Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  The walkway appeared on his right, an icy stretch of twisting tarmac that angled along the periphery, ending at the east entrance on Broadway. He headed for it—

  — tripping over a snow-covered grave marker that launched him face-first down the hill like a human toboggan — spinning, rolling — the snow rushing down his open collar, the night sky whirling in his vision, until he landed in a heap against the ancient stone foundation that supported the eastern gate of Trinity Cemetery.

  Shep rolled over on his back, sore and disoriented. He was no longer afraid, the Reaper’s icy presence gone. Lying in the snow, he stared up at the night, the full moon having risen high enough to reflect its light behind a haze of clouds. God, if you’re really up there… help me please.

  He heard the reverberations — boots on snow. He closed his eyes, waiting for Virgil to arrive.

  The voice belonged to another. “There’s one.”

  “Leave him be, he’s mine.”

  “Marquis, you promised me the last one.”

  "You tryin' to push up on me, capullo?"

  "No man. It’s cool.”

  "Yeah, that's what I thought you said.”

  Shep sat up — the night bursting into colors as the boot connected with his face.

  Fifth Circle

  The Wrathful

  "No gloom of Hell, nor of a night allowed no planet under its impoverished sky, the deepest dark that may be drawn by cloud; ever drew such a veil across my face, nor one whose texture rasped my senses so, as did the smoke that wrapped us in that place."

  — Dante’s Inferno

  December 21

  USAMRIID

  Fort Detrick — Frederick, Maryland

  12:27 A.M.

  (7 hours, 36 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

  Colonel John Zwawa wore the day with a weariness that grew with each passing moment, every challenge magnified by the blood pressure intensifying in his veins.

  Chaos had broken out at the United Nations. Scythe had killed Iran’s Supreme Leader, the highest-ranking political and religious authority of the nation. The Council of Guardians had convened in an emergency meeting in Tehran, naming Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati their new Supreme Leader. Jannati, head of the hard line Council of Guardians and one of the biggest opponents of democratic reform in Iran — a man who once told worshippers that he wished someone would shoot Israeli Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni — now commanded Iran’s new cache of nuclear-tipped Russian-made ICBMs.

  The new Supreme Leader remained sequestered in a private suite somewhere in the Secretariat Building; only a handful of mullahs knew his location. Through an emissary, he was demanding to be taken by chopper to JFK International Airport, where he would be flown by private jet back to Tehran. What Jannati didn’t know was that his last encrypted e-mail to Tehran had been intercepted by the NSA and translated.

  Upon his return to Tehran, Iran’s new Supreme Leader would declare himself Mahdi, the prophesied redeemer of Islam, initiating the Yaum al-Qiyamah, the Day of the Resurrection, where he, as the "Guided One," would rid the world of terror, injustice, and tyranny. Translation: Jannati intended to unleash Iranian insurgents armed with nuclear suitcase bombs, targeting Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Riyadh, and the Victory Base Complex that served as the US military’s headquarters in Baghdad.

  Briefed in his suite at the UN, President Eric Kogelo had immediately ordered all evacuation plans delayed until dawn while he and his advisors decided how best to handle the developing situation.

  While the president’s staff covertly organized an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council, it was left to Colonel Zwawa to clean up the mess in Manhattan.

  The Big Apple was rotting from the inside. New estimates coming in from health officials at ground zero were placing the death toll at well over half a million people, with the dead and dying contaminating another hundred thousand every hour. Apartment buildings and high-rises were becoming Scythe incubators, the streets and alleyways repositories for the infected, and there was nowhere to escape except into the rivers.

  To contain a potential mass exodus, the military had deployed another four armed Reaper drones, along with three more Coast Guard patrol boats. Fortunately, the river’s currents were swift, with water temperatures dipping below forty-five degrees, making immersion a baptism into hypothermia.

