by J. L. ROBB
Death was not easy for its victims, as the Spanish Flu usually attacked the lungs directly, leading to hemorrhaging and the formation of a thick, gooey mucous that eventually clogged the airways and lead to a slow and painful suffocation, often with hemorrhaging from the eyes, nose, mouth, ears and other body orifices.
The virus’ incubation period was brief, with infections quickly spread through coughing and sneezing. At the time, a prominent epidemiologist at Yale, Dr. Charles Edward Winslow commented, “We have had a number of cases where people were perfectly healthy and died within twelve hours.”
The Spanish Flu was not Spanish at all, at least according to the Spanish, but was first reported in the Spanish Press. The flu hit the world in three waves, the second wave in late 1919 being far worse than the other two. The disease, unlike most flus that affect children and the elderly, imparted its wrath on those between twenty and forty with strong immune systems. The flu thrived on strong immune systems, turning the system against the body, which was then quickly consumed.
Because of the transport of troops after the War, the Spanish Flu became a world-wide plague, much worse than smallpox or the Bubonic Plague, the infamous Black Death.
Concentrate Samarra, concentrate.
At eleven o’clock that night, Samarra drove the Volvo V70 to the Centers for Disease Control, arriving thirty minutes early, just to make sure she was there at the proper time. At 11:45, Samarra parked her Volvo illegally at the front entrance and headed to the security checkpoint, even more secure now that the smallpox cultures were missing from USAMRID.
Approaching security, Samarra was elated to see Russ Ivies. Russ was Chief of Security for CDC and had worked security for the years Samarra had been there. They had become friends, sort of, having shared coffee together in the cafeteria from time to time.
“Working late tonight Samarra? Hardly ever see you here this late.” Russ was not questioning her work habit but just a little curious at the hour.
“Hey Russ, can you help me get some equipment out of my car? It’s not heavy, just a little bulky.”
Samarra had hidden the insulated toolbox, which wasn’t as large as it looked in the SUB-ZERO, inside a Hewlett Packard desktop computer box, sealed as though the computer was fresh out of Best Buy.
“No prob Ms. Russell, glad to help.”
Russ pulled one of the carts from a storage closet and went to Samarra’s car, unloading the new computer and a flat screen LCD monitor, as well as a box of immunology reference books onto the cart, which resembled a luggage cart at every Holiday Inn Express. Samarra wanted to make sure the computer box was not the only thing she was taking to the lab, less chance of being questioned.
Wheeling the cart to the security screener, Russ stopped while the scanner looked for anything fishy but found none.
The sound of a machine, a truck or something noisy attracted the attention of Jason Brach, assistant security chief, and the other two security guards, as exactly at 11:51 PM a hijacked Shell gasoline tanker careened down the main thoroughfare at an abnormally high rate of speed. Noting how unusual it was to see a gasoline tanker driving by Emory, Russ ran back out the front entrance just in time to see the tanker miss the turn, slamming into the side of the Forensic Lab building before turning over, gasoline flooding from the rupture in the front of the storage tank.
Seconds later the cab of the truck exploded with a force beyond what it should have been, as the suicide bomber self-destructed, taking the gasoline and the rest of the eighteen-wheeler with him, or her. Windows in the surrounding buildings were shattered by the blast wave.
All this occurred about three-quarters of a mile away from the CDC entrance; and Samarra ignored the conflagration, knowing that this was the diversion the finger-severing note-writer had mentioned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Parked by Gate B at the Dunwoody MARTA station, the GTR’s idling motor spoke the language of Italy, Ferrariish. Jeff waited in the heat with his air conditioning wide open and the tinted driver’s window down, enjoying the throaty sound of his latest toy’s engine.
Five minutes later the silent, electrically powered, silver MARTA train eased into the station, as silent as a young feline stalking its next prey. If this was the right train, Jeff should see Chad in a couple of minutes; and he did.
“Hey ChadBo,” Jeff called out, using the special nickname he’d given Chad from the get-go, so long ago in Japan.
