by M. D. Massey
Rojas continued, “The vaccine works more like experimental drugs for weaponizing soldiers. Makes them something not quite human. But this particular vaccine…well…the first subjects got incredibly sick, looked and acted like zombies. Basically, brain-dead. Skin covered with lesions. They attacked healthy people, like cannibals. Anyone they bit got infected. And something else that’s extremely weird: all the effects only seemed to happen during the full moon; then the patients got better. At least until the next full moon. But something has happened. The disease, whatever it is, appears to be mutating. For some subjects, it lasts well beyond the full moon. Their suffering may be permanent.”
The lightbulb flickered. A growl shook the house.
Rojas took one more swig of tequila. He said, “I want to show you something.”
He led me to a door around the corner from the kitchen. A heavy steel door. In the shack, it looked out of place. One would expect wood.
He unlocked the door. We descended darkened planks of stairs. As I ran my hands along the walls on either side, I felt rock—cold, slimy, wet. At the bottom, the illumination was dusky.
The awful sounds of chains rattling and a creature growling made the rock quiver beneath my fingers.
When we reached the main room, I saw it. A pale, emaciated man pulled against chains that were embedded in the wall, attached at the other end to a thick metal collar around his neck. Additional chains led to metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles. His body was covered with sores. Skin was sloughing off his legs in patches. Growling and baring his teeth, the man bit into his own arm and tore off a chunk. Blood spurted from the wound as he chewed his own flesh.
I turned around, clutched my stomach, fought the urge to vomit. I wished I had accepted the tequila.
Dr. Rojas said, “This was…is…Marco Antonio. He’s my neighbor. He accidentally spilled the vaccine on himself at the factory. He must have had a cut on his skin or something and the virus got through. I believe Chen-Zamora’s killing off workers who have accidents like this. I’ve been hiding Marco for several months now, trying to find a cure for him. His family told Chen-Zamora he went back to Mexico, so they wouldn’t look for him here.”
I asked if I could take photographs. Rojas grabbed my arm. He insisted I refrain from doing that. He said, “I need to protect my neighbor. Your job is to get the whole story. We’re the tip of the iceberg here. Most of the vaccines are being tested at a facility in Africa, under the guise of helping Ebola patients. The place Maria told you about, The Liberia Treatment and Research Camp in Liberia, West Africa—that’s the place where most of the vaccine’s being tested. That’s where you’ll find your story.”
Chapter 11
Journalist Hunter Morgan: The Liberia Treatment and Research Camp, West Africa
When I drove away from the shack, I reflected back on the horrors I had seen. I was of two minds. What if this whole thing was a hoax? What if Dr. Rojas was a Mexican Dr. Mengele, torturing people in his basement? I should report him to the authorities. But something else was going on: the bodies torn apart in the desert, the escalated military presence along the border, eviscerated bodies just cleaned up and vanished as though they had never existed.
All this while Chen-Zamora had landed an exclusive contract with the U.S. military and the White House Press Secretary had gone to the trouble of announcing it on cable news. The U.S. government had executed an exclusive deal with Chen-Zamora Pharmaceuticals, allowing them to make all future experimental Ebola vaccines and serums that would be used by the U.S. military to treat patients in West Africa. No other company would be allowed to supply vaccines and no other company would receive government grants to develop them. That was highly suspicious. It set all the red flags off. People were dying by the thousands in West Africa from the growing Ebola epidemic there. The entire world was panicked over Ebola showing up in First World countries through the handful of volunteers who had contracted it in West Africa and returned home for treatment.
Common sense would suggest a race for the cure, opening up vaccine and serum development to as many pharmaceutical companies as possible. And certainly it would make sense that government grants would be given to companies with the most experience in developing Ebola medications. Chen-Zamora had very little experience in that arena, and now it was the only company allowed to produce them?
