by Steve Alten
Isolation is easier.
Straight A’s open doors, lab work offers salvation. Mary has talent. The Defense Department sets up an interview. Fort Detrick needs her. Good pay and government benefits. The research is challenging. After a few years, she’ll be assigned to a Level-4 containment lab where she can work with some of the most dangerous biological substances on the planet.
The little voice agrees. Mary takes the job. The career shall define a life less lived.
In time, the dreams change.
* * *
The discovery had been unearthed in Montpellier. The archaeological team in charge of the dig required the services of a microbiologist experienced in working with exotic agents.
Montpellier is located six miles from the Mediterranean Sea. It is a town steeped in history and tradition, haunted by a nightmare shared by the entire Eurasian continent.
The archaeological dig was a mass grave — a communal pit that dated back to 1348. Six-and-a-half centuries had stripped away organs and flesh, leaving behind an entanglement of bones. Three thousand men, women, and children. The bodies had been discarded in haste by their tortured loved ones whose grief was rendered secondary to their own terrifying fear.
Plague: the Black Death.
The Great Mortality.
Three hundred people a day had perished in London. Six hundred a day in Venice. It had ravaged Montpellier, killing off 90 percent of the townspeople. In only a few short years, the Black Death had reduced the continent’s population from 80 million people to 30 million — all in an era where transportation was limited to horse and foot.
How had it killed so effectively? How had it spread so fast?
In charge of the excavation was Didier Raoult, a professor of medicine at the Mediterranean University in Marseilles. Raoult discovered that pulp tissue found inside the remains of plague victims’ teeth, preserved in many of the unearthed skulls, could yield DNA evidence that would, for the first time, unlock the mystery.
Mary set to work. The culprit was Yersinia pestis—bubonic plague. A pestilence delivered from Hell. Extreme pain. High fever, chills, and welts. Followed by swelling of the bulbous — black golf-ball-sized protrusions that appeared on the victims’ necks and groins. In due course, the infected internal organs failed, often bleeding out.
A thirteenth-century nursery rhyme provided vivid clues as to how quickly the Black Death had spread: Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, at-shoo, at-shoo, we all fall down. One sneeze, and plague infected a household, eventually the entire village, wiping out its unsuspecting prey within days.
Impressed with her work, Didier Raoult presented Mary with a parting gift — a copy of a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written during the Great Plague by the Pope’s personal surgeon, Guy de Chauliac. Translated from its original French, the diary detailed the Great Mortality’s near eradication of the human species during the years 1346 through 1348.
Mary returned to Fort Detrick with de Chauliac’s journal and samples of the 666-year-old killer. The Department of Defense was intrigued. The DoD claimed they wanted protection for American soldiers in case of a biological attack. Thirty-one-year-old Mary Louise Klipot was promoted and placed in charge of the new project, dubbed Scythe.
Within a year, the CIA took over funding and Scythe disappeared off the books.
* * *
Mary awakens before the alarm sounds. Her belly gurgles. Her blood pressure drops. She barely makes it to the toilet in time.
Mary has been sick for a week. Andrew assured her it was just the flu. Andrew Bradosky was her lab tech. Thirty-nine. Boyishly charming and easy on the eyes. She had selected him from a pool of workers not because he was qualified but because she could read him. Even his attempts to foster a social relationship outside the lab were calculated toward promotion. The trip to Cancún last April was a welcome diversion, granted only after he acknowledged her rules of celibacy. Mary was saving herself for marriage. Andrew had no interest in marriage, but he did make good eye candy.
Mary dresses quickly. Cotton scrubs simplified her wardrobe choices. Loose-fitting clothing made for better choices in a BSL-4 suite and the environmental suit she wore for hours at a time.
