Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  While the CDC completed its work, two members of New York’s bomb squad searched the chamber for the “threatened” explosive device, their presence necessary to sell the world on why the General Assembly Hall had to be abandoned. Distinguished by their fire-retardant jumpsuits and heavy Kevlar hooded jackets and rebreathers, the pair seemed as out of place as sports jackets and denim jeans at a black-tie event.

  Jay Zwawa watched the men go about their business, wondering how long he could keep them on his wild-goose chase before accepting their “all clear,” forcing him to alert the public about Scythe.

  “Captain Zwawa, over here.” Two of the CDC teams had stopped at the embassy table labeled iraq. “She was here all right, ribosomal sequences are a match. Everyone at this table was exposed to full-blown Scythe, probably every table on either side of this aisle from this point clear back to the exit doors.”

  “Make a list of every country situated along this row, I want their diplomatic offices checked first. Then begin a floor-to-floor, suite-to-suite triage of the entire Secretariat Building. Any contaminated offices are to be treated as isolation rooms, with armed guards posted outside. We’ve shut down the building’s ventilation system, so you may want to offer blankets. Tell them we’ll be announcing something soon. Until then, no one is to leave their office suites.”

  “How long do you think we can keep a thousand irate heads of state isolated under these circumstances?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Sergeant. My orders, and yours, are to get it done.”

  BIO-WARFARE PHASE IV: SOCIETAL PARALYSIS

  “What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name totalitarianism, or the holy name of liberty or democracy?”

  — Mahatma Gandhi

  “Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it.”

  — John Lennon

  December 20

  VA Medical Center

  East Side, Manhattan

  11:49 A.M.

  (20 hours, 14 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

  Dr. Jonathan Clark prided himself on being a man of intense self-discipline. Arising before dawn. Oatmeal for breakfast. Chicken salad at noon. Cardio workouts thrice a week for thirty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of weights. As the medical center’s director, he remained the ultimate disciplinarian. The leader must set the pace. Staff were expected to arrive fifteen minutes early to all meetings, what Clark referred to as “Vince Lombardi time.” Every duty had a checklist for success. In Jonathan Clark’s book, rules saved lives and no one, save God, was exempt.

  He would have both to thank should he live to see the end of this day.

  The deathly pale Russian woman was in agony. She was running a high fever and coughing up blood. X-rays revealed a fractured pelvis. CAT scans showed no serious internal injuries. An emergency C-section was scheduled for 11:45. IVs had been administered, blood tests ordered.

  By 11:15, the patient’s delirium had turned violent. Screaming “The Devil exists!” she had carried on as if possessed. Orderlies were forced to strap her down. A nurse sedated her. She was moved to an isolation room to keep her from disturbing the other patients. No one noticed that the Russian woman was ranting in perfect English.

  She was being prepped for surgery when Dr. Clark arrived at precisely 11:29 to make his 11:30 emergency-ward rounds. After reviewing the Russian woman’s chart, he proceeded to don a protective gown, gloves, and mask.

  “Sir, that’s not necessary. She was only moved into isolation because she was raving like a lunatic.”

  “Isolation requires us to follow isolation protocols, I don’t care if you’re going inside just to change a light bulb. Now put on proper attire before I dock you a day’s pay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “According to her chart, she works at the Russian embassy. Have the Russians been contacted?”

  “We tried, sir. No answer. Apparently there’s some kind of emergency going on at the UN.”

  Dr. Clark waited for the attending physician and nurse to complete dressing before leading them inside the negatively pressurized isolation room.

  The woman’s skin was hot to the touch, even through Dr. Clark’s gloves. The flesh was so pale it appeared almost translucent, revealing a thin web of blue veins in her forehead, temples, and neck. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her pupils dilated. The eye sockets were dark and sunken, appearing hollow. Her lips were white, drawn tight over the partially open mouth, which kicked up a blood-laced spittle with every panted breath.