“Look who I brought with me,” Chad said through the turmoil of the MARTA station crowd, leading a familiar face that followed him in the crowd of businessmen, college kids and a few tourists. Jeff recognized him right away.
“Well look what the cat drug in. No offense to cats. Long time no see, big guy.” Jeff gave the two men a mutual man-hug after the handshakes, the smiles all around indicating their long-time fondness for one another.
“How the heck are you doing Mr. Briggs? Excuse me! I meant Wild Willy Briggs! I can’t believe you’re here? Was this planned, because I know how yours and ChadBo’s minds work, very devious.”
Jeff hadn’t seen Bill Briggs since July, five years earlier and had seen him only a few times since their good old Navy days when they were all three stationed at Yokosuka, Japan. There were some great stories from those days, filed in a memory bank deep inside Jeff’s balding head. They did communicate often though.
That was a long time ago, Jeff remembered, thinking back to the late sixties when they were young men, toughened by the military and the reality of Vietnam, and the naïveté of the flower children, hippies and Moonies, hanging out in airports, trying to solicit military men and women to their way of thinking, make love not war and screw the Vietnamese, not our problem. The Moonie way of thinking.
Jeff always mused at the superficial concern of these children of peace, the flower children who loved themselves, and of course us-the-soldiers but not the Vietnamese. He wondered if that was what Jesus meant when he told the Jews to love your neighbor as yourself; but not if they’re across the ocean, only in the immediate area. He often wondered about that to this day, those protesters in the name of God who don’t consider the Iraqis as neighbors and could care less about their welfare. Love your neighbor if he’s just down the street. Today it seemed to Jeff, that those folks were now running, and ruining, the country. The fox was guarding the hen house.
The military had a way of making a young boy become a man, taking him on a journey from innocent youth to trained killer, at least if he had to do so, in just a few short months. Basic training, Officer Candidate School and then to manhood, swiftly. It wasn’t a bad thing, he didn’t think. One had to grow up at some point in time. Those were the days.
Actually, in retrospect garnered through age, Jeff knew now that they really weren’t the good old days, with the make-love-not-war, if-it-feels-good-do-it philosophy du jour. He knew that those days led to a generation of teen and adult narcissism the world has not seen since the days of Nero in the ancient Roman Empire, maybe ever. Not to mention the teen pregnancy rate, something that approached zero when Jeff was in high school, but today was worn by young pregnant girls as a badge of courage, a Badge of Honor. It was cool. It’s all about me. Those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end.
“You still doing the CIA stuff?” Jeff asked Bill, smiling at how the day was going so far.
“Nope. I’m a repo man.” Bill laughed and knew Chad and Jeff would be shocked to hear that, though Bill knew that nothing about him would probably surprise either of them.
“How we gonna all fit in that little bitty car?” Bill asked. “Is that thing a Volkswagen or a Renault?” Bill knew, was now envious of, the GTR but liked pulling Jeff’s chain. He liked to razz everybody, at least his friends.
“Wild Willy, since you’re the shortest,” and at five-foot seven, he was, “You can just curl up in the back, it’s a short ride, maybe an hour or so.”
“You’re kidding I hope!” noting the backseat fit for, not a king, but maybe
a miniature Chihuahua or Peekapoo. Jeff liked to pull Bill’s chain too.
“If you gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, will look to the port side, you will observe a 2011 Buick Lucerne, new and gleamy; and here are the keys. How’s that for service?” Jeff smiled, proud of himself. “You guys do remember that the port is the left side I guess.”
“I thought it was wine, just had some last night.” Bill joked.
“You mean you don’t still drink that White Zinfandel?” Chad and Jeff were both surprised at that.
After the three first met at Yokosuka, Jeff and Chad would always kid Bill about his pretty pink wine, the White Zinfandel being Bill’s drink of choice.
“You ever visit Atlanta, don’t go to midtown and drink pink wine Macho Man. You’ll have more dates than you can handle; and don’t worry, some of those guys are good looking.” They laughed again, and Bill reaffirmed his choice of White Zin as his favorite Sin.
