The Devil's Game

by Daniel Patterson

  Simon ignored Branson’s outstretched hand. “Ah, the other priest. So, you’re going to stop me, are you?”

  Branson shook his head. “Yes, but not just me. I have friends. One friend is a man who works at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Good to have contacts, don’t you think? Anyway. He was mighty interested in this new brand of medication. S’Wellness, the stuff is called. Dumb name, if you ask me. It contains a rather deadly ingredient. It’s supposed to be making people better, but it has just enough of this ingredient to keep them sick. And even kill if they take too much of it. It has been recalled as of this morning.”

  Branson’s eyes gleamed, his smile bright against his dark skin. Simon’s smile, on the other hand, slipped further and further as Branson spoke.

  “The CDC, FDA, and the New York Department of Health have all issued national safety alerts and the product is being pulled from all shelves. Won’t take long because, for some reason Harmony is the only town that carries it. Isn’t that odd?”

  Branson took a step closer to Simon and lifted his hands up, not in a gesture of surrender, but as a posture for prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” he said in a loud voice, “we rebuke Satan this day in Your name. We demand that Ol’ Scratch remove himself from this town. He is no longer welcome here.”

  And then Simon’s face twisted. Twisted into something not quite human.

  “You still lost,” Simon growled in a voice that was no longer his own.

  James stepped up, side by side with Branson, and raised his hands in the same posture. “Lord, Jesus we know that your path is righteous, and on that path we walk. In Your name, we rebuke Satan. He is no longer welcome in Harmony.”

  Simon gritted his teeth and clenched the brim of his hat.

  “You won’t kill anymore,” James said, more directly. “In the name of Jesus Christ we rebuke you Satan.”

  Simon’s face slipped back to its human shape.

  “You two think you’re so smart,” Simon screamed at them. “You think you’ve beaten me? Ha! You can’t beat me! You can’t stop me! You of all people should know that.” Simon grabbed hold of the side mirror of the SUV he’s been leaning on and gripped it harder and harder as he ranted, twisting it as though it were made of putty. It dropped to the ground and he stalked away into the early afternoon light.

  James looked down at the mirror and saw the handprint burned into the plastic. “I hope they have insurance for that.”

  “You okay?” Branson asked.

  James nodded. “I am.” But he couldn’t help feel that in this war, the devil might still be somehow winning.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  JAMES SWALLOWED A LUMP in his throat as he replayed their conversation with Simon over in his head. “You really have a friend at the CDC? I hope that wasn’t a bluff.”

  “Not a bluff. My good friend, George Lehman is an epidemiologist. He works in New York, for a special branch of the CDC called the Epidemic Intelligence Service: E-I-S. You know how those government folk love their acronyms. Anyway, George is the go-to guy whenever there is an odd disease outbreak. He’s a first responder.”

  “And you just happen to know this guy?” James couldn’t believe their luck. “I thought you were bluffing for sure.”

  “Nope. We served in the Gulf War together.”

  “So what exactly did your friend discover?”

  “Like I was telling our friend . . . this S’Wellness brand medicine is making people sick. You were right. It’s not even real medicine.”

  James looked at him, incredulous. “How is it being sold then?”

  “It’s being marketed as a homeopathic vaccine.”

  “Like a flu vaccine?”

  “Similar but not as safe and definitely not as regulated. George said these homeopathic preparations are made from bodily tissues and fluids taken from patients suffering from a disease. That sample is then sterilized and serially diluted, often to the point where no active ingredient remains. The problem is this particular concoction still contains a minute amount of the H1N1 virus.”

  “H1N1 virus?”

  “The swine flu,” Branson explained. “The same strain that killed an estimated fifty million people worldwide during 1918 flu pandemic.”

  “And this H1N1 virus is in the S’Wellness medicine?”

  “Yep.”

  “You think Simon—?”

  Branson nodded. “Probably so. Satan or not, he is evil. It’s a serious strain of the flu. And knowingly distributing it would make it domestic terrorism.”

  James tried to absorb all of this new information.

  “Problem is they still don’t have a way to connect Simon to this mess,” Branson continued. “And no one knows how this S’Wellness company got a hold of the virus or how it got into the medicine. It could have even been added by accident, which is why they need to locate the manufacturing plant.”

  “So there are people doing that now, right?”

  “George was on the phone with Washington when I left him at my church. They issued a national bulletin, but no one seems to know where the plant is. There’s no record of this S’Wellness company ever existing. It might not be a big factory, you know. It could even be someone’s garage or basement.”

  “What about a local pharmacy?” James asked.

  Branson narrowed his eyes. “That would make sense. They would have most of the equipment right there. What are you thinking?”

  James could no longer stand still. He began to pace. “I bought that bottle of S’Wellness for Amy at Philip Falcone’s pharmacy . . . Philip’s wife died last night of the flu. And I found a bottle of it in the hospital room with John Colmenero’s wife. I asked John where he got it and he said Philip gave it to him.”

  “Philip, huh? He strikes you as the type to instigate chemical warfare?”

