by Chris Angus
Zhong nodded and stood also. But Yä Ling, as young as she was, seemed to know intuitively what Huang had in mind.
“We will help you,” she said, standing abruptly and putting her arm around Diana protectively.
Huang looked horrified. “There is no need,” he insisted. “I have my car right outside.” There began an almost comical tug-of-war between Yä Ling and Huang for Diana’s languid body.
Zhong said something rapidly to Yä Ling in Chinese, but the girl clearly refused. She spoke forcefully to him in a tone that left no room for argument. Zhong may have controlled everything in the girl’s life, but Yä Ling knew her own power, that he was still completely enamored of her and didn’t want to upset the very pleasing arrangement he had in any way.
“Very well.” He looked at Huang. “We’ll help take Miss Shatraw to her hotel.”
Outside, instead of getting into Huang’s tiny car, Yä Ling directed Diana to Zhong’s more spacious model and placed her inside, then got in next to her. Diana was almost out on her feet, and Huang was nearly beside himself at this potentially missed opportunity.
“I will follow,” he said, clearly hopeful of salvaging some sort of contact with Diana.
When they arrived at the hotel, Yä Ling helped Diana out and up the steps. Huang came hurrying up and took hold of Diana’s arm. “I will take her from here,” he pleaded.
But Yä Ling stared at him coldly, knowing perfectly what he had in mind. She turned to Zhong and declared that she would put Diana to bed and stay with her until the morning. Zhong wasn’t happy at this development at all, since he’d intended to spend the night with Yä Ling. He began to protest, but one look at her face made him realize there was nothing he could say to alter the situation. With a sigh, he nodded and turned away. He pointed to Huang and told him to go home.
Huang’s potential night of eternal delights was over. He gave Yä Ling a last burning glare that said everything.
CHAPTER TEN
WANG BINGUA SAT nervously, waiting for word that Premier Zhao would see him. As Minister of Health, he was about to make the sort of report every doctor feared most. And the worst part was, he wasn’t at all sure he could penetrate the premier’s absent-minded demeanor. Though he possessed a degree of self-preservation, as did most politicians, the man was simply not interested in matters of state. He spent all his time studying antiquities and making plans for his own personal museum, to be named after him, which he intended to be one of the great centers of the world for studying ancient cultures.
Somehow, Bingua thought gloomily, I am going to have to prick his balloon. The man simply must be made to understand. If he couldn’t make him see what was happening, then Beijing might well become one of those ancient cultures, known only from books and museums!
After hearing from a friend in the premier’s inner circle that an attempt had been made to convince General Zhou Zeli to help set up quarantine, Bingua had breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, something was going to be done. But then he learned the general had not agreed, had suspected some trick. And damn it, it probably was a trick, since Bingua knew the disaster now unfolding in the city had hardly registered with the premier. The man took the threat of the general far more seriously than any vague medical emergency. Bingua suspected he’d used the sickness as a simple ploy. A rogue military leader attempting a coup he could grasp. Some ill-defined sickness to which no one could put a name was simply too abstract.
An attractive young woman came into the room and bowed to him. “The premier will see you now,” she said.
He took a deep breath and followed her. He found Zemin sitting at his desk, a large blueprint for his museum spread out before him, held down at the corners by miniature jade dragons. He looked up as Bingua approached.
“Ah, Mr. Minister, tell me you what you think. We have the new plans for the atrium. You see? There will be two pools with fountains here and a spray of pathways radiating outward that will be lined with sculptures of great antiquity. It will be more magnificent than even the Americans’ great Getty Museum.”
Bingua made a show of interest. “Yes, sir. It will be magnificent, I agree.” He leaned over the diagrams. Each great hall of the building was named for a particular discipline. There were the halls of music, art, and the sciences, even one for medicine.
“You see,” explained the premier, “even your own discipline will have its wing.”
“That is most wonderful, sir. I . . . uh . . . wonder if I might have a word about the situation in the city.”