“You guys want to follow me home or meet me there?” Jeff knew that Chad remembered the way to Duluth but maybe not the Sugarloaf Country Club area.
“I want to eat first, haven’t eaten since six this morning.” Chad’s stomach was already playing the growling samba. “Is that grill open, or do they still close after lunch?”
“I want to find some women, forget the food. Let’s go to Park Place.” Bill’s typical line of thought, and he was serious.
“Yep, just started opening for dinner because of the local demand. The new Duluth Towne Square, and you will be impressed, has been a great draw for downtown; and the Eastern Continental Divide travels right through the Square. It really is impressive.
“When it rains, all the water that falls to the east side of Main Street goes to the Atlantic Ocean. All the rain that falls on the western side flows to the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Well..well..well, Mr. Suddenly-a-Historian, how do you know all that stuff?” Chad and Bill both appreciated Jeff’s braininess, but geography and Eastern Divide history had never been part of their conversations.
“Actually, I didn’t know it until about a year or so ago. The local artist who designed the monument marking the Divide, Chris MacGahee, explained about the Divide at a book signing last June at On the Square Book Shoppe, just behind Rexall. We have become friends since then, so now I have three. You will probably meet him at the Grill. He hangs out there a lot, loves mustard and French fries, don’t ask me why. He will keep you entertained.”
“So you actually have friends now.” Bill’s comment was more a statement than a question; and he laughed all over himself, a weakness that kept him from ever completing an entire joke.
“Yep, three. Let’s go! Meet me at the Rexall Grill, right by the Towne Square. Remember how to get there Chad?”
Jeff knew Chad liked the Rexall Grill, a Duluth icon where one might learn anything and everything about anybody’s and everybody’s doings in Duluth, and more. Many world problems had been solved at the Rexall Grill during breakfast and lunch, if the world had only listened. Years before during the Runaway Bride fiasco, Duluth’s Rexall Grill enjoyed the patronage of crews from FOX News, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, CBS, NBC and others Jeff had never heard of, thinking he had heard of most news outlets. The cooking was a great draw for the news gathering crews to visit Rexall; but their primary reason was the gossip going around, floating in the air like an early morning fog and sticking to the ears of anyone who cared to listen.
“Breakfast at the Rexall Grill is really interesting,” one reporter for The Herald wrote. “A bunch of old geezers gossiping like a bunch of old ladies. My Grandpa would love this place.”
“Yep, I remember how to get there. I love it.” Chad was a lover of food; and with such a low body mass, he amazed all with his capacity of food consumption, able to eat two Burger King Whoppers, with cheese, almost any time of day.
“Oh, and thanks for getting us the rental car,” Chad called over his shoulder, opening the driver’s door.
“No prob man,” Jeff responded, “And besides, it belongs to my next door neighbors, Terry and Toni. They’re in St. Louis at a meeting and said you could borrow it. But don’t go to Pep Boys and have any pink neon lighting put underneath! I know how you guys are.”
Driving the GTR to the MARTA exit, Jeff knew that Bill would like the grill too; and they headed north on Mt. Vernon Road, a road that would take them fourteen miles to Duluth without a turn, though the road name would change a few times, winding through tree lined streets and neighborhoods of mansions, dogwoods, rhododendrons and fountains, a beautiful drive if there ever was one, Garden of Edenish.
Jeff thought again about the blip of light, as he did routinely, not having been able to get the flashcube light out of his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder if Chad knew something that he didn’t. Chad’s primary interest was Near-Earth Objects. Maybe this was one of those.
***
Melissa’s neighbor and best friend, Kara Mulherin, were having lunch. They met for lunch about every two weeks or so, never spending a lot of money, and today met at Jason’s Deli at The Forum, a shopping center shaped like a village located on Peachtree Parkway, one of the many Peachtrees around Atlanta.