  “No, but lots of people are doing things they wouldn’t normally do lately. Myself included.” James shuddered at the memory of waking up in the hospital with his mind a total blank. “Simon could have dosed him with scopolamine, like he did to me.”

  “George said the medicine was distributed in a very localized area.”

  “You don’t get more local than the center of town,” James said.

  The two men locked eyes before wordlessly getting into James’ car. They had to get to the pharmacy. Philip could be in danger, or he could even be a real enemy. He might be preparing to release more of the virus. They had to move quickly.

  “I’m calling George. I’ll have him meet us at Falcone’s.” Branson said.

  “With the power of God and the power of the law we are going to beat this!” James added.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  JAMES PARKED HIS JETTA in the nearly empty lot of Falcone’s pharmacy under a glowing neon closed sign. The only other car was Phillip’s.

  “Where is your friend?” James asked.

  “George will be here. It takes a few minutes to organize the cavalry . . .”

  “We’ve got to get in there now, Branson.”

  “Hold on son, we don’t know what we’re dealing with in there. We need to wait for George and his team.”

  “The more people, the more complicated it becomes. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I’m not waiting,” James said, getting out of the car. “I know Philip and if he is in there, I can talk to him.”

  Branson got out with him. He didn’t bother to argue—he just peered into the windows of the darkened pharmacy and tried the door. It was locked. “Well, we’re not going in the front door. Is there another way into this place?”

  “I’ve seen trucks come to the back. There must be a delivery entrance there,” James suggested.

  “Okay, we’ll check it out. But, I want you to stay behind me,” Branson said. “I’ve had a little more experience with this sort of thing.”

  James followed his friend around the corner of the quiet building and into a narrow drive that butted up against the back of the building. There was a lo
ading dock and a small brown door.

  Branson turned to James with his finger in front of his lips, as they crept stealthily toward the door. James was happy to let Branson, an ex-serviceman, lead the way. His friend’s sturdy exterior and calm manner made him feel safe, especially sneaking around a building.

  Branson tried the knob. It turned easily, so he eased the door open. Thankfully, the door was well-oiled and didn’t squeak. James followed him into a short, white-tiled hallway. Branson’s feet made no sound even though he was wearing heavy boots.

  The hallway ended abruptly and opened into a small workspace lit by a solitary lamp. Philip Falcone sat on the floor rocking back and forth, holding a bottle of S’Wellness and crying.

  James stepped forward.

  “Philip?” He called gently to the distraught pharmacist.

  Philip looked up and saw James. “Please tell me God will forgive me,” he sobbed. “I thought it would help her. I thought I could help everyone. I got everything right. Why didn’t it work?”

  James knelt in front of him and tried to look him in the eyes, but Philip looked as if he hadn’t stopped crying from the night before. His eyes rolled in his head and then he squeezed them shut.

  “Philip, I’m sorry about Melissa,” James said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “But I need you to tell me what’s going on here. Where did you get this medicine?”

  “It’s not medicine, it’s not,” he choked and coughed the words. “It was supposed to be, it was supposed to help her. But it didn’t. It didn’t help her.” He opened his eyes—a blood vessel had popped in one of them, giving it a dark red hue. “I failed her. Tell me I’ll be forgiven.”

  James grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently. “Philip, I need you to focus! Where did the medicine come from? I need to know right now.”

  Philip blinked up at him like a stunned owl. “I formulated it here,” he waved his arm toward his workstation, complete with a mortar and pestle and some glassware suspended over burners. It reminded James of his high school chemistry class.

  Branson turned on his heel and went into the narrow hallway. James could hear him speaking into his cell phone updating George.

  “Philip where did you get the virus?”

  Philip stopped sobbing and looked up at James confused. “Virus? What virus?”

  “The CDC analyzed your medicine and found it contains the H1N1 virus.”

  Philip looked genuinely confused. “H1N1? I don’t understand. How could it?”

  “It is making people sick, Philip. Where did you get the ingredients?”

  Philip held his head in his hands and started sobbing again. “I formulated the medicine myself. Everything is off the shelf or over-the-counter. How could it be bad for people?”

  “George has a Hazardous Materials crew on the way to shut this place down,” Branson said, reentering the room. “He’s still ten minutes out and wants us to stay put until his team gets here. I suppose it’s a good thing we found this manufacturing facility so quickly.”

  “Manufacturing facility?” Philip asked. “This isn’t the manufacturing facility.”

  James was confused. “Philip, you said you made the medicine yourself.”

  “I formulated it here. It’s manufactured at the plant.”

  Branson lost his patience and his military persona took over. He crouched in front of Philip and grabbed him by the lapels of his lab coat and half-lifted him from the ground. “Who hired you? What are they planning?”

  “I-I never met them, it was just some investors. They hired me to create the formula and develop an aerosol delivery system. They said it was going to revolutionize the health industry.”

  “Aerosol version?” Branson’s voice turned deadly cold. He shook Philip again, “I need you to straighten up and tell me what I need to know. Where is it being manufactured?”

