Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  “Hey, asshole, ever hear of the First Amendment?”

  What the members of the media never saw was that the police officers who had been forming a gauntlet against the protesters were also being sequestered, their weapons tagged and confiscated. After being told by health officials that their actions were merely a minor precaution against a possible swine flu outbreak, the law-enforcement detail was led inside a triage center, one of four mobile Army tents now occupying the plaza. Isolated in small, plastic-curtained compartments, the unnerved police officers were reassured that everything was fine, even as medical teams in white Racal suits moved from one cop to the next, performing a thorough physical examination.

  “He’s clean. Escort him to the observation tent.”

  “This one’s fine.”

  “This one’s running a slight fever.”

  “My kids have the flu… it’s nothing.”

  “Treatment tent. Run full blood and hair analysis, then start him on antibiotics.”

  “Doctor, you’d better take a look at this one.”

  Officer Gary Beck was seated on the linoleum floor, his riot gear by his side. He was sweating profusely, his complexion a pasty gray… and he was coughing up blood.

  “Isolation tent, STAT! Alert Captain Zwawa. I want full blood and hair analysis in ten minutes, followed by—”

  The officer dropped to all fours and retched.

  “Seal the compartment!”

  “Triage-3 to base. We need a mobile isolation unit and a cleanup detail, STAT.”

  VA Medical Center

  East Side, Manhattan

  10:21 A.M.

  Leigh Nelson led her semiconscious patient inside the private room on the sixth floor. “Not too shabby, huh? Partial view of Manhattan, private bathroom—”

  She watched Patrick Shepherd stumble in a Xanax-induced stupor around the room. He looked beneath the bed and between the mattresses. He searched inside the bed-table drawers and the closet… even behind the toilet.

  “Baby doll, it’s safe. And it’s all yours. Now be a good boy and lie down, you’re making me a nervous wreck.”

  The warm numbness was spreading, calming the waves of anxiety, weakening his resolve. He sat down on the bed, his body sinking into liquid lead. “Leigh, listen to me… are you listening?”

  “Yes, baby doll, I’m listening.”

  “Do you know what true love is?”

  “Tell me.”

  He looked up at her, his dilated eyes swimming in tears. “Boundless emptiness.”

  Leigh swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Shep, you need to talk with somebody… someone who can help you cope with what you’re feeling. DeBorn’s sending over a specialist. Before you speak with Bea, I think it’s important you talk with him.”

  “Why? So he can tell me to move on? To let her go?”

  “No, sweetie. So you can get some clarity. Put your life in perspective.”

  He motioned to the box of personal belongings sitting on the desk. “Bea’s book… get it for me.”

  She sorted through the cardboard container, retrieving the copy of Dante’s Inferno.

  “Read the opening canto… the first few lines.”

  She opened the book to the Divine Comedy’s first stanza and read aloud: “About halfway through the course of my pathetic life, I woke up and found myself in a stupor in some dark place. I’m not sure how I ended up there, I guess I had taken… a few wrong turns.” She glanced at Patrick. “Is this supposed to be you?”

  He pointed to a framed painting of a beach house, the tropical scene providing the only color in the room. “That was supposed to be me.” He closed his eyes, fading fast. “Now this is all I have to show for my pathetic life… trapped in purgatory. Hell awaits.”

  “I don’t believe in Hell.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been there. I have.” He lay back on the bed. “Been there four times. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, it drags me back again. It soils you. It stains the soul. I won’t let it stain my family.” His words began to slur. “DeBorn… Tell him no. Tell him ta go fuh…”

  The eyeballs flitted beneath the lids, his larynx rumbling into a soothing snore.

  * * *

  The beach house is open and airy, the A-frame living room’s ceiling paneled in wood. Fifteen-foot-high bay windows reveal a deck and pool out back, and just beyond that the Atlantic Ocean.

  The Realtor opens the French doors, filling the house with a salty breeze and the soothing sound of crashing waves. "Atlantic Beach is a quaint little seaside village, you'll love it here. The house is Mediterranean, five bedrooms, six baths, plus the guest house. It's an absolute steal at $2.1 million.”

