Domain

by Steve Alten

  What's in the crates?

  Racal suits, the colonel answers. Portable, pressurized space suits we use in the field when dealing with potentially hot agents.

  I'm familiar with Racal suits, Colonel.

  That's right, you were in Puerto Rico during the dengue outbreak in 2009.

  This stuff is going to be a bit nastier, I'm afraid, Marvin says. From what we've been told, physical contact with the substance is causing immediate crash and bleed outs-profuse hemorrhaging from all orifices of the body.

  I can handle it. Chaney grips the seat as the chopper takes off. It's the damn chopper that gets me queasy.

  The colonel smiles. Once we land, our first concern will be to assist the Mexicans in establishing gray zones-intermediate areas between the contaminated sites and the rest of the population.

  Chaney listens for a while longer, then eases his chair back and closes his eyes. Racal suits. Crash and bleed outs. What the hell am I doing here?

  Four hours later, the Sikorsky slows to hover over a white beach blotted with a black, tarlike substance. Sections of the infected shoreline have been cordoned off with orange, wooden barriers.

  The helicopter follows the deserted shoreline to the east, approaching a series of Red Cross Army tents that have been erected along a secured stretch of beach. A massive bonfire burns fifty yards from the site, its dark brown smoke leaving a thick trail, miles long, in the cloudless sky.

  The Sikorsky slows, then touches down on a cordoned-off parking lot adjacent to the tented area.

  Mr. Vice President, this suit looks to be about your size. Colonel Ruetenik hands him an orange space suit.

  Chaney sees Dean pulling on a suit. Wrong. Sit your ass down, Papa, you're staying here. The press and security men, too.

  My job is to assist you-

  Assist me by staying here.

  Chaney emerges from the copter twenty minutes later, accompanied by Teperman and the colonel. All three are wearing the bulky orange Racal suits and air tanks.

  A physician greets them outside the main tent. Chaney notices a green ooze dripping from the man's white environmental suit.

  I'm Dr. Juarez. Thank you for coming so quickly.

  Colonel Ruetenik makes the introductions.

  Is that the toxic substance on your suit, Doctor? Chaney asks, pointing to the green liquid.

  No, sir. That's envirochem, the good stuff. We use it as a disinfectant. Make sure you douse your suit in it before getting changed. If you'll follow me, I'll show you the bad stuff.

  Chaney feels beads of sweat drip down the side of his face as he follows the others into the quarantined area.

  Beneath the Red Cross tent are dozens of people lying on plastic cots. Most are in bathing suits. All are covered in black blotches of blood and bile. Those who are conscious are moaning in agony. Workers dressed in plastic bodysuits and heavy rubber boots and gloves are removing body bags from the tent as fast as newcomers are being led inside.

  Dr. Juarez shakes his head. This place has turned into a real hot zone. Most of the damage occurred during the early-morning hours before anyone realized how contagious the sludge was. We had the beaches quarantined by noon, but the first wave of physicians and volunteers just kept getting contaminated, making things worse. We've resorted to identifying the victims, then burning the bodies just to slow the spread.

  They enter an adjacent tent. A pretty Mexican nurse in an environmental suit is seated next to a cot, holding a middle-aged American man's hand in her gloved palm.

  Dr. Juarez gives the nurse an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Nurse, who do we have here?

  This is Mr. Ellis, an artist from California.

  Mr. Ellis, can you hear me?

  Mr. Ellis is lying on his back, staring into space, his eyes wide-open.

  Ennis Chaney shudders. The man's eyeballs are completely black.

  The colonel pulls the doctor aside. How does the infection appear to be spreading?

  Physical contact with either the black tide or another infected subject's excretions. No evidence to suggest an airborne virus.

  Marvin, hand me the microcassette recorder please, then stand by with the hatbox. The colonel takes the miniature recorder from Teperman and begins speaking into it as he assists Dr. Juarez with his examination.