  “At the old meat packing plant, out on State Route 345, about fifteen minutes outside of town.” He turned his bloodshot eyes to James. “I would never hurt anyone. I just wanted to help! You believe me, right?”

  Branson shook the man again, more violently this time. “What are they planning?”

  “They were supposed to ship out the aerosol tonight. But I told them it didn’t work. They didn’t listen. Said they made changes and only need my delivery system. Oh God, what have I done?”

  James’ heart skipped a beat. Simon must have added the H1N1 virus and now he had an airborne delivery system.

  “What time? What time do the shipments go out?” Branson asked, setting Philip back on the ground.

  “Five o’clock. At five o’clock trucks with the latest batch of S’Wellness are going out. The aerosol version, I mean.”

  James looked at the clock on the wall. They had less than twenty minutes. Simon had asked him to leave town several times and James had refused. So this was what Simon had been planning. He had to be stopped. If that virus gets airborne . . .

  Every time they were close to figuring this out, it got stranger and more dangerous. There was so much on the line. How could he, a simple small town pastor, possibly fight a power like Simon’s? Goodness would triumph over evil, but how was he going to stop this horrible thing from happening?

  As if he knew what James was thinking, Branson held out a hand to James. “We are not alone.”

  James took his mentor’s hand and was energized once again. He was still scared, but they had God’s grace on their side.

  The next instant, the small workspace came alive with a blinding light and a piercing sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.

  James crouched, clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut against the disorienting chaos.

  Before he had a chance to react, James was being thrown to the floor and his arms pulled roughly behind his back and fastened with some sort of zip-tie.

  James opened his eyes. Everything was a blur. His ears were ringing and his other senses were dulled—was he dreaming?

  What was happening?

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A DOZEN ARMED MEN wearing body armor and gas masks had entered Falcone’s pharmacy. Several of them had weapons. Two of them picked up Philip, who seemed to be unconscious. Two more were carrying Branson, who looked James in the eye and mouthed something unintelligible to him as he passed by.

  Branson was not resisting and James followed suit as he too was picked up and carried from the room. Other men wearing white coveralls complete with hoods were flowing in.

  Outside, James was deposited face down on the grassy area next to the sidewalk beside Branson and Philip. A young man wearing a military uniform and a no-nonsense expression on his face stood over them with a deadly looking rifle.

  James turned his head and could see that the parking lot was now full of military-looking vehicles and vans marked CDC and HAZ-MAT. Men in white coveralls were everywhere, even on the roof. James watched, fascinated as the little pharmacy was covered in plastic sheeting, like a home being fumigated for termites.

  Gradually, his hearing began to return.

  Men were barking orders, and powerful generators filled the air with a rough mechanical hum and a faint smell of diesel fuel.

  “Where are they?” a voice said.

  “This way, sir . . .” replied another.

  Footsteps approached.

  “Well, it’s about time,” said Branson.

  “You’ve looked better,” said the second, gruff voice.

  “I’ve felt better too.”

  “Release them,” said the gruff voice, and the young, no-nonsense guard bent down and cut the plastic restraints.

  James rolled onto his back rubbing the soreness out of his wrists, not ready to attempt getting up just yet.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” said Gruff, motioning toward Philip.

  “The stun grenade knocked him out, sir. He’s been unconscious since we took them into custody, sir,” answered No-Nonsense.

  James turned his atten
tion to Philip lying next to him.

  “Why isn’t he getting medical care?” barked Gruff.

  “He’s breathing, sir. Other than that. Things have been hectic sir.”

  “I want him more than breathing, soldier. I want him talking. This man may be the key to this whole operation.”

  The young soldier left in search of a medic.

  “You Buchman?” Gruff asked, with an outstretched hand to James.

  “I am.” James took the man’s hand and found it matched his appearance—cold, unyielding, and strong—definitely ex-military, and let himself be pulled to his feet.

  “Name’s George, George Lehman.”

  “Thanks for coming George,” Branson said and shook his hand as well. “I see you’ve brought friends.”

  Young soldier returned with a couple of paramedics who began examining Philip.

  “This man is not to leave your sight, soldier,” George told him. “Stay with him and have someone come get me the moment he can talk.” He turned back to James and Branson. “I’d love to stand around and chit chat, gentlemen, but you see I have work to do here.”

  “Perhaps we can—” Branson began.

  George cut him off. “Sorry, friend. This is far too dangerous for civilians.”

  “But this isn’t the—”

  “You and Buchman need to vacate the premises. We’ll handle it from here.” With that, he turned on his heels and walked away.

  James and Branson looked at each other.

  “What about the plant?” James asked.

  “I’ll call him from the road,” Branson said. “We haven’t much time . . .”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  JAMES DIDN’T KNOW WHAT they would do once they got to the old packing plant, but they had to do something. And it was likely that they were better equipped to battle Simon than the CDC was. This was going to be a case of spiritual warfare, not chemical warfare.