“So I heard Jesus is happy.” They laughed at what Audry had said after the TV show. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
Kara and Melissa had been friends for years and both attended the beautiful Perimeter Church over on Old Alabama Road. Kara actually introduced Melissa to her new husband of three months, Robert Jeremias, the owner of Jeremias Tractor and Equipment Company. Georgia’s largest farm equipment dealership, it was located on a prime piece of real estate on Peachtree Industrial just north of the AGCO Building. AGCO was a major manufacturer of farm tractors, and Jeremias was their largest and most successful dealer.
At the urging of Melissa, Kara decided to give internet dating a try. Being single was not fun. She had heard the bad stuff about meeting someone from the internet, but several of Melissa’s girlfriends were having great success. Making the move about two years earlier, one of the first men Kara would meet was now Melissa’s new husband.
Kara and Robert went out a few times, the chemistry wasn’t right for either of them; but there was enough mental chemistry going on to fuel a good, better than good, friendship.
“We could’ve never fit Karalynn Mulherin Jeremias on a wedding invitation anyway,” Robert would later tell some of their mutual friends.
Finally Kara introduced Melissa to Robert, and they all became mutual, platonic friends. At the time, unbeknownst to Kara, Melissa, who had been happily married for almost twenty-five years, was not happily married anymore. Had she known, she might not have introduced Melissa and Rob. She thought the world of Jeffrey.
“I love Jason’s Deli.” Of course Kara loved every place, she was that way, always positive, even the cemetery would be nice.
“Melissa, can I be just a little jealous of your hair. I always have been you know.”
Kara and Melissa had mutual admiration for each other, not just the outer beauty but also the inner. Melissa’s red hair and blue eyes were absolutely stunning, a terrific combination, mounted on a five-foot five, statuesque frame, a combination that always turned heads of both men and women. She just had that princess-stately look in spite of Melissa’s age, early fifties.
“Well, only if I can be jealous of your bod,” Melissa responded.
And that Kara had, no slouch by any means, a body that would stop a battle ship, at least so Jeff and some of his Navy buddies would say, annoyingly often. What Melissa had with red hair, and she really did feel blessed, Kara had as a brunette, also with blue eyes, full but not too full arching eyebrows, five foot two, eyes of blue, just like the song said.
After the small talk, their conversation turned to Jeff.
“How’s Jeff handling the new marriage? Has he even met Robert?”
“He’s handling it, at least he seems to be. He met Rob briefly just before the wedding but never really commented. You know how he
is.”
“He didn’t say anything?” Kara asked, noticing the elderly woman in a near booth who seemed to be listening in to their private conversation. She had noticed a few times, and nosy people really got on Kara’s nerves.
“Hey, I think the lady in that booth, don’t look, is listening to our conversation. Want to make it juicy?” Kara whispered across the dark stained table, that little impish grin in her eye that Melissa had seen so many times before; and she knew it was going to happen no matter.
“So, I just have to ask,” Kara’s voice was slightly louder than the previous conversation, the words gently floating to the nosy woman’s booth. The gray-haired lady’s ears eagerly awaited.
“What is Rob like in bed? I mean, you know, compared to Jeff? You always told me Jeff was like a wild man.”
The gray-haired lady was very obvious, leaning even farther out of her booth, apparently hearing impaired from the way she cocked her head, sort of aiming her right ear in their direction.
“Oh hush Kara, I can’t tell you that!”
“Yes you can,” Kara begged. “Tell me your secrets!”
Melissa adlibbed, thinking it might give the little lady a thrill. What would that hurt?
“Well, I can tell you this, he doesn’t need any Viagra!”
The gray-haired lady slipped off her bench seat and on to the dark, wooden floor of Jason’s Deli, Melissa and Kara running over to assist, as well as a Jason’s waiter who spilled a tray of iced tea, sweet with lemons. The lady mentioned something about losing her balance, blushing, a hibiscus pink filling her cheeks.
“I guess that wasn’t too Christian,” Melissa said, a pained look on her face as they returned to their table, awaiting their tea that the waiter just spilled all over aisle two, and the tuna pita melts.