I talked to Alice on my cell phone, as the dusty desert blew by outside my car windows. Alice agreed I should go to Liberia, undercover. She’d arrange for me to go as a volunteer inside The Liberia Treatment and Research Camp. Something low level, so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself—maybe a kitchen volunteer worker through a church or charity organization, something like that.
Next, I called Claire. She didn’t sound good. She said she was exhausted from the pregnancy and from taking care of Sophie who was still sick. I asked if Sophie had shown any signs of improvement. Claire said, “No, no improvement at all.” She planned to take her to the doctor the next day, though, and her mom had agreed to come to help out for as long as needed.
Back at the hotel, I did more research into Liberia and the Ebola situation there. The next day, I got the required Yellow Fever immunization for Liberia, also the recommended Typhoid one and prescription medicine to protect against Malaria.
For an entire week, I was grounded. Then, finally, Alice came through. I had flight tickets from Houston to Liberia.
Over one day of traveling, with many stops. Then, finally, I found myself in West Africa. A driver met us at the Roberts International Airport in Liberia, ushering us into a mud-splattered van. The volunteers completely filled it. I wondered how many had been on my flight.
I slept through the ride, barely stirring into consciousness when the van hit a bump or the driver beeped at something in his way.
It took me a couple of weeks to feel comfortable in my own skin as a food worker in the camp, to adapt the mannerisms of someone in that role without looking too curious about the inner workings of the camp.
Alice had been good at getting me a placement in the camp so quickly; but, unfortunately, I had been assigned to a prison perched on a hill high above the camp rather than getting a job inside the camp itself. Apparently, with Ebola so rampant over there, they had run out of room for patients in the main camp and were housing some in the prison alongside actual prisoners. As I worked in the kitchen peeling carrots and potatoes and washing dishes, I kept an ear out for anyone mentioning an opening to work in the main camp.
One night, on the night of the full moon—I remember that because the path from the prison to the dormitory where I slept was fully lit—my life changed forever.
Leisurely walking along a dirt path, listening to the night birds singing out in the rainforest, I noticed how the moonlight etched the dark green edges of jungle branches in silver, much like ice in winter storms back home. Tree branches shook not from hurricanes, but from monkeys causing a ruckus, being their own force of nature.
Within a couple of short weeks, I had become accustomed to the usual jungle sounds. I could gauge the distance of wild animals calling to each other and felt unrattled by anything at a safe distance.
Then, all of a sudden, something moved in the brush next to me with unimaginable speed. My blood pulsed in my ears, a crazed drumbeat. My heart raced and pounded, as though trying to break free of my chest. I stopped, frozen on the hard-packed dirt.
It came again.
The leaves on the bushes shook at an alarming rate, faster than anything natural. Manic. Not the graceful bending and whipping that happens in thunderstorms. Feverish, with the blinking speed of a strobe light.
As though gripped by a nightmare, I remained transfixed, glued to one solitary spot of terror.
Something leapt out of the forest and landed on the path.
My mind struggled to comprehend it. Human size, human shape. But skin gray, bloody, falling away in peeling strips. The thing looked at me with bloodshot eyes. Let out a monstrous growl.
The creature looked away from me, cocked its head as though hearing something more immediate than my presence. In a lightning flash, it pounced on something I hadn’t even seen coming: a monkey running across its path. In rapid succession, it twisted its neck with a sickening cracking sound, slammed its head against the ground, tore away the skin covering the broken skull, ripped out the brain and ate it.
Infused with blind panic, I found my legs. I charged into the jungle, continuing with breakneck speed along its edge until I got as close as I could to the prison gate.
At that moment, the gate opened. Out marched an army of soldiers dressed in strange protective clothing: combination biohazard suit and SWAT team uniform, faces covered by gas masks, automatic rifles ready to kill, boots pounding against the ground like leather-skinned beasts.
I bolted back inside the gate, trying to act as though I knew what I was doing and where I was going. Two seconds later, an earsplitting alarm went off. Over the loudspeaker, an announcement blared that all off-duty prison workers would be escorted to their dormitories by armed guard and would then be restricted to their dorms for the remainder of the night due to reports of vicious wild animals nearby.
