Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  Shep’s right hand explored until it located and unbuckled his shoulder harness. He attempted to stand, only to discover that his prosthetic arm was pinned between the crushed forward console and floor. He could not see the predicament, nor could he pull himself free.

  Panic crested again like a wave. He tugged at the accursed appendage, his efforts succeeding only in separating the plastic flesh from its metal skeleton. He continued the battle, each thrust husking the false skin from the steel rod, inch by excruciating inch.

  He stopped, sensing the animal. He smelled the raw musk of fur. His hair bristled against his wool sweater as he heard paws negotiate the forest floor. Adjusting to the darkness, his eyes focused on the evolving pattern of movement through the broken cockpit glass.

  The wolf stepped out of the woods into the dull lunar gray. It was a male, dark and emaciated. Saliva gurgled within its throat, its quivering upper lip drawn back, revealing yellowed fangs and wisps of breath.

  The predator crept closer, evaluating its trapped prey.

  Shep’s heart pounded in his chest as his right hand searched the cabin for anything he could use as a weapon. “Go on, git! Get out of here!”

  The wolf growled louder, a thin web of saliva dripping from its exposed teeth.

  Adrenaline pumping, Shep braced his legs against the crushed forward console and forcibly yanked his prosthetic arm free, bolts popping loose from his pincers as he sheared the molded flesh from the steel appendage.

  The wolf approached the cabin. It peered inside, its ears suddenly perking. It listened, then retracted its head and dashed off effortlessly, consumed by the night.

  Shep laid his head back, panting. Then he too heard it — a deep baritone rumbling of thunder overhead. Only not thunder. Spotlights cut swaths from above, the helicopters’ search beams barely able to penetrate the dense forest canopy.

  Move!

  He climbed out from behind the console, tripping and falling over a cabin crushed topsy-turvy, kicking away remnants of glass from the shattered windshield. Overhead, the thunder of rotor blades violated the trees, the two shifting searchlights illuminating the forest floor. Shep looked up. Spotted the soldiers rappelling from their perches and ran.

  The vaccine!

  Retracing his steps, he hurried back to the medevac and ducked inside, his right hand searching the copilot’s seat until he located the polished wood box. Turning again to flee, he sliced his forehead on an unseen shard of glass, droplets of blood dripping into his eyes.

  The invaders punched through the forest canopy, the heavily armed commandoes forced to slow as they negotiated a jagged entanglement of upper tree limbs.

  Shep found himself surrounded by woods and darkness without a discernible path.

  “Hello? Anybody alive?”

  He turned in the direction of the unseen man, his voice somehow familiar. Seeing the handheld flashlight, he hurried toward it. “Over here! Can you help me?”

  The heavyset man stepped into the clearing, his unzipped leather coat revealing the white letters of the hooded navy Columbia University sweatshirt. White hair and ponytail. A matching beard…

  “Virgil?”

  “Sergeant Shepherd? Were you the one piloting that helicopter?”

  “Yes! I was transporting plague vaccine when I was forced down.” He looked up as dark bodies dropped into beacons of light revealing assault weapons. “They’re after me. Can you get me out of here?”

  “Take my hand.” Virgil led him through the forest along an unseen path into a periphery cloaked in darkness.

  George Washington Bridge

  Fort Lee, New Jersey

  7:51 P.M.

  The staging area had tripled in size, two more battalions of National Guardsmen having arrived with their heavy artillery. In the distance, black smoke continued to rise from the smoldering remains of what had been the center portion of the George Washington Bridge, the five-hundred-foot gap preventing anyone trapped in Manhattan from using its roadways to escape into New Jersey.

  David Kantor had barely made it over the bridge before the interstate had collapsed in a ball of flames in his rearview mirror. Exhausted, growing angrier by the minute, he paced the medical tent, waiting for his commanding officer to return.