“Oh, if you must. I confess, Bingua, the museum takes up all my time. But I understand—this new sickness has not been good. I can assure you, the situation is being dealt with by my advisors. I even tried to get General Zhou to help us form a quarantine zone, but the man has been completely uncooperative. He is quite mad.”
Bingua almost choked. How could he make this imbecile understand what was happening all around him?
“Sir, I wonder if I might take you on a tour of the city. It would be easier to explain things in such a manner.”
The premier looked at him fatuously. “Well, why not? I’ve been staring at these diagrams so long, I’m starting to see double. Perhaps a change of scenery will give me a new perspective.”
They left in a motorcade of three cars. Bingua directed the driver in the lead car to head for the poorest section of the city. They passed the Imperial Palace and then a row of embassies. Here was one readily available sign of things to come. Most of the embassies were closed, their staffs already leaving the country in any manner they could arrange. But if the premier noticed the emptiness, he made no sign.
They entered one of the poorest sections of Beijing, a seemingly endless series of shantytowns. This was where Bingua hoped to make an impression. Almost at once, the streets became filled with people, moving in steady streams.
“What is this?” asked Zemin. “Where’s everyone going?”
“They are fleeing, sir,” said Bingua.
“Fleeing? Fleeing what?”
Bingua stared out his window. “That,” he said.
A warren of roads lined with ramshackle homes spread out before them. Everywhere, on rooftops, on front porches, in the street itself, people lay in various forms of distress. Some were being cared for by relatives, but most were not. Sick, feeble peasants wandered aimlessly, as the premier’s drivers maneuvered around and between crowds that seemed startled at the sight of the unexpected motorcade.
“I had no idea . . . what’s wrong with them?” asked the premier in a wavering voice.
“In truth, sir, I do not know. But many thousands are dying.”
His eyes now wide with fear, Zemin shouted, “Take us out of here!”
Startled, the driver stepped hard on the gas and the car surged forward, mowing through a crowd of people. Bingua grimaced as the heavy tires bumped over stick-thin figures and sent bodies flying. The car came to a stop half buried in a collapsed shanty. In an instant, people crowded around the vehicle and Bingua and the premier were pulled from the car. Their attackers seemed weak and disorganized, almost mindless in their efforts.
Zemin was screaming for his bodyguards, who came tumbling out of the other two cars, weapons firing randomly. They fought their way to their leader over the bodies of murdered citizens.
Bingua shouted over and over, “Don’t shoot them! They don’t know what they’re doing. They’re sick!”
But it was no use. The guards grabbed the premier and hauled him back to one of the remaining cars, threw him inside and roared away, running down more hapless citizens in the process.
Bingua was left alone in the street, surrounded by the mad crowd. He thought he was a dead man for certain. But strangely, they showed little interest in him. It was as though the automobiles had been the focus of the crowd’s rage. Once they were gone, the anger seemed to dissipate. Cautiously, he edged through the throngs.
It was the first time he’d observed these poor victims up close. They
seemed to be in all stages of illness, from tired and listless to outright deranged. He avoided the latter as best he could. There were dead everywhere. Law and order had broken down completely, at least here in the poorest districts. He saw no police anywhere.
An elderly woman grabbed his arm. “Mr. Wang?” she asked.
He stared at her. “Let go of me.”
“Don’t you know me?” the woman asked. She held onto him as though she might collapse otherwise.
He looked more closely. He didn’t recognize her. Did he? There was something vaguely familiar.
“Mei-Li?” he asked incredulously.
She nodded.
He stared with his mouth open. He’d known the general’s daughter since she was a child. He’d been to her wedding—to an American, what was his name? He couldn’t remember. But she was a young woman and a great beauty. The woman in front of him looked like she was eighty years old.
“What—what are you doing here?” he asked stupidly.
“I was visiting friends,” she replied sadly. “I became ill. I am dying.”