  But Zwawa knew that desperation fueled creativity, and by dawn legions of survivors with access to scuba gear could manage to elude the Reaper’s thermal scans and find their way to the shorelines of Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and New Jersey, their arrival unleashing a global pandemic. As a precaution, Manhattan’s neighboring boroughs were being evacuated, along with the Jersey shoreline communities of Englewood and all parts south to Bayonne.

  The question remaining was how to deal with Manhattan.

  * * *

  The facility was located six stories underground, its existence known only to a handful of non-black ops intelligence personnel. Exiting the elevator, Colonel Zwawa was escorted through two more security checkpoints before being led through a nondescript white-tiled corridor to a set of steel doors labeled dept. c.

  The locks unbolted, the left door swung open, greeting him with a blast of INXS from the interior sound system.

  John Zwawa entered the chamber, the room heavily air-conditioned. Seated alone at a rectangular light table was a man in his forties, his head clean-shaven, his complexion kept tan all-year-round by a UV bed. He was wearing an orange-and-white Hawaiian shirt, surfboard shorts, and Teva sandals. The sunglasses were prescription, the pipe tobacco laced with opium.

  As the colonel approached, he realized that the tabletop was actually a 3D hologram, the image created by a real-time satellite view of Manhattan. “I’m Zwawa.”

  The man tapped his sunglasses, the stereo lowering. “Dino Garner.” The physical chemist reached beneath the table to a small refrigerator, removing a can of soda. “Dr Pepper?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Been analyzing your problem, Zwawa. You got lucky and screwed at the same time.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Got lucky in that it happened in Manhattan. If this had happened in any other New York borough, you’d be screwed six ways to Sunday. As an island, you were able to establish a quarantine, hence you got lucky. You also got screwed, being that Manhattan is also the most densely populated and expensive piece of real estate in the world… all of which complicates my job — cleaning up your mess.”

  Garner walked around the table, eyeing the skyline from different angles. “In essence, this comes down to incinerating every biological and organic contaminant, dead or alive. That means human, rodent, flea, tick, bird, and the family Chihuahua — all while maintaining the infrastructure. As we say around here, that’s a simple complexity. I’m still calculating the minimal number of delivery systems, but the basics are sound. We do this in two phases. Phase I is to create a very dense cloud ceiling of carbon dioxide just above Manhattan’s skyline, combined with a few other stabilizing elements. We’ve already commandeered three turbine jet engine Air Tractors from a Jersey pesticide company, with two more on their way. Chemical payloads should arrive at Linden Commuter Airport within three hours. Another hour to load up, then it’s a quick flight over the New York Harbor to Manhattan.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Garner… why do we need a CO2 ceiling?”

  “It’s Dr. Garner, and you need the cloud ceiling to contain Phase II, the burn. Think of it as putting a tent over a house before you fumigate it for pests. In our case, we’re going to fumigate the entire city, using a combination of white phosphorous, magnesium, and a few ingredients you don’t want to know about, all to create enough heat to melt flesh off the bone.

  “Oxygen will be the catalyst, the combustible gas that fuels the furnace. Once the fuse is lit, it’ll torch every pocket of oxygen in the city — the subway tunnels, the ratholes, the apartments — it’ll all go up in one massive flash fire that will
smother itself as soon as the air burns up.”

  “Jesus…”

  “Jesus only walked on water. Incinerating two million plague victims and three million rats requires serious ingenuity. Fortunately for you, this is how I make my living.”

  Colonel Zwawa felt ill. “This carbon-dioxide cloud, how long must it remain over the skyline?”

  “No worries. It’ll disperse when the incendiary charges go off.”

  “No, I mean… how long can it remain in place before we decide to… you know, to fumigate?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “The president needs an excuse to delay the UN evacuation. Scythe is spreading rapidly through human contact as well as the rat population, specifically by way of infected fleas. My epizootic specialist is worried about these same fleas infecting birds, especially pigeons. An infected pigeon could deliver Scythe into New Jersey or the other four New York boroughs by first light.”

  “The carbon dioxide will kill any escaping bird. There’s your excuse for releasing the CO2 cloud.”

  “And for delaying the UN evacuation.”