  Subject appears to have come in physical contact with the tarlike substance on thumb and second and third fingers of right hand. Flesh on all three digits has been seared clear to the bone. Eyeballs are fixed and hemorrhaging and have completely turned black. Subject appears to be in a stupor. Nurse, how long ago did Mr. Ellis come in contact with the black tide?

  I don't know, sir. Maybe two hours.

  Marvin leans close to Chaney. This stuff works very fast.

  The colonel overhears and nods. Subject's skin is clammy, almost yellow, with black blotches appearing along both upper and lower extremities. Colonel Ruetenik gently manipulates pockets of blood beneath the skin of Ellis's arm. Third spacing is evident along both upper extremities-

  Dr. Juarez sits next to his patient, who appears to be coming out of his stupor. Try not to move, Mr. Ellis. You've come in contact with some kind of-

  -my fucking head is killing me. Ellis sits up suddenly, black blood dripping from both nostrils. Who the fuck are you people? Oh, God . . . Without warning, a massive quantity of thick, black blood and tissue is forcibly expelled from Ellis's mouth. The sizzling bile pours down his chest, splattering Teperman and the nurse across the headpieces of their protective suits.

  Chaney backs off several steps, the sight of the black bile causing a gag reflex. He swallows back the vomit rising in his throat and turns away, trying to regain his composure.

  The nurse remains kneeling before her patient, holding both of Ellis's hands in her own, compassion preventing her from looking away from the dying man's horrified face.

  Mr. Ellis stares at Dr. Juarez and the colonel through two dark holes, a zombielike expression plastered on his bloodied face, the victim sitting in a rigid, upright posture as if he is afraid to move. My insides are melting, he moans.

  Chaney sees the man's upper torso begin to quiver and convulse. With a sickening gurgle, the black bile is vomited again, this time pouring from the nostrils and eyes as well. It runs down Ellis's neck, followed by a stream of bright, crimson blood.

  Dr. Juarez grabs the heaving body by its elbows as the victim's upper torso spasms violently in his grasp. Chaney closes his eyes and prays.

  The doctor and nurse lay the lifeless bag of infected organs back onto the cot.

  Colonel Ruetenik stands over the bleeding corpse and coldly continues his examination. Subject appears to have suffered a massive crash and bleed out. Marvin, bring the hatbox over here. I want several vials of this black excrement as well as tissue and organ samples.

  It is taking all of Ennis Chaney's willpower to keep himself from puking within his headpiece. His legs are shaking noticeably as he watches Marvin Teperman kneel next to the dead man and fill several small containers with contaminated blood. Each sample is placed carefully into the hatbox, a cylindrical biohazard container made of waxed cardboard.

  Chaney is sweating profusely. He feels as if he is suffocating within the protective suit.

  The four men leave the nurse to clean up.

  The colonel pulls Chaney aside. Sir, Marvin will fly back to Washington with you to complete an analysis of these samples. I'd prefer to stick around here a while longer. If you could arrange-

  Diego! The nurse stumbles out of the isolation tent, screaming in Spanish. Dr. Juarez grabs her by the wrists.

  Icarajo! Juarez stares at the small tear along the left elbow of her protective suit. The skin along the exposed arm is sizzling, a blotch of black vomit the size of a quarter already burning through most of the flesh down to the bone.

  Colonel Ruetenik douses her arm with the green disinfectant.

  Stay calm, Isabel, I think we caught it in time. Dr. Juarez looks back at the
vice president, desperation on his face, tears in his eyes. My wife-

  Chaney feels a lump growing in his throat as he stares into the terrified eyes of the condemned woman.

  Diego, cut off my arm!

  Isa-

  Diego, the baby will become infected!

  Chaney stays long enough to watch Juarez and Reutenik carry the shrieking woman into surgery. Then he runs from the tent, tearing at his headpiece as he stumbles across a sand dune. He falls to his knees, groping for the zipper along the neckline of his hood as the bile rises from his throat.

  NO! Marvin grabs Chaney's wrist just as he is about to remove the headpiece. The exobiologist douses the vice president's orange suit with green disinfectant as Ennis vomits across the inside of his face plate.