Bullshit. That creature was the same kind of thing I had seen in Rojas’s basement. I was closer than I thought to Chen-Zamora.
The next morning, things were strange within the walls of the prison. Soldiers walked around in SWAT uniforms, displaying their assault weapons as though daring anyone to mess with them.
Hoping to get deeper inside the prison to take a look around the inner sanctum, I volunteered to deliver food to the prisoners.
I didn’t know if this was usual procedure or not; but there were SWAT teams marching around the cell blocks, staring at the prisoners, on some kind of hair-trigger watch.
I was assigned delivery of food to several patients. God, it seemed unconscionable to house patients in such an atmosphere.
First on my list: Chibueze Koroma. A medical resident. Poor woman. One of the medical personnel working at the camp who had become infected with Ebola. Supposedly, she was on the mend, no longer contagious through casual contact. I had been alerted that her contagion level was now like hepatitis. Don’t exchange bodily fluids and I’d be OK.
A guard unlocked her cell. I placed her tray down on a table.
A chill went up my spine. Something felt awful about that space. Chibueze looked more feral than civilized, certainly nothing like a doctor. Her eyes were haunted. Through streaks of blood that spread out around her irises like sunset, she stared at me as though I were some kind of threat. I pointed to the food. I simply said, “Your food,” and left.
Next, I entered the cell of Emma Johnson, a volunteer nurse at the camp.
Chapter 12
Emma Johnson: The Liberia Treatment and Research Camp, West Africa
I barely remembered the night of the full moon. I had done heinous things, I knew it. My stomach churned with taboo. I felt sweaty and close to death.
When the volunteer guy entered my cell to deliver food, I begged him to help me get out. I told him things were being done to me that he couldn’t even imagine.
One week later, he slipped me a key, told me I’d know when to escape. There would be a commotion in the prison around midnight to distract the guards. That would be my cue. He told me to meet him by a secluded patch of trees. From there, he could get me out of the prison grounds.
Everything went off without a hitch. There were several explosions, fires erupting inside garbage cans. The guards jumped to take care of them. I freed myself and Chibueze. Sticking to shadowy corridors, we escaped the prison. Fresh air never smelled so good.
Chapter 13
Journalist Hunter Morgan: Escaping Africa
After I gave Emma Johnson a master key to all the prison cells that I had managed to steal from a board behind the main prison desk, she and Chibueze Koroma escaped from the prison at The Liberia Treatment and Research Camp.
We met in a secluded area of the prison grounds and from there we managed to sneak past the guards, all of us dressed professionally—Emma as a nurse, Chibueze as a doctor in surgical scrubs, and me as someone simply accompanying them.
There was a tense moment just as we were about to pass through the gate. Someone yelled, “Doctor! Doctor!” to Chibueze. She turned as nonchalantly as possible. The person, a young African woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform, said, “I was asked to help out over here. I understand there are patients over here? I’m not sure where to go. I’m on the night shift.” A glint of fear sparkled in her eyes.
Chibueze answered without a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, we ran out of room in the treatment part of the camp. Just go into the prison building over there.” She pointed. “Check in at the first desk you see. Someone will give you instructions.”
The nurse thanked Chibueze and headed on over to the prison, while we slipped out through the gate into the jungle night.
A slice had disappeared from the moon, but it was bright enough to illuminate our way.
We escaped into the jungle to hide ourselves from view; but stayed right next to a dirt path lit by moonlight, so we wouldn’t get totally lost. Under the canopy where we moved, we were little more than shadows.
A few miles from the prison, we came across a jeep. Peering into the jungle, we saw a group of people a few yards away. They had pitched tents and were sitting around a campfire. Smoke rose lazily from the burning logs. As we watched, a young woman grabbed a guitar and started singing a ballad about love and death and loss.