  “You’re a blessed man, Colonel. To answer your question, in this weather the cloud should remain stagnant until dawn. We’d have to launch Phase II by then, or the sun’s rays will gradually burn it off. Figure 8 A.M., give or take a few minutes.”

  Colonel Zwawa checked his watch. “Seven and a half hours. Can you pull everything together that soon?”

  “It’ll be done, and that’s all you need to know. As for the infrastructure, it’s gonna be three to five months before anyone can move back in, but that’s your headache, not mine.”

  “May I ask you a personal question, Doctor?”

  “You want to know how I sleep at night.”

  “Forget it.” Zwawa shook his head, turning for the steel doors.

  “Guilt is for civilians, Colonel, blame is for the pundits and politicians. Down here, we make choices… it’s an old game we call us or them. You want my advice? Take a Vicodin and a shot of Captain Jack, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

  Trinity Cemetery

  Washington Heights, Manhattan

  12:33 A.M.

  There were six of them, all Latinos, all in their teens, dressed in black jackets and red, white, and blue bandannas — the colors of the Dominican Republic’s flag. A violent group, the DDP (Dominicans Don’t Play) had carved out their territory in Washington Heights, Queens, and the Bronx, moving drugs through their connections in the Colombian crime cartel.

  A cornrowed eighteen-year-old named Marquis Jackson-Horne straddled Shep, leaning in close. “No wallet or bling… whoa, what’s dis? Got somethin’ in your coat fo’ me?”

  He tore open Shep’s jacket, revealing the polished wooden box. The gang leader grabbed it—

  — Shep’s prosthetic arm jumped to life, its curved blade pressing against the muscular youth’s Adam’s apple, his right hand grabbing a fistful of Marquis’s leather coat, drawing him in close. “Sorry, friend, you can’t have that.”

  Instantly, five 9mm handguns appeared, every barrel aimed at Shep’s face.

  “Remove the blade, nice and slow, whitebread.”

  “If they fire, I’ll still manage to slice open your throat. Tell your crew to back off, and I’ll let you go.”

  No one moved.

  “There’s no money in the box, just medicine… for my daughter. I know the world’s gone insane, and you could give a rat’s ass, but maybe just once before you meet your Maker, you and the homeboys here could do the right thing.”

  The gang leader’s eyes widened, revealing an inner rage. “Do the right thing? You messin’ with the wrong gangbanger, Spike Lee. I’m a hater. I’m fightin’ a war.”

  “I just got back from fighting a war. Four tours’ worth. Now I’m a hater, too, only you know what I just realized? Haters hate because they think they’ve been wronged, now all they want is justice… only justice and happiness don’t mix very well. My family hasn’t been in my life for eleven years. I blamed a lot of people for that. Now I just want them back.”

  Marquis’s eyes lost their intensity. “Nobody move. You neither, Captain Hook.” Gently, he unlatched the box, revealing the vials of serum. The gang leader turns to his crew. “Ya stuvo.”

  The Dominican teens looked at one another, unsure.

  “You heard me. Roll out!”

  Tucking their guns back into their waistbands, the teens walked away.

  Shep waited until they’d reached Broadway before releasing their leader. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to kill.”

  “I’ve killed, too. Trust me, there are better ways to live out your days.”

  “Fuck you. You don’t know shit about me. My mother’s dead. Cousins, too. My little sister’s dyin’ in her bed, spittin’ up blood. Six years old, never did nuthin’ to hurt nobody.”

  Shep reached inside the box, removing two vials. “Give this to your sister. Have her drink it, you do the same.”

  “You crazy.”

  “It’s plague vaccine. Take it. Tell no one about it.”

  The gang leader stared at the vials. “This for real?”

  “Yeah. Watch the side effects, it causes hallucinations. It probably won’t bother your sister, but it makes you see things about yourself you may not want to see.”

  “Why you givin’ me this?”

  “I have a daughter.”

  “And me?”

  “Call it a chance at transformation.”

