by J. L. ROBB
Russ walked briskly, his stride increasing. Samarra exited the front entrance of CDC just as Russ was bounding up the steps.
“What happened Russ?” Samarra asked the question, her autonomic nervous system having now slowed her heartbeat and respiration to almost a normal level, mission accomplished. Twenty minutes had passed she noted, glancing at the clock tower across the street. It sure seemed longer than that.
“Tanker truck lost control on the turn and crashed into the building. Not sure why it was on this street. A fireman said the driver was most likely incinerated in the initial blaze,” which still was troubling Russ. There might be more death before the night was over since the fire was still out of control.
“Leaving already?” Russ questioned Samarra’s brief visit to the lab.
“I am. I was going to work awhile after checking the cultures, but with all the action taking place I thought I would call it a night. Too hard to concentrate. See you tomorrow.”
Samarra rushed this time, across the parking lot, dodging the fire and rescue vehicles still arriving en masse, knowing she would not sleep this night. The hours would pass slowly as she wondered whether the finger-severer would keep the promise that Thomas really would be back in her arms in twenty-four hours. She opened the front door of the Volvo, started the electric motor and began her mentally anguishing journey back to Tuxedo Drive.
Samarra exited the CDC. How in the world did they plan to get the virus from the mechanical room she wondered, and past security. That wasn’t her problem. The dry ice would only last a day or two at most. Once the virus reached normal temperature, it would be especially virulent.
Turning onto N. Decatur Road, she subconsciously wiped the slight dripping from her nose. Samarra hardly ever got a cold.
***
Russ was concerned at Samarra’s somewhat odd behavior, and he waited for the other security attendants to return. By replaying the digital record of the security cameras in the Bio 4 Lab area, he would see if there was anything strange going on. He had an uneasy feeling, but he was sure it was just the events of the night. Russ backed the master recording thirty minutes, prior to the visit by the Shell tanker, and Ms. Russell.
The data was reviewed under high-speed; but nothing out of the ordinary was noted, as a matter of fact, Samarra herself wasn’t noted. How could that be?
Jason and the other guard returned to the security desk, smelling like fire and fuel. Russ did not confide his concerns, thinking it better to investigate first.
“I’m going to make the rounds guys,” Russ told the two security men now at the front desk to monitor his progress from the panel of flat-screen monitors, stating he believed there might be a problem with the cameras on the fourth floor.
Five minutes later, Russ radioed security.
“Jason, do you guys see me?”
“Not yet Russ, where are you?”
“I’m standing smack-dab in front of camera 4B, in the hallway just outside the lab.”
Puzzled, the guards saw nothing on the flat-screen to indicate anyone was at the lab.
“We don’t see nothin’,” Jason responded.
“OK, I’m heading down the hall. See if I appear in the next camera, 4C. I should be there now.” Russ’ anxiety level rose, knowing something was not kosher with the security cameras.
“We still don’t see nothin’. It’s as though the hallway is empty.”
Russ continued down the hall to the elevators and then saw the small red L.E.D. indicator light that had been triggered by the elevator that leads to the rooftop mechanical room. He wondered how that was possible, since no alarms had appeared at security.
Entering the elevator, Russ pressed the UP button, took a one-story ride to the fifth floor and exited. Walking to the wall ladder, he saw a small piece of fabric hanging from the protective cage surrounding the ladder. The fabric, navy blue, yellow and green madras matched the shirt that Samarra had been wearing when Russ first saw her this evening.
Russ climbed the ladder, careful not to tamper with the madras evidence; because he now knew something was amiss. What in the world was Samarra doing on the ladder to the HVAC penthouse? When he reached the roof hatch, the hatch was unlocked. He grabbed his Nextel from his belt holder and radioed security once again.
“Is there any indication on the alarm panel that the integrity of the roof hatch has been compromised?”
“No sir,” Jason replied, “and we still didn’t see you on any of the cameras in that area. What’s going on?”
“Stand by.” Russ’ response was unusually curt.
Ascending the ladder and through the roof hatch, Russ walked across the roof, maintaining his balance as he passed over the pebbles that covered the roof’s membrane surface. The penthouse mechanical room was locked and secure. This is very strange indeed he thought.
Russ descended the wall-ladder after securing the roof hatch, his mind still spinning as to why Samarra would have been on the roof. A quick scan with the high-powered flashlight did not indicate any unusual activity on the roof, but it must have been her. Once again, Russ carefully avoided the small piece of fabric, leaving it intact and hanging on the barrier.
Now securely back on the smooth, concrete floor of the fifth floor room, Russ stooped to retie the shoestring of his black Puma tennis shoes. He noticed, or at least he thought he noticed, a miniscule amount of talcum-looking powder on the floor surface, just below the ladder. He pressed his finger to the surface, some of the almost invisible powder sticking to his finger and carefully smelled the substance. There was no odor. Russ dismissed this concern, realizing the powder, or dust, could be from many sources.
Something, however, was not right; and now he needed to determine what to do. He really liked Samarra, her record and research impeccable, and thought he might give her a call before reporting the incident. The priority at the moment was to determine what was wrong with the fourth floor security cameras.