  Patrick turns to his better half. “So?”

  The blonde-haired beauty balances their two-year-old daughter on her right hip. “Shep, we don’t need all this.”

  “Who cares about need? I’m a big-league pitcher now.”

  “You pitched two games.”

  “But my agent says the endorsement deals he’s working on will pay for three beach houses.”

  “It’s so far from the city.”

  “Babe, this’ll be our summer home. We’ll still have our condo in the city.”

  “Boston or New York?”

  “I dunno. Maybe both.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re insane.”

  “No, no, your husband’s right.” The Realtor flashes a reassuring smile. “Real estate remains the best investment around, property values can only go up. There’s no way you can go wrong.”

  “That’s great to know.” She switches the curly-haired toddler to her other hip. “Can my husband and I have a moment to talk in private?”

  “Of course. But I have another buyer looking at the house in twenty minutes, so don’t be too long.” She heads out to the pool deck, leaving the door open so she can eavesdrop.

  The blonde slams it shut.

  Shep smiles defensively. “Husband. I love that.”

  “Let’s be clear. We’re not married yet, and we won’t be if I catch you flirting with any more cheerleaders.”

  “They weren’t cheerleaders, and I told you, I wasn’t flirting. It was just a photo shoot for Hooters.”

  “Those twins had their hooters in your face when I walked in.”

  “It’s my job, babe. Part of the new image. You know, the ‘Boston Strangler.’”

  The blonde sneers in disgust. “Who are you? Your ego’s so out of control, I barely recognize you anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? This is what we wanted… we’re living the dream.”

  “Your dream, not mine. I don’t want to be married to some egomaniac, wondering whose bed he’s sleeping in when he’s not in mine.”

  “That’s not fair. I’ve never cheated on you.”

  “No, but you’re tempted. Face it, Shep, we’ve been together since we were kids. Tell me you’re not the least bit curious about being with another woman, especially now, when they’re practically throwing themselves at you.”

  He says nothing, unable to lie to her.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going back to Boston with our daughter while you decide if you’d rather get some strange from the Ooh-La-La twins or be tied down to a family. Better get it out of your system now. I don’t want you waking up three or five or ten years from now, thinking you made a mistake.” Grabbing the baby’s diaper bag, she heads for the door.

  “Honey, wait—”

  The blonde turns around, tears in her eyes. “Just remember, Patrick Shepherd, sometimes you don’t really appreciate the things you have until you lose them.”

  Patrick moaned into his pillow, unable to shake himself loose from the drug-induced sleep.

  United Nations

  General Assembly Building

  10:28 A.M.

  A shaken Jeffrey Cook, head of the United Nations Department of Safety and Security (UNDSS) led the seven men dress
ed in Racal suits, full-face rebreathers, boots, and heavy gloves into the General Assembly Building’s control room. “Can I have your attention please?”

  A dozen pairs of eyes looked up from their security monitors.

  “This is Captain Zwawa from the infectious disease lab in Fort Detrick. He needs our help with a possible security breach.”

  “Jesus, what’s going on?”

  “Is the air safe to breathe?”

  “Are we under attack?”

  “Stay calm.” Jay Zwawa held up the copy of the USAMIRIID identity photos. “We need you to locate this man and woman. One or both may have entered one of the United Nations buildings as early as eight o’clock this morning. We need to know which buildings they entered, who they came in contact with, and whether they left the building.”

  Zwawa’s team passed around copies of Mary Klipot and Andrew Bradosky’s photo to each technician, along with a CD.

  “The CD file contains the suspects’ DNA markers. Run it through your surveillance system and search for a match. Start with the General Assembly Building before moving on to the rest of the UN complex.”

  “Who are they? Are we in any danger?”

  “Shouldn’t we be wearing protective suits, too?”

  “The suits are a precaution for my frontliners. As long as you remain in this room, you’ll be fine.”