  The woman’s ripe belly was exposed and swabbed. The unborn child inside was kicking and contorting violently within its mother’s womb.

  “Have you started her on antibiotics?”

  “Cefuroxime. No effect.”

  Dr. Clark opened Mary’s gown, exposing her smallish breasts. “What are these red marks?”

  “We’re not sure. At first we thought they were from the taxi’s impact, she tumbled pretty hard when she hit the street. We’re still waiting for the labs.”

  Dr. Clark palpated her abdomen, then worked his way down to her groin, feeling his way along the cotton panties… pausing at a bulge. Using a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, he cut loose the fabric, exposing a swollen purplish black rounded lump of flesh the size of a tangerine.

  “Sir… I swear, that wasn’t there before.”

  “This is a bubo, an infected lymph node. Who else besides the two of you have come in contact with this patient?”

  “The orderlies. Hollis in Radiology.”

  “Plus the EMTs who brought her in.”

  “This room is officially quarantined. The two of you are to remain here while we set up an isolation ward and contact the CDC.”

  “Sir, I’ve had my TB shots.”

  “Me, too.”

  “This isn’t tuberculosis, Nurse Coffman. It’s bubonic plague.”

  * * *

  There was a negative energy in the air. Though not as obvious as a shrill whistle or dentist’s drill, its presence was palpable, and the occupants of Ward 19-C were clearly agitated. Those under sedation moaned in feverish sleep, their minds haunted, unable to escape the stain of war. The conscious among them clawed at their skin or joined in a chorus of F-bombs aimed at the nurses on duty. One man flung his soiled bedpan across the room, inciting a half dozen more responses.

  The wounded soldiers in this ward and a dozen wards like it throughout the tri-state area were not missing limbs; nor were they suffering from bullet or shrapnel wounds. All of these veterans, ages twenty-one through thirty-seven, were dying of cancer.

  Despite being outlawed, the United States Armed Forces had continued its blatant use of depleted uranium (DU) to create its munitions. A by-product of the uranium-enrichment process, DU shells were able to penetrate steel and were favored by military contractors because they were so cheap, the depleted uranium offered free to weapon manufacturers by the US government.

  When fired, a DU shell burned on impact, releasing microscopic radioactive dust particles that traveled with the wind. Easily inhaled or ingested, depleted uranium was a toxic metal that weakened the immune system, could lead to acute respiratory conditions, renal and gastrointestinal illnesses… and cancer.

  Staff Sergeant Kevin Quercio had spent two years in Basra as a crew member on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle that used 25mm DU rounds against enemy combatants in the town of Al-Samawah. For several months, Kevin and members of his crew had complained to their commanding officer about extreme discomfort, especially in the intestinal/rectal area. Medics dismissed the problem as hemorrhoids, but the pain only grew worse. After being passed from physician to physician, a reservist oncologist finally ordered X-rays… and discovered three cases of colon cancer, one case of leukemia, two men with Hodgkin's lymphoma and anot
her soldier with a malignant brain tumor.

  Kevin was shipped back to New York, where doctors cut into his rectum and burned the tumors off his liver, only to learn the cancer had already spread to both lungs. The twenty-six-year-old New York native woke to find himself with a colostomy bag and prognosis of incurable colon and lung cancer, the doctors giving him a year to live.

  Compounding the news of his death sentence was Uncle Sam’s declaration that cancer patients did not receive benefits like other wounded soldiers, the US government refusing to recognize the disease as a casualty of war. And so Kevin Quercio and thousands of American veterans like him lay in oncology wards in VA hospitals across the country waiting to die, deserted by the country they made the ultimate sacrifice to serve — everything kept out of the public consciousness so as not to disturb the ongoing war effort.

  Only today, Kevin Quercio could not remain in bed. Today his psyche felt inflamed, his anger seethed. Grabbing the call button by his bed, he rang for the nurse, summoning instead the assistant director, who was making her rounds.