“I’m headed back,” he radioed security.
“What did you find?” The other guards’ curiosity now peaked by the malfunctioning camera equipment.
“Nothing really. I will see you in a few.” Russ entered the elevator that would take him to the first floor and realized he was perspiring abnormally as he sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve since he had no tissue. He sneezed again on his trek to security.
“You okay man? Heard you sneezing.” Jason looked concerned and should have been.
“I’m fine. Maybe just some allergies, pollen season in Atlanta. You know how that is.” Russ’ face felt flush, and he began to feel slightly feverish. He was glad his shift would soon be over and he could relax a bit. Then he would call Samarra. Maybe he should call the police, his thought brief and quickly dismissed. There can’t be much to this, and he tried to minimize the incident. He sneezed again, apologizing to all three guards, the third having now returned from the fire. The room smelled like fuel and smoke.
“I’ll be right back. I think I might be sick.” Russ hurried to the Men’s Room, just making it to the toilet before his gut let go with almost projectile-like vomiting. What in the world was he coming down with? Russ was hardly ever sick and had only missed one day due to sickness in all his years at the CDC. Whatever it was, it was sudden.
Russ washed up in the lavatory, the water turning on automatically when his hands crossed the path of the imbedded motion sensor, and splashed water in his eyes that were nearly swollen shut. He walked back to Security, hand against the wall to stabilize his balance.
“Man, you look awful. Maybe you better go home.” Jason looked genuinely concerned.
“I think I will, but let me lie down for a few minutes.” Russ walked down the hall to the infirmary, dizziness setting in.
Two hours later, still early morning and dark outside, one of the guards walked to the infirmary to make sure Russ was all right. He wasn’t. There was blood oozing from Russ’ nose, ears and left eye. Unresponsive, the guard radioed his comp
atriots.
“Call 911. I think Russ is dead.”
The security guard sneezed, and worried.
CHAPTER NINE
“I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.” Revelation 6:2
After leaving the Rexall Grill, Jeff Ross, Chad Myers and Bill Briggs headed to Park Place Café, Bill’s favorite Dunwoody hangout. Actually it was his favorite hangout in the Atlanta area, more ladies per square foot than anywhere he had ever been, and most were pretty nice ladies. They didn’t seem to hate men like so many women these days. Of course, having a couple of husbands who fooled around on you would tend to make a woman hate men, he guessed.
Not really a café, other than having to sell food in order to serve alcohol and obey the silly laws pertaining to such, Park Place was a small bar with piano, upon which some of Atlanta’s prettiest ladies danced the night away after a few adult beverages. Bill liked that.
The décor was semi-elegant, dark leather with gold trim, mirrors everywhere that made Park Place look much larger than reality. The lighting was just right, and everyone looked good in the dimness. The place was classy enough to have an assistant in the men’s room, just in case Bill got too drunk to wash his own hands he guessed. Bill did not like that. Leave me alone for Pete’s sake! I just want to pee and wash my hands. I don’t need any cologne.
Atlanta was a babe magnet, Bill recognizing that delight right away, and some of the best babes visited Park Place. Bill wasn’t really shy by any means, but he hated humiliation. The problem with most bars, in Europe too, was transition. Men hated bars that had dead-end spaces. Once a guy got to the end of the bar, scouting out potential wives, at least for the night, he then had to turn around, walk right by the girls he just passed; and they knew he didn’t get lucky on that go around. It was embarrassing, humiliating.
Park Place Café solved that problem with a circular bar right in the middle of the place. There was a smooth flow, transition. Bill could walk in, circle the bar and leave if there were no interesting prospects; but there were always interesting prospects at Park Place, a sure bet, at least during operating hours. He visited every time he came through Atlanta.
There would be no circling of the bar tonight. Important things needed to be discussed. The three walked in and took a seat well away from the piano. Jeff ordered a Duckhorn merlot, Chad ordered a Diet Coke and Bill had a White Zinfandel, of course.
“So tell me about this blip of light you mentioned.” Chad referred to the conversation when Jeff called him at Goddard the day before. Boy, it seems like a lot longer he thought.
Jeff explained to Chad and Bill, telling them what he saw, and then didn’t see, a few weeks earlier, a flashcube bright light high in the night sky. The light had reminded Jeff of something, he just couldn’t place it. He was disappointed when neither had heard anything about it; because if anyone had heard, it would have been these two.
“What about The Admiral? Did he mention anything?” Jeff knew that Admiral McLemore’s keen interest in astronomy matched or even surpassed his own.
“He didn’t mention it, but then I didn’t really mention it to him. I would think, if there was an astronomical event of this magnitude, someone would have reported it. How much Duckhorn did you drink that night?” Chad knew that Jeff never over drank, too much of a health nut; and then of course, there were those DUI laws.
Jeff thanked the waitress, thinking she must be new, for bringing the drinks and asked where Abe the Bartender was.
“He’s off tonight but’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll tell him you really missed him,” she said with a wink and a flip of her blonde ponytail. Jeff again wondered who she was. He hadn’t seen her before that he could recall, but she was vaguely familiar.