  One of the techs looked worried. “I took a bathroom break about ten minutes ago.”

  “One of our medical staff will check you out.”

  “Medical staff? My God, is there a biological alert?”

  “Easy. We’re not even sure the suspects entered the UN complex.”

  The technicians inserted the CDs into their computer hard drives and cross-checked facial markers, using the morning surveillance tapes.

  Jeffrey Cook pulled Captain Zwawa aside. “Your men are blocking the exits. You can’t do that.”

  “It’s a security precaution. No one leaves the UN complex without being checked.”

  “Checked for what?”

  “You’ll know if and when I decide to tell you. Let’s hope it’s not an issue.”

  “What about the diplomats? The heads of state? You can’t tell these people they’re not allowed to leave. They have diplomatic immunity.”

  “No one leaves unless they’re medically cleared. Those orders are backed by the Pentagon and the White House.”

  “What about the president? Are you going to tell him he can’t leave?”

  “The president’s here?”

  “He’s in the General Assembly Hall, addressing the Security Council as we speak.”

  “Got her!”

  All heads turned to Cameron Hughes, a wheelchair-bound security technician. Jeffrey Cook hovered over the man’s shoulder, staring at the frozen black-and-white partially blurred image on his monitor. The computer pixelized, sharpening its genetic markers until Mary Louise Klipot’s face appeared ominously on-screen.

  “Cam, where was this taken?”

  “Main entrance. Aw hell, look at the time code… 9:11.”

  Sweat dripped from Captain Zwawa’s face. He fought the urge to tear the stifling hood from his head. “Fast-forward the tape. Where does she go?”

  The image jumped from one angle to the next, following Mary Klipot through several checkpoints until she entered the General Assembly Hall. They lost her inside the darkened auditorium.

  “Get a security detail—”

  “Sir, wait!” The image switched back to the corridor. “Look, she exited. See? She’s speaking with security. Heading for the elevators.”

  The weight of time registered like extra gravity upon Jay Zwawa. He was an hour behind the eight ball, every minute of tape revealing another potentially infected victim, every second that went by allowing Scythe to spread throughout the United Nations complex.

  “This is taking too long. Accelerate the tape, I need to know if she’s still in the building. Cook, we’ll need the names of every person she came in contact with, then I want the names of every person those people came in contact with.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re talking hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. I don’t have the manpower—”

  “The woman we’re after may have infected herself with a very contagious, very lethal form of bubonic plague. Every person she came within breathing distance of is a potential victim and carrier. Do your job, do it fast, and nobody leaves this room.”

  Zwawa removed a cell phone from his Racal suit’s utility belt. He pressed a preprogrammed number with a gloved index finger, his other hand working the controls of the headset situated within his hood—

  — switching from Fort Detrick’s command post to his older brother’s secured cell-phone number.

  Fort Detrick

  Frederick, Maryland

  The Fort Detrick Command Center had become the central hub for communication, linking the Oval Office, Pentagon, and assorted members of Congress in an endless debate of babel. Tired of listening to the Joint Chiefs arguing with the vice president and his staff, Colonel John Zwawa was headed for the sanctuary of his office when his private cell phone reverberated silently in his back pants pocket. “Speak.”

  “Vicious, it’s Delicious. Can you talk?”

  “Stand by, Jay.” The colonel closed his office door to speak with his brother. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s a major clusterfuck with tentacles. All those who were in the General Assembly Hall were infected. We’re not sure how bad, but POTUS is in there right now, addressing the condemned.”

  “Hell, Jay Zee, get him out of there.”

  “Sure thing. Just tell me how to do that without causing widespread panic and losing containment.”

  The colonel’s mind raced. “Bomb scare. I’ll alert the Secret Service. Have your team standing by outside the chamber. Use the ESU guys to channel the delegates to their offices in the Secretariat Building, we’ll lock them down from there. Once they’re isolated, it’ll be easier for the CDC teams to do a floor-to-floor triage.”

  “What about POTUS?”