  Marvin waits until he is finished, then takes him by the arm and leads him to the chemical showers. The two men remain in their Racal suits beneath the spray of disinfectant, then move to a second shower of water where they strip off their suits.

  Chaney tosses his soiled shirt in a plastic bag. He washes his face and neck, then sits down on a plastic bench, feeling weak and vulnerable.

  Are you all right?

  Shit, I'm a far cry from being all right. He shakes his head. I lost control back there.

  You did well. This is my fourth time in a hot zone; the colonel's been in at least a dozen.

  How do you guys do it? he rasps, his hands still shaking.

  You do your best to depersonalize it while you're out there, then you hit the decon shower, remove your suit, and puke.

  Depersonalize it. Goddam windmills. I'm getting too old to fight 'em anymore. Let's go home, Marvin.

  Chaney follows Teperman back to the chopper. As he boards, he turns to see two men toss another body onto the funeral pyre.

  It is the nurse.

  Chapter 13

  NOVEMBER 24, 2012

  HOLLYWOOD BEACH, FLORIDA

  The tears are flowing so hard from her eyes that Dominique can barely see Edie's image on the video-comm. Rabbi Steinberg squeezes her hand tighter, his wife rubbing her back.

  Ead, I don't understand. What happened? What was Iz doing out there?

  He was investigating those sounds within the crater.

  A wail rises from her throat. She covers her face in the rabbi's chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Dominique, look at me! Edie commands.

  -it's my fault.

  Stop it. This has nothing to do with you. Iz was out there, doing his job. It was an accident. The Mexican Coast Guard is investigating-

  What about the autopsy?

  Edie looks away, struggling to stifle her own grief.

  Rabbi Steinberg turns to Dominique. All three bodies were infected by the black tide. They had to be burned.

  Dominique closes her eyes, her body shaking.

  Edie's face appears back on-screen. Doll, listen to me. We're going to have a memorial service in two days. I want you to come home.

  I'll be there. I'm going to come home for a while. Okay?

  What about your internship?

  It doesn't matter anymore. She wipes back tears. Edie, I'm really sorry-

  Just come home.

  The gray afternoon sky is threatening by the time Dominique exits the ground-level entrance of the Hollywood Beach high-rise. She crosses A-l-A and unlocks the driver's side door of the Pronto Spyder, tossing her suitcase onto the passenger seat. She inhales deeply, smelling the sea and the incoming rain, then climbs in.

  Dominique keys the ignition and presses the starter switch, laying her forehead on top of the steering wheel while she waits for the anti-theft and safety system to complete its analysis.

  Iz is dead. He's dead, and it's my fault. She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. It's all my goddam fault.

  The CD player activates.

  The disc player is preset to Digital DJ. The Roadster's built-in computer processor registers the temperature of her touch on the steering wheel, interpreting her mood.

  The Best of the Doors CD clicks into place.

  Think this thing through. The weather was calm, and Iz was too experienced a sailor for the boat just to sink. Something terrible, something unforeseen must have happened out there.

  The familiar sound of drumsticks dancing across a rod cymbal interlace with her thoughts. Haunting Eastern guitar licks reach out, feeding her sorrow, yet somehow soothing her. Memories of Iz flash across her mind's eye. A deep sadness refuels her spent emotions as the lyrics tear at her heart, pushing her once more over the edge. Hot tears blind her as Jim Morrison's melodic verse echoes in her ears.

  This is the End. . . beautiful friend,

  This is the End. . . my only friend, the End.

  Mesmerized by the haunting epitaph, she lifts her head from the steering wheel as the first droplets of rain splatter across the windshield. She closes her eyes to the deluge as memories of Iz and Edie and Mick swirl uncontrollably across her mind's eye.

  You look tired, Kiddo...

  Just come home...

  Lost in a romance, wilderness of pain,

  If I wasn't locked up... do you think ... do you think you could have loved me?

  And all. . . the children . . . are insane, Waiting for the summer rain, yeahhh...

  Four Ahau, three Kankin. You know what day that is, don V you, Dominique?

  Do you believe in God?

  You look tired, Kiddo...