Jeff did miss Abe, his most favorite bartender and the smartest man he knew about many things. Abe was the kind of bartender you see in the movies, the ones who can talk about anything. Since his divorce, Jeff and Abe had solved many of the world’s problems as Jeff healed from the emotional wounds of his loss. Abe was a great counselor.
“I’ll tell you what I did see though.” Chad looked around, the keyboardist playing Ride Sally Ride, a brunette beauty dancing on the piano, wearing a little-bitty short, black dress and dark red high heels. The three men knew to guard their conversations, a lot of it not for the ears of the innocent and easily confused public.
“There has been a lot to see in just the past week.” Chad continued, “There is an object, a space object, headed our way. We just found it, and we’re not sure why we just found it. It’s humongous. Arecibo should have picked this thing up five years ago.”
“How big? How far?” Bill’s question was brief and to the point, he was that kind of guy.
“That’s the screwy part, we can’t tell at this point. It is not radar-reflective, possibly covered with graphite to absorb rather than reflect. We’ve lost it three times but picked it back up a few minutes later. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.” Chad Myers had seen a lot of strange things in the field of Near-Earth Objects, NEO’s for short.
“Maybe that’s my blip,” Jeff said with slight hope in his tone.
“Nope, there is absolutely no light output or reflection. It’s very strange indeed.
“Another thing, it seems to be changing course; but there is nothing around it to make it vary, no large planets or moons, very little gravitational pull that would impact the object’s trajectory. It wasn’t heading directly toward Earth until yesterday, though it looked to be a close encounter, a couple of LDs at least.”
“And an LD is?” Bill asked the question, waiting for Chad’s answer. Chad knew more about astronomy than The Admiral and Jeff put together.
“Lunar Distance, the distance between the Earth and the Moon, about 250,000 miles,” Chad explained. “Two LDs would be twice the distance from the Earth to the Moon, about 500,000 miles distant. That’s safe but still relatively close in astronomical terms.
“It now appears it may hit us. It’s big, it’s fast and if it hits, the planet will have a drastic change. Whatever it is, the NASA Jet Propulsion Lab in California didn’t pick it up either.”
“At least we won’t have to deal with the global warming fiasco!” Jeff laughed and ordered another Duckhorn from the personality-plus waitress he could not place. “I mean, if we’re all dead.”
“How long before impact?” Bill asked.
Just as Chad was making the previous comment, Ride Sally Ride abruptly ended; and it seemed Park Place was suddenly a library, quiet as a mouse. The brunette beauty dismounted the piano gracefully, considering the heels. There was enough leg to keep it interesting, and Bill thought this babe had some gorgeous gams.
In the back corner booth, the closest booth to the three friends, a husky-type man was drinking a martini and a cup of coffee. Chad noticed that the man was reading USA Today and didn’t seem interested in what they had to say, probably had not heard a thing, at least he hoped. He would remember to listen to the music more closely so he would know when it was ending.
The music started again, this time the keyboardist belting out an old Justin Timberlake song, something about holding hands, toes in the sand.
Rich Badey was the man in the corner booth, an investigative reporter with CNN. He appeared to be reading the paper, paying no-never-mind to anyone or anything around, not even the new dancer who graced the piano, though as the night aged, the dancers would be less graceful he knew, at least from past evenings at Park Place.
Like most experienced reporters, Rich had the gift of hearing what was going on all around him, as though he had surround-sound hearing. That’s how investigative reporters break big stories; and he already had one big story today, the loss of Jack Russell and his plane load of missionaries, somewhere in the Caribbean between Puerto Rico and Montserrat, another victim of the Soufriére Hills Volcano.
Rich kept reading his newsp
aper, holding it in his left hand, a small tattoo at the base of his thumb, barely visible due to the shade of his skin. Rich’s ancestors were from somewhere in Africa, who knows where; and he had written a book about the traumas of his ancestors, ripped right out of their families, their wives and kids, lives forever lost.
The slaves weren’t stolen by the white men from England, France and America but were purchased, sold by his own people, his ancestry selling his ancestry. It had never made sense to him, how Africans could kidnap other Africans and sell them into a life of misery, and often death. But then there were the Africans enslaving the Jews just four thousand years earlier. What a world we live in, has it ever changed? History just repeating history, like it always had. Rich had read something about that in the Bible.
The newspaper in his left hand, his right slowly opened his vinyl-clad briefcase, reporters didn’t make enough to have alligator, and Rich wouldn’t have an alligator brief case anyway. He removed his small state-of-the-art recording device shaped like a pen, something he might sign the check with. He placed it on the table, carefully aiming it at the table, hoping to at least pick up some conversational fragments, especially between music sets. He was sure he heard something about a space object.
He would listen to the digital recording later.
The silent streamer floated across the bottom portion of the flat-screen TV and caught Rich’s eye, as did the Channel Five news commentator, Condi Zimmerman. He wondered how those stations found such beautiful women.
***
The CDC was a center of activity when the technician from Global Warming HVAC drove his white Ford cargo van to the service entrance at the rear of the facility, the parking area for contractors and large delivery vans.