  * * *

  Patrick was alone in the elevator, flexing his new left arm. The disabled veteran’s mind was in turmoil, the anticipation of being reunited with his wife and daughter after such a long separation causing great anxiety, the demands of the new secretary of defense unnerving him even more. What if DeBorn plays hardball and won’t allow me to see my family? What if he keeps them away, locking them up against their will just to get me to be his poster boy for a new recruitment surge?

  The elevator stopped at the seventh floor, the doors opening. Patrick Shepherd headed for Ward 19-C… the sounds and smells of chaos instantly transporting his wounded mind back to the trauma center at Ibn Sina.

  “Blood pressure’s dropping, sixty over forty. Hurry up with that brachial artery, I need to administer Dobutrex before we lose him.”

  “You sure this was an IED? Look at the skin hanging below the remains of his elbow, the flesh melted.”

  “Artery’s closed, start the Dobutrex. Okay, where’s the damn bone saw?”

  “I think Rosen was using it to carve his brisket.”

  “How’s his BP?”

  “Ninety over sixty.”

  “Let’s get another unit of blood in him before we take the arm. Nurse, be an angel and hold up that X-ray. I want to amputate right here, just below the insertion on the biceps tendon.

  “Shep, it’s David Kantor, can you hear me? Shep?”

  “Shep!”

  Patrick snapped out of it — Leigh Nelson was crying out for help! He raced through the ward to find Staff Sergeant Kevin Quercio holding the physician by the roots of her hair as he ripped the IV tube from his arm and attempted to strangle her with it.

  “Let her go, Kevin.”

  The Italian-Irishman looked up… and froze. Manic rage washed into absolute terror. “No, not yet, Reaper. Please don’t take me yet!”

  Shep turned around, unsure to whom the soldier was speaking.

  Kevin released Dr. Nelson and collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t take me yet, please. I didn’t want to kill those people. All I wanted was to serve my time and come home. Reaper, please.”

  The ward quieted.

  “Kevin… it’s me, Shep. It’s okay.”

  “I was just following orders! I had no choice.”

  “Dude, it’s cool.”

  “They lied to us. Please don’t take me yet.”

  “Take you where? Kevin, where don’t you want me to take you?”

  Kevin wiped back tears, his chemo-weakened body trembling in terror. “Hell.”

  The orderlies burst into the room. One helped Leigh to her feet. Two escorted Kevin Quercio back to his bed.

  Shep looked around. The other veterans — all cancer patients — were staring at him in fear. Several men crossed themselves.

  Dr. Nelson pulled him aside, her body trembling. “Thanks, baby doll, you saved my scalp. You okay?”

  “Are you?”

  “Not really.” Her lower lip quivered. “Sorry. It’s been one of those days, you know? Oh my God, I didn’t even notice the new arm. Wow, it looks great. Are you getting used to it?” Her pager interrupted them before he had a chance to reply. “Now what?” She glanced at the text message. “I’ve got to run… some kind of emergency.”

  “Leigh, my wife… you said you had an address.”

  Her expression fell. “I gave it to DeBorn, I’m sorry. But it’s still in my e-mail. Go to the library and access it, my password is Virginia Fox. Wow, that’s embarrassing.” She kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thanks again, Shep. Gotta go.”

  She took two quick strides, then remembered something. “Colonel Argenti called. Your new therapist will be here this afternoon. Talk to him, Shep. Do it for Bea.”

  She waved, then hurried through the ward toward the elevators—

  — unaware of the security team sealing the hospital exits.

  United Nations Secretariat Building

  33rd Floor

  11:55 A.M.

  President Eric Kogelo sat back in the easy chair and closed his eyes. Surrounded by a team of advisors, he was being assaulted by a nonstop torrent of cross fire that pushed the migraine deeper until it felt as if his eyeballs were being probed by an ice pick.

  “—yes, Iran is threatening an attack, but with all due respect, Mr. President, our bigger concern right now is Scythe. The CDC guys confirm the Iranian delegation was contaminated—”

  “—along with dozens of other delegates and hundreds of American citizens. So let’s just table the finger-pointing.”