  Colonel Don Hamilton entered. Fifty-nine, yet still active in the National Guard, Hamilton had been shanghaied from his auto dealership in Newark and tossed into the domestic emergency with a short briefing and a skeleton staff. For the first few hours, his mind kept drifting back to his Christmas week sale of hybrids, until the unexpected detonation of the George Washington Bridge had doused him in its sobering reality.

  Hamilton handed the medic his cell phone. “All calls into Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs are being jammed, but you should be able to reach your wife in New Jersey on this line. Remember, no details about the operation.”

  David dialed his home number, the colonel remaining within listening distance. “Leslie, it’s me.”

  “David! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you seen what’s happening?”

  “I was called to duty by the Guard. I’m close by. Les, did Gavi make it out?”

  “No, but I managed to get through to her school. They’re keeping everyone in the gymnasium overnight. David—”

  “Don’t panic. If she stays inside, she should be fine.” He looked up at Colonel Hamilton, who was motioning for his phone. “Leslie, I have to go. I’ll do what I can from my end.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” He hung up, handing the phone back to his CO.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter, Captain. My wife and I… we lost our son to leukemia when he was seven. Passed on our fifteenth wedding anniversary. There are no words.” Hamilton turned to leave.

  “Colonel, the Gutierrez woman… how’s she doing?”

  “Orders are orders, Captain. I’m sorry.”

  Adrenaline mixed with anger and fatigue. David grabbed Hamilton by his biceps hard enough to bruise, driving him backward into a table. “What do you mean you’re sorry? She was fine!”

  “Back off!” The colonel twisted free. “No one leaves Manhattan unless they’re in a Racal suit or a body bag. Those are my orders.”

  “Bastards, you killed her! Not the baby, too?”

  “War is hell, Captain. I’ll say a prayer for your daughter.”

  Governor’s Island, New York

  7:58 P.M.

  Governor’s Island: 172 acres of prime real estate situated in New York Harbor. A mere half mile from the southern tip of Manhattan, Governor’s Island had been a fortified outpost during the Revolutionary War and a strategic military base in the War of 1812. Over the century that followed, the island had been converted to a military prison before opening to visitors and boating excursions. For decades, investors had flirted with turning it into a gambling resort.

  Tonight, the tourist attraction had been designated a gray zone.

  Leggett Hall occupied the very center of Governor’s Island. Large enough to house an entire regiment and once listed as the longest structure in the world, the building was hastily being refitted as a Level-4 isolation ward—a holding area for world leaders and diplomats desperately awaiting relocation back at the UN Plaza.

  Captain Jay Zwawa walked through the enormous barracks, relieved at finally having shed his Racal suit after nearly twelve hours. His younger brother, Jesse, had remained at the United Nations to coordinate a scheduled midnight airlift — assuming the medical “way station” would ever be ready to receive its guests.

  The man in-charge of converting the barracks was Joseph “Joey” Parker, a good ole Tennessee boy with the frame and disposition of an offensive tackle. Jay Zwawa located the medical engineer inspecting a ventilation duct while yelling at his foreman over a walkie-talkie.

  “Listen to me, you dumb sumbitch, there are more holes in this barracks than a Vegas whorehouse. And this piece of Swiss cheese you call a v
entilation system needs a total rehaul.”

  “Problems, Mr. Parker?”

  The engineer snapped his cell phone shut, turning to confront Zwawa. “My constipated horse has problems. What we got here are life-and-death situations. For starters, we need to jack up the exhaust flow rate in this antiquated turd house, or we’ll never reach a differential pressure strong enough to keep your virus from escaping with the next cool breeze. And don’t ask me when we’ll be finished. I’ve seen chicken coops that were less porous.”

  “Tell me what you need. More men? More equipment?”

  “What I need is more time and a few dozen miracles. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? You should be flying those ivory-tower assholes to a real Level-4 containment facility.”

  “We have our reasons, Mr. Parker. Now how soon?”

  “How soon… how soon. Assuming I can get the new ventilation system online by nine o’clock… you might have one ward ready by two A.M.”