Toast and jam were all her upset stomach could tolerate. This morning she would see the department physician. Not that she wanted to go. But she was sick, and standard operating procedure when working with exotic agents required routine checkups. Driving to work, she assured herself that it was probably just the flu. Andrew could be right. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
* * *
She hated waiting. Why were patients always relegated to antiseptic exam rooms with paper-lined cushioned tables and old issues of Golf Digest? And these exam gowns… had she ever worn one that actually fit? Did she have to be reminded that she needed to lose weight? She vowed to hit the gym after work, then quickly dismissed the notion. She had far too much work to do, and Andrew as usual was behind on his duties. She considered bringing in a new technician, but worried about the innuendo.
The door opened and Roy Katzin entered, the physician’s expression too upbeat to conceal bad news. “So. We’ve run the gamut of tests using the most sophisticated machines taxpayer money can buy, and we think we’ve nailed down the source of your symptoms.”
“I already know, it’s the flu. Dr. Gagnon had it a few weeks ago and—”
“Mary, it’s not the flu. You’re pregnant.”
August
“All sickness comes from anger.”
— Eliyahu Jian
Manhattan, New York
The dashboard clock that had clung to 7:56 A.M. had somehow leapfrogged to 8:03 A.M. in the blink of time it had taken the intense brunette driving the Dodge minivan to negotiate her way across a minefield of moving traffic on the southbound lanes of the Major Deegan Expressway.
Now officially late, she managed to wedge herself in the right lane behind the carbon-monoxide-spewing ass end of a Greyhound bus. The gods of rush hour mocked her, vehicle after vehicle passing her on the left. Engaging the only available tool in her arsenal, she struck the steering wheel with both palms, the long blast of horn intended to rattle the nerves of the steel cow grazing in front of her.
Instead, the hold music on the hands-free cell phone animated into a Zen-like male voice bearing a rhythmically sweet Hindu accent that greeted her with, “Good morning. Thank you for holding. May I ask who I am speaking to?”
“Leigh Nelson.”
“Thank you Mrs. Nelson. For security purposes, may I have your mother’s maiden name?”
“Deem.”
8:06 A.M.
“Thank you for that information. And how may I help you today?”
“How may you help me? Your freakin’ bank put a freakin’ hold on my freakin’ husband’s last deposit, causing eight of my checks to bounce, for which you then charged me $35 per check, severely overdrafting my account, and now I’m freaking out!”
“I am sorry this happened.”
“No you’re not.”
8:11 A.M.
“I see your husband’s check was deposited on the fourth.”
She inches over to the right shoulder beyond the carbon-stained, vision-impairing Greyhound bus. The FDR South exit ramp remained a hundred yards ahead, the narrow shoulder lane all that separated her trapped vehicle from liberating freedom. She contemplated the opportunity like Cool Hand Luke working on a chain gang.
Shakin’ it here, boss.
She accelerated through the opening, only to be cut off by a black Lexus whose driver shared the same idea. Brakes! Horn! Middle finger!
“The check will clear on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday’s bullshit. Since when do you put a week’s hold on a General Motors deposit?”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, this is a new bank policy on all out-of-state checks.”
“Listen to me. My husband just lost his job. His unemployment won’t kick in for anoth
er four weeks. At least refund the bounced-check fees.”
“Again, I am sorry, but I cannot change bank policy.”
Now Luke, seems to me what we got here is a failure to communicate.
“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry the government bailed your asses out with $800 billion of our tax money!”
“Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”
“Sure! Which part of freakin’ India does he live in?”
9:17 A.M.
The Dodge minivan crawled past construction traffic on East 25th Street. Turned into the staff lot of the Veterans Administration hospital. Parked in a spot at an angle sure to annoy the owner of the car on the right.
The brunette wrenched the rearview mirror sideways. Rushed mascara through the lashes of her gray-blue eyes. Dabbed makeup on her pug nose. Smeared a fresh coat of a neutral lipstick over her thick lips. Stole a quick glance at the clock, then grabbed her leather briefcase from the toddler’s car seat and hustled out of the minivan to the emergency entrance, praying she will not cross paths with the hospital administrator.