  Do you believe in evil?

  There's danger on the edge of town . . .

  You have to do something! The Chicxulub crater-the clock's ticking. . .

  Doll, you're only one person. You can't expect to save the world...

  The clock's ticking. . . and all of us are going to die!

  You can't expect to save the world...

  The clock's ticking...

  Father, I want to kill you ...

  Dominique slumps forward against the steering wheel, her sobs competing with Jim Morrison's rants of Oedipal lust.

  Mellowing again, as the Eastern licks regain control.

  This is the End. . . beautiful friend,

  This is the End. . . my only friend, the End,

  None of us have any control over the deck or the cards we're dealt. What we do have is total responsibility as to how we play the hand. The Spyder's engine jumps to life, startling her.

  This is the End...

  She shuts off the sound system and wipes the tears from her eyes as the rain continues pelting the windshield. Glances up, staring at herself in the rearview mirror.

  Play the hand that's dealt.

  For several minutes, she continues staring straight ahead, determination replacing grief as her mind focuses on a plan. Then she activates the car phone and dials Rabbi Steinberg's number.

  It's me. No, I'm still downstairs. There's something important I have to do before I head over to Sanibel, but I need your help.

  Chapter 14

  NOVEMBER 25, 2012

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  9:54 P.M.

  The black Pronto Spyder turns right onto Twenty-third Street, executes a U-turn, then parks next to a telephone pole by the curb, just adjacent to the twenty-foot-high, stark white concrete wall. The side street, which borders the asylum to the north, runs west another two blocks before dead-ending at an abandoned textile mill. The neighborhood is run-down, the street deserted, except for a Dodge minivan parked at the far end of the block.

  Dominique exits the car, adrenaline pumping. She pops the trunk, verifies that no one is around, then removes a fifty-foot length of white, half-inch-thick nylon rope. Knots have been tied in the line at two-foot intervals. Bending down as if inspecting her right rear tire, she secures one end of the rope to the base of the telephone pole, then returns to the trunk.

  She opens the large cardboard box and removes the thirty-two-inch radio-controlled model helicopter. A mechanical claw hangs from beneath the tiny landing gear. Dominique positions the last knot at the free end of the ny
lon rope within the claw's grasp, then closes it.

  Okay, don't fuck this up. Keep the rope clear of the barbed wire.

  She starts the miniature copter's battery-powered engine, cringing at the loud, high-pitched whine of the rotors. The toy chopper lifts off, wobbling as it struggles to tow the nylon rope with it. Dominique maneuvers the model airship into a steep vertical climb high above the concrete security wall, taking up all the slack.

  Okay, nice and easy . . .

  Using the joystick, she guides the chopper past the wall and over the yard, then activates the claw, releasing the rope.

  The freed knot drops to the yard, its length slipping between the coils of barbed wire to rest on top of the concrete barrier.

  Perfect. Go! Dominique slams the joystick to the right. The model helicopter races toward the textile mill at the end of the street and disappears over the rooftop of the abandoned property. She powers the radio control OFF, hearing the telltale sound of plastic crashing in the distance.

  Slamming the trunk closed, she climbs back in the roadster and guides the car into the staff parking lot.

  Dominique checks her watch: 10:07. Almost time. She reaches into the glove compartment, removes the worn spark plug and ratchet, then turns off the car's engine and pops the hood of the Spyder.

  She closes the hood three minutes later, using a wet rag to wipe the grease from her hands. After fixing her makeup, she takes a moment to adjust the tight-fitting halter top before covering her half-exposed cleavage with the pink cashmere sweater.

  Okay Mick, now it's up to you.

  She hurries to the entrance of the facility, praying that Mick had been lucid during their conversation earlier that afternoon.

  10:14 p.m.

  Michael Gabriel is seated on the edge of the wafer-thin mattress, his vacant black eyes staring at the floor. His mouth is open, saliva dripping from his lower lip. His bruised left forearm is turned palm side up and is resting on his thigh, an offering to the butcher. The right arm is tucked by his side, the fist slightly balled.