  “Assign him and his staff to a private floor away from the others. But Jay, nobody leaves the plaza until Scythe is contained, and I mean nobody. Is that clear?”

  “POTUS’s people may insist on getting him out of Dodge.”

  Colonel Zwawa glanced out his office window at the wall of monitors and its dozen talking heads. “That option is already being debated by the Pentagon assholes who got us into this mess. Fortunately, when it comes to containment, I’m in charge, so here are my orders, for your ears only: No one leaves the UN. If POTUS’s people panic, your orders are to take out his Secret Service detail.”

  “Sweetheart, they don’t call you Vicious for nothing.”

  “Whatever it takes, Jay Zee. We’ll sort the bodies out at the trial. Where’s Jesse?”

  “In the alleyway, searching for the attaché case.”

  Alleyway — East 46th Street

  Tudor City, Manhattan

  10:42 A.M.

  Jesse Zwawa and three members of Delta Team enter the alleyway. Rubber boots slogged through tire tracks crushed into patches of snow between pools of slush. Wind howled through the passage, muffled by their protective hoods. Orange Racal suits and rebreathers. Astronauts bound to Earth to fight an invisible prey. Three men carried field packs and reach poles, the oldest among them an emergency medical kit.

  Dr. Arnie Kremer limped on a hip two weeks away from replacement surgery. He was too short for the assigned Racal suit, which bunched around his knees, making it difficult to walk. An hour ago, Kremer and his wife had been enjoying their breakfast at an all-you-can-eat buffet at the Tropicana Resort in Atlantic City. The beginning of a weeklong vacation — cut short by Uncle Sam. Army Reserves: the gift that keeps on giving.

  The physician stumbled into the man in front of him. The team had abruptly stopped.

  Captain Zwawa was fifty feet from the dumpster, a GPS in hand. The object they sought wa
s in the trash bin but something was lying on the ground directly ahead. At first glance, the commander had assumed it to be a ragged pile of wet clothes—

  — only now it was moving.

  “Dr. Kremer, front and center.”

  Arnie Kremer joined the captain. The wet mass was obscured by the frenzied presence of a dozen or more rats, each the size of a football. Their black fur was slick with splattered blood. Feasting… but on what?

  “Is that a dead dog?”

  “Let’s be sure.” Zwawa extended his reach pole. Abused the mass as he flipped the heap over, his actions barely inconveniencing the rodents.

  Both men jumped back. Kremer gagged inside his hooded mask.

  It had been a maintenance worker. Rats had taken the right half of the man’s face and both eyes. Two males fought over an optic nerve still protruding from a vacant eye socket like a strand of spaghetti. The rest dined on the remains of the man’s stomach like a ravaging horde of puppies suckling from their mother’s teats. Rodents were crawling over and inside the internal organs, causing the victim’s bulging belly to undulate.

  When a blood-drenched rat crawled out of the dead man’s mouth, Zwawa lost it. Backing away, he wrenched his right arm free of the Racal suit’s sleeve, ran his hand up his chest to the internally attached barf bag, then shoved it over his mouth a second before he regurgitated his breakfast.

  The rest of Delta team hummed and clenched their teeth and tried their best not to listen to the sickening acoustics playing over their headphones.

  Ryan Glinka, Delta Team’s second-in-command, approached his commanding officer. “You okay, Captain?”

  Zwawa nodded. Sealing the barf bag, he stowed it in an internal pocket, then turned to face his men. “Mr. Szeifert, I believe this is your area of expertise.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gabor Szeifert stepped forward, but not too close. A veterinarian and epizootic specialist from Hungary, today’s assignment marked his first actual field experience. “Something is not right. Rats normally don’t feed like this. They appear to be stimulated.”

  “Shh! Listen.” Ryan Glinka held up his hand for quiet.

  Beyond the howling wind and the noise of a distant siren, they could hear rapid thumps coming from inside the steel bin. As they watched, a black rat scurried up the brown, rust-tinged metal and over the opening, leaping into the receptacle.