  “The woman infected herself with a Bio-Level 4 biological she cultivated in a CIA-financed lab in Fort Detrick. She specifically sought out the Iranian delegation. You want to see finger-pointing, wait until their Supreme Leader makes his next speech.”

  “That cannot be allowed to happen. Sir, I recommend we shut down all transmissions—”

  The president massaged his temple, his mind searching for an island of tranquility in a stormy sea. In every great society there were opposing forces that preferred chaos over progress. Eric Kogelo had battled these forces at every step since the moment he took office, his administration attempting to negotiate a middle ground rather than upset the applecart. In doing so, he had disappointed progressives while still failing to convert Republicans, who preferred to polarize the country with fear rather than support meaningful change. Refusing to give in, Kogelo rallied his supporters and began making headway against an opposition led by the health-insurance industry, pharmaceutical companies, and the fossil-fuel monopoly. Still, the young president knew a bigger force remained cloaked in the shadow of war. Dealing with the military-industrial complex was a dangerous game.

  Never had he imagined a day like today.

  “Mr. President, Scythe isn’t just an Iranian problem. For all we know everyone in that chamber could have been infected… including you, sir.”

  Heads turned to the chief of staff as if he had just cursed God.

  Kogelo’s press secretary attempted a rescue. “Sir, the mayor’s scheduled to address the media in fifteen minutes… maybe you should be there?”

  “He can’t leave the complex. The moment he leaves, the other delegates will demand to leave, and we lose containment.”

  “Who says we even have containment? Have you looked outside lately? Those Army guys just added two more tents, and the entire plaza’s surrounded by military vehicles.”

  “Exactly why we need to make a move now, before it’s too late. Get an EVAC chopper on the roof. Let’s get the president out of Manhattan.”

  “You mean get you out of Manhattan.”

  “Is that such a crime? I have a wife and kids. None of us are even infected.”

  “Are you so sure—”

  “Enough!” Eric Kogelo stood, the pain in his head excruciating. “Instruct the mayor. Tell him to go public about isolating Manhattan, but he’s to emphasize this is pur
ely a precaution, more a response drill than an actual emergency. Reveal nothing to him about Scythe, the last thing we need right now is widespread panic. Where’s the first lady?”

  “En route to the White House from Chicago.”

  “Keep her there, make sure my family’s safe. I need to lie down… an hour to think.” The president headed for the bedroom, then turned, making eye contact with each of his advisors. All were fearful, yet none looked away… a good sign.

  “We’re in a tough fix, but let’s not lose our composure and panic the herd. The last thing we want is to give our enemies the excuse they’ve been hammering for to take over Iran’s oil reserves and jumpstart their New World Order.”

  “Sir, Scythe was released just minutes before you were set to address the UN Is it possible—”

  “That we have a Judas in the White House?” The president exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Trust no one outside this room.”

  City Hall Park, Lower Manhattan

  12:04 P.M.

  Born in Niagara Falls, raised in the Bronx, Mathew Kushner was a New Yorker in every sense of the word. After graduating from Syracuse University and New York Law School, Kushner joined his father’s practice, specializing in immigration law. The attorney was less than a mile from his Lower Manhattan office on the morning of September 11, 2001, when the first hijacked commercial airliner violated New York’s airspace and struck the World Trade Center.

  Mayor Kushner stood on the top steps of City Hall before a podium riddled with microphones, fighting the urge to kick the lectern into the crowd. Once more his beloved city had been violated, Manhattan forcefully isolated without his input or approval. He was being fed half-truths from Washington while black military Hummers raced through the streets, and men in Racal suits stoked fear throughout Tudor City and the UN. It didn’t take an immigration attorney to figure out that civil rights were being violated; nor did it take a psych major from Syracuse to know that Manhattan’s blood pressure would continue to simmer until it led to an uprising that would make the Watts riots look like a tailgate party.