  “Our goal was midnight.”

  “And my goal was to keep all my hair, but that sure as hell didn’t happen either.” He snatched his cell phone on the first ring. “Susan Lynn, I gotta call you back.”

  Zwawa shot him a look.

  “Lookie here, Captain, you flew me in to do a job, and I’ll do it. My crew’s working their asses off, the problem is your choice of facility. It’s old, and even with the new internal sheeting in place, we’re still leaking air everywhere. Lose air, and you lose the vacuum that keeps viruses from flowing out of a containment area. If that happens, you can kiss this whole prairie-shit island good-bye.”

  Jay Zwawa’s cell phone vibrated. “Zwawa.”

  “Sir, the woman from the VA Hospital just arrived. We have her in Building 20.”

  “On my way.” The captain turned to his engineer. “Two o’clock, Mr. Parker. A minute later, and your next job will be cleaning air-conditioning ducts in midtown Manhattan.”

  Fort TrYon Park

  Inwood, Manhattan

  8:22 P.M.

  They had moved with purpose through the forest, Virgil using the tree trunks as cover against the soldier’s night-vision glasses. Descending along paths unseen, the rocky elevation had dropped precariously, sending Shep tripping over knotted roots camouflaged by leaves and the heavily forested darkness.

  In due time they had left the helicopters’ searchlights behind and eventually the thunder of the choppers’ blades. Emerging from the woods, Virgil led them to a clearing harboring a children’s playground.

  Shep coughed, the cold affecting his lungs. “Where are we?”

  “Fort Tryon Park. What happened to your arm?”

  “My arm?” Patrick inspected the damaged left appendage under the light of a park lamppost. From the elbow joint down, the prosthetic device had been stripped of its fake flesh. The pincers were gone, too, the distal end of the sharp metal forearm now bent into a sickle-shaped curve.

  “Must’ve done that when I yanked it loose from beneath the console.” Shep raised the deformed device, then cut downward, the sharp edge of the mangled appendage whistling through the crisp night air as if it were a blade. “Cuts like a scythe. Bet it would make a nasty weapon.”

  “Just the same, you’d better remove it before you slice open your own leg.”

  Shep reached beneath his sweater and attempted to unbuckle the harness. “It’s jammed. And the sensors below my deltoid… they must have fused together. I can’t budge it.”

  “Patrick, that wooden box… you said it contains a vaccine?”

  “That’s what Leigh… what Dr. Nelson said. The bastards shot her as I took off in the chopper. They came after me, too. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  “The night’s still young. Open the case. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  Shep sat down on a park bench, placing the polished box on his lap. Releasing the two front clasps, he opened the lid. There were eleven vials of clear liquid secured inside the case, the twelfth foam compartment empty.

  Virgil read a typed note that had been folded and tucked inside one of the styrofoam edges. “Warning: This antibiotic contains a powerful neurotransmitter that crosses the brain-blood barrier. May cause hallucinogenic effects. Anger and reactive behavior exacerbate symptoms. Keep patient calm. Do not leave unsupervised for the first six to twelve hours.”

  “Nelson wanted me to deliver this to the Center for Disease Control in New Jersey. I guess that’s no longer an option.”

  “Patrick, people are dying in the streets by the tens of thousands.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We? You’re playing God on this one, not me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you hold the power of life in your hand, and that, my friend, makes you God. So, Lord Patrick, who shall live this evening, and who shall die?”

  “DeBorn… I forgot about him! Virgil, I have to find my family, they’re in terrible danger.”

  “Patrick—”

  “DeBorn tried to kill me, now he’ll go after my family. I have to get to Battery Park before—”

  “Patrick, I spoke with your soul mate.”

  The blood rushed from Shep’s face. “You spoke with Bea? How? When?”

  “This afternoon. After I visited you in the VA.”

  “What did she say? Did you tell her how much I miss her? Does she want to see me again?”