Emma’s bloodshot eyes became wet with tears. We didn’t have time to get sentimental. I saw a knife lying in the jeep. Grabbing it by its thick wooden handle, I sliced open my arm.
Chibueze stifled a gasp.
I marched into the campsite, yelling that I had cut myself on a rusty wire hanging from a tree branch. I begged for them to take me into Harbel.
One of the men approached me. He asked, “Why Harbel? I know a doctor much closer.”
Harbel was where the airport I had come through upon arrival in West Africa was located. I made up something that sounded stupid and transparent, but the guy bought it. I said, “I have a special medical condition. Nothing contagious, but I’m prone to seizures. I have my own doctor in Harbel.”
Chibueze asked for a shirt. A young woman came running over with a gray T-shirt. Chibueze tore it into strips and tied it around my arm to make a tourniquet.
The woman looked at Chibueze and Emma. “Wait, aren’t you a doctor and a nurse?”
Chibueze thought fast on her feet. “Yes, I am. But I don’t have the proper equipment here to treat my friend, especially with his condition. We really need to hurry.” Somehow, she managed to cry. “I don’t want him to die.”
The guy we had first talked to told us, “Hop in.” To his group of friends, he said, “Enjoy the campfire. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Lifting up a lid on a box in the back of the jeep, he pulled out a rifle and handed it to someone sitting around the fire. “Here. In case you need it.”
I noted four more guns inside the box.
As we got underway, I felt a bit faint, but it wasn’t too bad.
I shut my eyes. The jostling up and down over rough terrain took on a kind of hypnotic rhythm, so long as I kept my arm from bumping against the jeep. The night sounds of animals became an orchestra. The canopy shook as monkeys scampered back and forth overhead.
Suddenly, the jeep came to an abrupt halt. The driver jumped out, grabbed a gun. I felt complete horror. He was going to shoot us in some macabre murder scene. I tried not to yell from the pain pulsing through my arm after the sudden stop.
He looked at Chibueze and Emma. “Grab a gun. There’s something very weird ahead!”
So he wasn’t going to murder us. Was it a SWAT team ahead?
Then I saw it. The same kind of creat
ure I had seen in Rojas’s basement and in the jungle here.
Bam! Our driver shot it right through the head. As it fell down into the underbrush, he hopped back into the jeep and continued on down the road. He said, “You see a lot of weird shit out here. I don’t want that thing attacking my friends later on.” Then he added, “My name’s Max, by the way.”
We continued on to Harbel. We had Max drop us off at a hotel. Placing a jacket over my bleeding arm, I asked Chibueze to check us in. Once safely in our room, we called a taxi to take me to the hospital. Emma said she’d stay behind and order us airplane tickets to get the hell out of Africa.
At the hospital, I changed my story to match my wound and said I had been attacked in the rainforest. The intern studied Chibueze for a moment, probably trying to figure out if she had done it.
The cut hadn’t sliced through any tendons. I got my wound cleaned and wrapped up and was handed a bottle of antibiotics.
Back in the hotel, Chibueze and Emma filled me in on their medical situation. My heart broke for the two women. My brain reeled at the frightening scenario they laid out in front of me.
They explained some things and handed me a report. Everything felt surreal, as though I had been transported to a different time and place in history than the one I had known all my life. Emma and Chibueze had been turned into weapons of mass destruction without their knowledge or consent. They were currently being injected with serums and sent out into the jungle as experiments each time the moon was full. Eventually, they would be used elsewhere to attack and terrify populations the government wanted to control.
These two women had gone to work in the Ebola treatment camp as healers. Now they were monsters. I told them I knew a doctor in Texas who might be able to help them.
The next day, we began our long airplane journey out of Liberia and into Houston. Exhausted by the time we checked into our hotel, we slept until dinnertime the next evening. Quickly grabbing fast food for dinner, we then headed out to Rojas’s shack. During the long drive to McAllen, Chibueze and Emma told me more about their condition, what it felt like, what it involved.