  “Maybe I should just take the whole box.”

  “You’d never make it home. The military’s after me, no doubt they’re watching us by satellite as we speak. Go. Save your sister. The two of you find a way off this island.”

  Marquis hesitated. Then he jogged off.

  Shep turned—

  — confronted by Virgil. “That was dangerous. He’ll come back with his gang to collect the rest of the vials. We have to go.”

  “What about the Grim Reaper?”

  “Pray your act of kindness buys us some time before he finds you again.”

  United Nations Plaza

  12:43 A.M.

  Bertrand DeBorn waited in the back of the black Chevy Suburban, seated behind the driver. Both Ernest Lozano and the secretary of defense were wearing gas masks.

  The former CIA operator glanced at his boss in the rearview mirror. The rebreather secured to DeBorn’s face had left his silky white hair unkempt, revealing patches of scalp and liver spots near the head straps. His gray-blue upturned eyes appeared menacing behind the plastic shield as they stared, unblinking, out the rear window.

  Lozano saw Sheridan Ernstmeyer reappear beyond the secured perimeter, escorted by a man wearing a white Racal suit. The female assassin double-timed it back to the Suburban and climbed in the backseat. She was breathing heavily behind her mask.

  “Well?”

  “It’s bad. They gave up on containment twelve hours ago, now they’re just trying to organize an evacuation.”

  “Can your contact get word to the president that I’m down here?”

  “He’s just local PD; there’s no way he can reach him.”

  DeBorn slammed his fist against the back of the driver’s seat. “I’m the damn secretary of defense!”

  “Sir, all communications have been shut down, with the exception of a secured line between Washington and Kogelo’s suite. No one’s allowed on the president’s floor, not even the CDC.”

  “Sonuvabitch.” DeBorn’s mask fogged up. He fought the urge to rip it from his face and heave it out the window.

  “Sir, there’s something else. Special Ops is organizing an assault team, my contact’s one of the cops selected for their ground support. They’re after Shepherd.”

  DeBorn’s gaunt face paled.

  “It’s not what you think. Shepherd escaped the VA hospital with a case of Scythe vaccine.”

  DeBorn sat up, his mind racing. “We need to find Shepherd before they do… he’
s our ticket out.” The secretary searched his jacket pockets, retrieving a piece of folded notepad paper with Beatrice Shepherd’s address.

  “Get us to Battery Park City… fast.”

  Ernest Lozano turned around to face him. “Sir, every street in Manhattan’s stuck in endless gridlock. People have abandoned their cars—”

  ”Drive on the damn sidewalk if you have to, I don’t care. We need to get to Shepherd’s family before the military does.”

  Manhattanville/Morningside Heights

  1:37 A.M.

  The buildings and streetlamps were dark, the densely packed neighborhood set aglow by hundreds of car fires and the streams of conflagration dispensed from the authorities’ flamethrowers. Plague-infested corpses riddled the streets. Plague-riddled victims staggered along sidewalks and lay sprawled on curbs — their mouths and nostrils blotched in blood as if they had just finished cannibalizing the neighborhood. The surreal scene swept south down Broadway, as if taken straight out of a 1970s horror movie.

  Homeland Security, dressed in storm-trooper black, their faces concealed behind gas masks, advanced in formation down the vehicle-littered avenue, herding the angry mob back inside their apartment dwellings. Sensing an ambush, a cop ignited a cluster of bodies with his flaming stream of propane and natural gas, chasing off a black woman and her two young children who had been hiding behind the remains of the deceased. The shrieking mother dragged her screaming kids down the sidewalk, all three engulfed in the blaze, the infested flesh dripping from their bones.

  Shots were fired from the surrounding buildings’ darkened recesses. Two officers went down; their comrades returned fire.

  “Pull back!”

  Dragging their wounded, they moved toward the safety of their fleet of Hummers.

  A Hispanic woman, hysterical over the death of her infant, tossed her lifeless child from a third-story window. The fragile corpse struck one of the retreating storm troopers, who freaked out—