Double doors slid open, greeting her with cooled air tainted with the scent of the sick. The waiting area was standing room only. Coughs and crutches and crying infants diverted by The Today Show, broadcast on wall-mounted flat screens, secured to cinder block by steel cable.
She looked away, moving past admittance desks and attitudes. Halfway down the main corridor, she paused to slip on her white lab coat, attracting the attention of a tall Indian man in his early forties. He fought to catch his breath. “Please… how do I get to ICU?”
His torn expression quelled her urge to vent, his appearance assuring her he is not the bank employee she spoke with earlier. Perspiration-stained dress shirt. Bow tie. Right pant leg coiffed with a rubber band. An academic visiting a sick colleague. Probably rode over from campus on his bicycle. “Follow the corridor to the left. Take the elevators up to the seventh floor.”
“Thank you.”
“Dr. Nelson!”
Jonathan Clark’s voice caused her to jump.
“Late again? Let me guess… traffic backup in New Jersey? No wait, today’s Monday. Mondays are child-rearing conflicts.”
“I don’t have child-rearing conflicts, sir. I have two adorable children, the younger is autistic. This morning she decided to paint the cat with oatmeal. Doug’s interviewing for a job, my babysitter called out sick from Wildwood and—”
“Dr. Nelson, you are familiar with my philosophy regarding excuses. There’s never been a successful person who needed one, and—?”
Her blood pressure ticked up a notch. “There’s never been a failure who lacked one.”
“I’m docking you half a day’s pay. Now get to work, and don’t forget — we have a staff meeting at six.”
Pick your battles, Luke. “Yes, boss.”
Leigh Nelson escaped down the hall to her office. Tossed her briefcase on top of a file cabinet and collapsed into the creaky wooden chair perpetually teetering on its off-center base, her blood pressure set on broil.
Mondays at the VA were mental bear traps. Mondays made her yearn for her tomboy days back on her grandfather’s pig farm in Parkersburg, West Virginia.
It had been a challenging summer. The Veterans Administration’s New York Harbor Healthcare System consisted of three campuses — in Brooklyn, Queens, and her own Manhattan East Side. In an attempt to save what amounted to pocket change, Congress had decided they could only afford two prosthetic treatment centers. This despite two ongoing wars and yet another surge. A million dollars per fighting soldier, pennies to treat his wounds. Had Washington gone insane? Were these people living in the real world?
Certainly not in her world.
Longer hours, same pay. Soldier on, Nelson. Suck it up and repeat the mantra: Be glad you still have a job.
Leigh Nelson hated Mondays.
* * *
Twenty minutes, a dozen e-mails, and half a leftover donut later, and she was ready to sift through the patient files stacked on her desk. She was barely through the second folder when Geoff Payne entered her office.
“Morning, Pouty Lips. Heard you got caught on the last train to Clarksville.”
“I’m busy, Geoff. State your business.”
The director of admissions handed her a personnel file. “New arrival from Germany. Patrick Shepherd, sergeant, United States Marines, age thirty-four. Another IED amputee, only this poor schmuck actually picked the device up in his hand when it went off. Complete removal of the left arm just below the biceps insertion. Add to that bruising and swelling at the base of his brain, a collapsed left lung, three broken ribs, and a dislocated collarbone. He’s still suffering from bouts of vertigo, headaches, and severe memory lapses.”
“Post-traumatic stress?”
“Bad as it gets. His psychosocial diagnosis is in the file. He’s not responding to anti-depression meds, and he’s refused counseling. His doctors in Germany had him on round-the-clock suicide watch.”
Leigh opened the folder. She glanced at the PTSD evaluation, then read the patient’s military history aloud. “Four deployments: Al-Qaim, Haditha, Fallujah, and Ramadi, plus a stint at Abu Ghraib. Christ, this one took a tour of Hell. Has he been fitted for a prosthetic?”
“Not yet. Read his personal history, you’ll find it especially interesting.”
She scanned the paragraph. “Really? He played professional baseball?”