“But how did you get . . . like this?”
“I don’t know. But look around you. Many of the dying appear old in the final stages, or they get mad, or both. When it starts, it happens very quickly. It doesn’t matter. I will soon be dead. Would you . . . would you tell my father if you see him?”
All Bingua could do was nod. He watched as she disappeared into the crowd.
It took him an hour to return to the official residence. While the degree of turmoil decreased once he reached the better areas of town, he could see the disorder beginning to spill out into the surrounding areas. It would only be a matter of time until the entire city was engulfed. He was let in and brought to the premier’s office, where the leader looked at him guiltily.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Bingua. I’m sorry they left you there. My bodyguards have strict orders on how to act in such a situation. They grab me and get out as fast as possible.” He stared at his health minister. “How did you escape?”
“I’m . . . not sure. They just seemed to lose interest in me. Sir, I must tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“We have certainly been exposed to whatever is killing people. If it’s contagious and airborne we may be as good as dead.”
Zemin looked at Bingua in horror. “How dare you put me in such a position? You risked my life by taking me out there.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think we would be in any danger as long as we were in the cars, and I needed to make you understand what’s happening. It’s already much worse than I anticipated. We need to take steps to try to contain this, if it isn’t already too late.”
“You take steps,” said the premier. “That’s your job. I’m taking my family out of here, to my summer home in the north.”
“But if you’re infected, you risk spreading the disease. Have you seen your family since you returned?”
“No. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I have cars waiting.”
“Sir, we should both be quarantined. You’ll be putting your family at risk otherwise.”
“Ridiculous. I feel fine. Now go away and do your job.” He dismissed Bingua with a wave of his hand.
Bingua stood rooted to the floor, not believing what was happening. But it was clear that Zemin couldn’t be reasoned with. He wondered if it might be an early sign of the sickness.
He turned abruptly and left. He would return to his office. Perhaps there was something he could do, though he feared the worst—that events had spiraled out of any hope of his being able to control them.
Dr. Wokowski sat at a tiny desk in the hospital laboratory and rested his chin on one hand. Through the glass doors in front of him he could see the growing chaos of the wards. In the days since the CDC team first arrived, the number of cases had exploded. There were well over a thousand now and the facilities were threatened with being completely overwhelmed. Even more troubling, however, were his concerns over what must be going on outside. Was Beijing becoming a city of death? Was all of China at risk?
Paula came in and sat beside him. She wore a white physician’s lab coat over her own wrinkled clothes. None of them had had more than a couple of hours of sleep at a stretch since they arrived.
“Did you get through to Michael?” Wokowski asked.
Paula had been trying to phone her fiancé in London for two days without success. It was unclear if the failure was due to the poor phone system or to the Chinese simply refusing to allow the call to go out.
“They don’t want us to call anyone,” she said in a tired voice. “I tried to convince them it was just a personal call, but I’m sure they don’t believe me.”
“They ought to be suspicious, God damn it! Anyone in his right mind would want to alert the world about this disaster in the making.” He looked closely at her, gauging how exhausted she was. “Anything new?” he asked.
“We’ve examined the body fluids of almost a hundred dead patients. It has to be done quickly since the accelerated rate of decay is extraordinary. In twenty-four to thirty-six hours, there’s virtually nothing left but bone and ash. It’s the most amazing decomposition I’ve ever seen. There appears to be some kind of alteration in the cell structure. If I didn’t know better I’d almost say it was something that had been engineered. There are certain elements similar to avian flu, but it’s not that. We’ve got low red and white blood cell counts and very high iron levels. The red cells look immature and there’s lots of debris in the blood. We’re trying to determine now where the iron is being housed in the body.”
“Those are all symptoms of aplastic anemia.”
