, “with the big-ass downside of losing their humanity.”
“Yeah well, let me introduce you to the Pentagon,” Chris said sourly, sipping on some sassafras tea. “Some things don’t change, Susie.”
“But this is way worse,” I said. “They’re using the existing government structure. They infected a lot of elected officials with the CAV-B virus and made them willing accomplices. Nate Balfour, a senior journalist for the Journal-Constitution, told me how Mitchell and the Friends move through the State Capitol, telling the governor and legislators what to do. State supreme court justices, too.”
“Shadow government.” Crash nodded, taking a thoughtful puff. “Like somma that deep state shit in South America.”
Chris asked, “If they all want to be top dog, don’t they fight among themselves?”
“You bet. There’s a lot of scuffling for dominance,” I explained, “which can lead to unfortunate mishaps. Like Dr. Levering’s unexpected death.”
Chris was shocked. “What happened to Ernest?”
“Hit-and-run two weeks ago. Conveniently creating an opening for Lauren to take over the CDC.”
“So how can they coexist?”
“Same as a wolf pack. Always pressing, testing each other. Working together for the overall pack so long as they each get—”
“A nice big chunk of the red meat,” Crash concluded.
“And working together they did improve some things,” I admitted, “while also getting filthy rich. Their new brainpower led to an AIDS cure and more.”
“They got some nifty new cop cars, too, that hover like choppers,” Crash chimed in.
“When did you see them?” Chris asked with surprise.
“’Bout six hours ago, shootin’ zippy little fireballs at your girlfriend.”
Chris and I were both uncomfortable with Crash’s take on our relationship, but I went on, “So productivity shot way up. People given the CAV-B work smarter, harder, faster, and happier because of being lieutenants in the power structure. The state is running smoother than ever. On the surface, life seems better and most people like it.”
“Or go along to get along.” Crash smirked.
“Isn’t there any pushback?” Chris questioned. “What about the local press?”
“Also infiltrated or intimidated. Plus, leaders in business, technology, military, everything,” I said, feeling yet again the huge weight of it all.
Chris processed it. “Does sound like Germany in the thirties. Or China and Russia a couple years back.”
“But this is going to be way worse,” I said emphatically, “because of their selfishness, lies, lust for money and power—unless we can create an antidote. A way to reverse or at least stop it. I’ve got a bunch of great scientists working like hell, Chris. But we need your help.”
“Yeah, I could hear that coming. Sorry, S
usie.” He shook his head, picked up our tin plates, and walked away. I stared at his back. Frustrated, angry. But determined. I pursued him.
ARPC GSP Unit 774 Cockpit Cam A/V - Date: 04/01/21 Time: 08:13:45
Transcript Analysis [Abridged] by: Fields, Vernon, GSP #876254
Dash Cam: ARPC Unit 504 seen thru windshield on point ahead traversing Okee. W/SW, Bearing 245.
Displays: TRKNG computer heads-up active.
CKPT REC: Active.
Pilot: Schoengarth, John, GSP #767540; Copilot: Miller, Alicia S., GSP #846530
COM: Seven-four, this is five-zero-four. We’re about four clicks out.
Pilot Schoen.: [keys com] Copy that, Ashton, we’re ready to rock!
COM: Negative, seven-four, you guys hold at one click out.
Co-P Miller: (to pilot) What!? Is he kidding? This was our collar!
Pilot Schoen.: [keys com] We really want to go in with you, zero four.
COM: Repeat negative, seven-four. We got the con. You are backup at one click.
Pilot Schoen.: [keys com] Copy that. Hold for backup at one click. [keys off]
Co-P Miller: I can’t fucking believe it. You gonna put up with that shit?
Pilot Schoen.: Chill, Mill. I ain’t gonna let this go down without us.
Courtesy GSP, FBI
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
Crash kept a wary eye out over the swamp, as though his special-ops instincts plus Muskogean wilderness-wise senses were working overtime. Chris had rinsed off the plates and was rebaiting fishhooks. I paced around him with increasing anger. “Look, Chris, you want to come back here and spend the rest of your life playing castaway, fine. Just help us long enough to find a way to stop them so that—”
“So that what?” Chris said with sharp cynicism. “The next set of bad guys can come along and screw everybody?”
“There won’t be a next set of bad guys like these!”
“Oh, c’mon, Susie,” Chris smirked. “Where’s your history? There’s always a next set. That’s why I got out.” He went on baiting his hooks. “I say let ’em kill each other off.”
The Darwin Variant Page 31