“Pitched for the Red Sox.”
“Well, then, take your time ordering the prosthetic.”
Geoff smiled. “We got off lucky. This kid would have been a Yankee killer. First year up, he’s a rookie sensation, eight months later he’s in Iraq.”
“He was that good?”
“He was a star in the making. I remember reading about him in Sports Illustrated. Boston drafted him as a low-round pick in ’98, no one gave him a shot at sticking around. Three years later, he’s dominating hitters in Single A. The Sox lost one of their starters, and suddenly the kid’s pitching in the majors.”
“He jumped from Single A to the majors in one season? Damn.”
“The rookie had ice water in his veins. Fans nicknamed him the Boston Strangler. First game up he pitches a two-hitter against the Yanks, that made him a cult hero with Red Sox Nation. Second game he goes nine innings and gives up one unearned run before the Sox lost the game in the tenth. His rematch with the Yankees was penciled in for mid-September, only 9/11 happened. By the time the season resumed, he was gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“He flaked out. Left the Sox and enlisted in the Marine Corps… crazy schmuck.”
“The bio says he’s married with a daughter. Where’s his family now?”
“She left him. He won’t talk about it, but a few of the vets remember hearing rumors. They say his wife took the kid and split after he enlisted. She was probably pissed off, who could blame her. Instead of being married to a future multimillionaire and sports celebrity, she’s stuck raising her little girl alone, surviving on an enlisted man’s pay grade. Sad really, but we see it all the time. Relationships and deployments have never made for a good marriage.”
“Wait… he hasn’t seen his family since the war began?”
“Again, he won’t talk about it. Maybe it’s for the best. After all this guy’s been through, I wouldn’t want to be sleeping next to him when he starts dreaming about combat. Remember what Stansbury did to his old lady?”
“God, don’t remind me. Where’s the sergeant now?”
“Finishing up his physical. Want to meet him?”
“Assign him to Ward 27, I’ll catch up with him later.”
Intensive Care Unit
Seventh floor
The room smelled. Bedpans and ammonia. Disease and death. A way station to the grave.
Pankaj Patel stood by the foot of the ICU bed, staring at the elderly man’s face. Cancer and chemotherapy had combined to drain the life force from his mentor’s p
hysical being. His face was pale and gaunt. Skin hung from his bones. The eye sockets were brown and sunken.
“Jerrod, I am so sorry. I was in India with my family. I came as soon as I heard.”
Jerrod Mahurin opened his eyes, the sight of his protégé stirring him into consciousness. “No… not there! Stand by my side, Pankaj… quickly.”
Patel moved to the left side of the professor’s bed. “What is it? Did you see something?”
The elderly man closed his eyes, gathering his last reserves of strength. “The Angel of Death waits for my soul at the foot of the bed. You were too close. Very dangerous.”
Unnerved, Patel turned to look back at the empty space. “You saw him? The Angel of Death?”
“No time.” Jerrod reached out to his protégé with his left hand, the pale flesh baby soft, marked by a minefield of telltale bruises from a dozen IV drips. “You’ve been an exceptional student, my son, but there is far more to this sliver of physicality we call life. Everything you see is but an illusion, our journey a test, and we are failing miserably. The imbalance is tipping the scales to favor evil over good, darkness over the Light. Politics, greed, the capitalism of warfare. And yet everything we have stood against are merely symptoms. What drives a man to act immorally? To rape a woman? Sodomize a child? How can one human being commit murder, or order the deaths of tens of thousands… even millions of innocent people without a single spark of conscience? To find the real answers, you need to focus on the root cause of the disease.”
The elderly man closed his eyes, pausing to swallow a lump of mucus. “There is a direct cause-and-effect relationship in play, a relationship between the negative force and the levels of violence and greed that have once more risen to plague humankind. Man continues to be seduced by the immediate gratification of his ego, moving us farther away from God’s Light. Mankind’s collective actions have summoned the Angel of Death, and with it, the End of Days.”