“I know. The progression of the disease actually seems to change over time, speeding up in those who were infected later, and exhibiting new symptoms. This is something never documented before. It’s almost as if the sickness is evolving at an incredible rate. Some of these new symptoms include scarring lesions and pus-filled sores that resemble monkey pox, but we’ve eliminated that possibility. Many show symptoms of aging that are quite extraordinary to see. There’s rapid heartbeat, bleeding from the nose and ears, followed by liver and kidney failure, sometimes cerebral hemorrhage. They grow progressively weaker but are still able to move about until very near the end when oxygen levels go down and symptoms of derangement appear.”
“We’ve got to maintain the strictest sanitary controls,” Wokowski said emphatically. “Make sure everyone wears leakproof N-95 respirator masks, splash guards, surgical gowns, and gloves in every contact with patients—even the orderlies. All wastes have to be properly disposed of.”
She sighed. “It’s very difficult in this environment, Doctor. The Chinese facilities are not top-quality and, frankly, most of the lab workers and staff are scared to death. We learned of two more nurses who broke quarantine and escaped from the hospital overnight.”
“God damn it!” He stood up, walked over to the door and stared into the hallway. A young nurse was holding the head of a patient who appeared to be bleeding profusely. The nurse wasn’t wearing a mask. “How the hell do they expect us to keep this under control if they let staff simply walk out of here? Control—hell. There is no control. God knows what’s happening out in the city or in the countryside for that matter. We need to alert the rest of the world to what’s going on here.”
“I hardly think they’re going to allow that, sir. Somehow those nurses found a way out, probably because the guards were busy watching us—or planning their own escapes. Security personnel want nothing to do with anyone inside. Most of them are scared to come anywhere near us.”
A young CDC assistant named Carl Porter came into the lab. He was wearing a mask and above it they saw two frightened eyes. “I . . . don’t feel well,” he said, sitting heavily in a chair.
Wokowski and Paula exchanged looks. “I’m going to take a blood sample from you, Carl,” said Paula.
“Jesus! You don’t think I have it, do you?” he
asked, terror creeping into his voice.
“I don’t know. We’re all at risk, obviously. But the rest of the crew is working hard on finding an answer.” She began to prepare a syringe.
“What answer? We don’t have the resources here to do anything. They won’t let us out and anyone who gets this thing is dead within two weeks. Ow!” Carl stared at the syringe as it slowly filled with blood.
When she was finished, Paula removed the needle and held a piece of gauze on the site. After a few seconds she removed it, only to find Carl’s blood continuing to flow out of the needle hole. The blood began to pour out and the tiny hole seemed to grow until a stream of blood was seeping out.
Carl screamed. “I’m a dead man!” He jumped up and ran out into the hall toward the outside doors. He hit the doors hard and broke the flimsy lock. On the other side, armed soldiers jumped back in surprise and fear.
“No,” Paula shouted. “Don’t hurt him!”
But the terrified guards had no intention of allowing this crazed, sick person to touch them. They shot Carl dead on the spot, then pulled back and yelled at two orderlies in the hall to drag the body back into the quarantined area. With the guards’ rifles trained on them, they did as they were ordered.
“Oh, my God!” Paula slumped against Dr. Wokowski. He held her up while staring grim-faced as Carl’s body was hauled back down the hall and dumped unceremoniously on a gurney.
“What have I gotten us into?” Wokowski murmured.
Paula stood up shakily, wiping tears from her face. “I—I’m going to go look at Carl’s blood sample under the microscope. The way it started to come out that needle hole . . . that was the first time I’ve seen that. Maybe the speed of the progression is increasing again. He only just said he didn’t feel well.”
“Things are starting to break down, Paula. I saw this happen when we had Ebola in the Congo. Doctors, nurses, officials . . . they reach a point where the fear takes over and they just bolt. Of course, that only spreads the disease even faster. Pretty soon, we may not have to worry about being quarantined because there won’t be anyone left to enforce it. Then we can call outside as much as we want.” He stared at her with a fatalistic look. “But by that time, it will be too late.”