  “She loves you, but she’s afraid you may do something desperate. I told her you’re lost and you’re scared, and she prayed that I could help you find your way again. I promised her I would. I promised that I would bring you to her and to your daughter… when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready! I swear to God, Virgil—”

  “Son, look around us; everything has changed. The Angel of Darkness feasts in Manhattan, the entire city is in a state of panic. We’re in Inwood, at the very northern tip of the island, Battery Park its farthest point south. That’s a good seven miles as the crow flies, double that on foot. There’s no public transportation, and the roads are stifled with endless gridlock. We’d have to walk the entire way, and the streets are paved with death, entire neighborhoods stricken with plague.”

  “I don’t care. I’d walk through Hell if it meant seeing my family again.”

  “All right, Dante. If it’s a journey through Hell you seek, then I’ll lead you there, only you’d better drain one of those vials first or you’ll never make it out of here alive.”

  “Yeah… okay, that makes sense. You’d better take one, too.”

  “Me? I’m an old man, I’ve seen my better days. Besides, one of us needs to keep his faculties if we’re to find your family.”

  “You take the vaccine then, I’ll lead the way.”

  “A noble gesture, but it’s not an option. I know the area. You’d get us lost in five minutes. Now do as I say, we’re wasting precious time. Those soldiers want the vaccine, too, and I suspect they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. But who am I to tell you.”

  “Okay, but I’m saving vaccine for you, just in case.” Shep removed one of the containers. He pulled off the corked cap with his teeth and drained the vial of its clear liquid.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Good… excited. Like I finally have a sense of purpose.”

  “Better prepare yourself, son. What lies ahead… it can steal a man’s soul.”

  Virgil set off, following a line of shrubs paralleling Riverside Drive, the tarmac path leading them toward the river and the Henry Hudson Parkway.

  Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac

  The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.(translated from its original French)

  Diary Entry: March 2, 1348

  (recorded in Avignon, France)

  I am surrounded by death.

  It encompasses every waking moment of my existence. It haunts every dream. That I remain free of plague at
the moment of this diary entry may be God’s will or a result of my precautions while treating the infected (translator’s note: see Chirurgia magna). Either way, it is important only in that my continuance in this life might grant me the time needed to record the observations necessary so that others may fair better in finding a cure to this Great Mortality.

  That I remain symptom-free is not to say I have not been affected. As personal physician to the last three Popes, I could have chosen to remain within the safer confines of the papal palace, spending my days monitoring His Eminence’s bowel movements and analyzing stool samples. These tasks were acceptable before the arrival of plague, but not now. To expand the body of medical knowledge requires me to take risks. Ignoti nulla curatio morbid—do not attempt to cure what you do not understand. That I may succumb to the very malady I seek to cure is a fate I have entrusted to God, but in truth part of me would welcome an end to the mental anguish that has become nearly unbearable.

  There are no words that adequately describe real human suffering, and I am only bearing witness to the deed. To comfort a weeping mother as she clutches her suffering infant is to witness grief; to assist the grieving parents with the child’s burial is to share their sorrow; to beg the shattered husband to abandon his wife’s infected corpse a day later is well beyond my medical training.

  How does one console the tortured? How does one continue to pray to a Creator who blesses us with life, only to snatch it away so cruelly? How does one awaken each morning and will oneself to get out of bed when all that awaits is more of the same?

  In my loneliest hours, my poisoned mind contemplates our existence and I see things with a clarity only Death can provide. Suffering has been with us far longer than plague, we of the unaffected simply had chosen to ignore it. The devastation of war… the cruelty of starvation… the evil unleashed by the regal and royal among us who believe themselves blessed by our Maker to wreak havoc upon the lives of others. As a physician, I have stood in the presence of both the mighty and the meek, I have borne witness to the beauty of life and its ugly cousin, callousness, and I know now that we are reaping what we have sown… that God is an angry parent, disappointed with his children, and we are paying His penance for our indiscretions.