The Cannibal Virus

by Anthony DeCosmo

  At that moment memories clicked into place for Annabelle Stacy like a series of heavy-duty circuit breakers powering up.

  "Wait a second. That's it. I know you!"

  Her face grew stiff, her eyes bulged, and Dr. Stacy stood fast, looming over Dr. Waters. Her sudden movement woke a pair of guards sitting nearby. Both jumped to their feet but, given the pressurized cabin, they reached for truncheons instead of guns.

  "Easy now," Dr. Waters held a hand out toward her.

  Major Gant sat in his seat as if his butt were spring-loaded and ready to launch, but he managed to subdue the urge.

  "Sit down," Gant told her, but it sounded as if he might be convincing himself of the same.

  Stacy glanced around and saw the goons ready to strike. While her anger did not subside, she did find her seat again.

  "I know you," she repeated. "I recognize your face from the INTERPOL bulletins. The limp was one of your characteristics. Zaire was your homeland. It all fits now. You're Sungila. Keon 'Dre Sungila."

  "Very good," Waters answered. "That is, yes, one of the many names by which I have been known. You'll find that Jabilo was another."

  Gant's eyes alternated between the two. He asked with a hint of frustration in his question, "Who exactly is Dr. Waters?"

  Stacy tried to speak but her teeth clenched in what appeared to be pure fury. It took several seconds but she finally formed words.

  "He's Africa's version of Joseph Mengele. This man is wanted by several different governments, and most would probably shoot him on sight."

  "Yes," Waters agreed. "I did manage to build quite a reputation for myself."

  "And you are … you are proud of that?"

  "I have made discoveries and advances that might change the way we treat the world's most deadly diseases. Over the last ten years I have engaged in more successful medical research than any university, any research hospital."

  Major Gant chimed in, "I, for one, have never heard of you."

  "That's because no one wants anything to do with his results," Stacy said. "Like the Nazi experiments on hypothermia. They used concentration camp inmates and POWs against their will, dunking them in tanks full of ice water to study the effects, which almost always ended in the subject's death. Enjoying the fruits of research that is rooted in unethical behavior is in itself unethical."

  "Much of the Nazi data has, in fact, been used," Waters countered. "Just like my research will someday be used, when I have died or enough time has passed."

  "Like your research on kuru? Do you think anyone will touch that?"

  Gant asked, "What is kuru?"

  She answered, "A neurological disorder also known as the laughing sickness. One of the rarest diseases on the planet, primarily confined to a tribe in Papua New Guinea. The root cause was cannibalism, with tribe members consuming persons suffering from an illness similar to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease."

  "A nasty affliction," Waters noted.

  "An isolated disease," Stacy shot back. "Geographically isolated, culturally isolated, and the means of transmission was rather specific. There will be no kuru pandemic, but you certainly did your research, didn't you?"

  "What did he do?"

  Stacy answered Gant, "He brought kuru to Africa and was able to replicate the disease with injections. He created his own outbreak so he could study it. This man is more likely to start a pandemic than stop one."

  Waters did not seem particularly bothered by her words. His eyes found focus somewhere else.

  "There are monsters in the world, young lady. They hide in the jungles, the river deltas, even underground. Like Ebola, sooner or later they come crawling out from their dark corners and strike. The more civilization cuts into the shadows of our planet, the more of these monsters will be released. The more they will grow, adapt, and change to become more efficient killers. Fighting them will not be a matter of a research grant or overtime at the CDC."

  "Tell that to the people you infected and watched die," Stacy nearly snarled.

  He told her, "It is a war, and you don't fight any war worried about individuals. In this battle results will be measured by generations. In the end, everything I have done will benefit mankind as a race. We will be safer and stronger because some people are willing to make a short-term sacrifice of conscience in exchange for long-term results. Ten years … maybe twenty years from now, a child will live because of what I have done."

  "Your mother called Ebola a monster," Stacy reminded him. "Is that how you see yourself? Some sort of knight in shining armor fighting dragons?"

  "No." Waters licked his lips and faced her. "I am no knight in shining white armor. They exist only in fairy tales. But I have learned one truth, a truth that I am sure your soldier friend will understand," Waters said and nodded toward Gant. "Sometimes in order to defeat the monsters, you must become a monster."

  * * *

  Waters — or whatever his name truly was — removed himself from the conversation and disappeared to the rear of the jet behind a drawn curtain, leaving Stacy stewing in her seat with Gant across the aisle, seemingly deep in thought.

  When Annabelle had agreed to join Task Force Archangel, she had found the secret base on the grounds of Fort Irwin the first sign that she had entered a bizarre world, although she had yet to meet the facility's most interesting residents. Jumping from the plane and parachuting onto the tiny island of Tioga in the middle of the Pacific had accentuated the thrill of her new assignment; it seemed a whole new world had opened to her.

  Her mind was still trying to process the idea of reanimated human corpses, but once she had throttled the terror of the things, her intellect had managed to go to work, trying to identify and understand the cause.

  It was not until her conversation with Dr. Waters that she had truly realized the nature of her new world. To call Waters evil was too simple. She found a hundred reasons to despise him: for his cruelty, for his lack of even rudimentary ethics, for his overriding ambition, for the insanity that clearly lived in his veins.

  But there was another reason; one more personal.

  Dr. Annabelle Stacy was a scientist who studied a wide range of fields, from archeology to biology to physics to astronomy. She desperately wanted to know this world, and if she could learn something that might help others in their lives or advance the cause of civilization, that would be immensely satisfying.

  This man — Jabilo, Sungila, Waters — his crimes would taint the work of researchers in almost every field. Those who knew of his past deeds and who would someday know what he had done on Tioga Island would use that blood to paint a broad brush across all of science. They would accuse him of being coldhearted, of doing something merely because he could, of allowing blind ambition to cause him to play God.

  For every Waters in the world there were ten thousand — more — scientists who worked in anonymity under strict ethical guidelines with only the best of intentions. She had seen researchers struggle with their conscience over the use of lab animals and doctors wrestle with the balance between "do no harm" and "do everything possible" when dealing with terminally ill patients.

  But Waters would add fuel to the fire of those who feared scientific advancement.

  Stacy did not know what she could do to change that; to stop this evil man. Yet as she rode on that plane, waiting to face her fate, wherever the jet took them, she decided she would fight, not only for her life but to try and undo some of the damage. She owed it to her colleagues, to those fellow travelers who shared her chosen path to discovery. To the thousands who lived with low pay and poor working conditions but kept going because they wanted to do good.

  "We are starting to descend."

  Major Gant's voice pulled Stacy from her musings. As her mind refocused on her surroundings, she realized he was right. She felt the jet skim altitude and the engines modulate thrust.

  "How long were we in the air? I lost track."

  Thom answered her, "According to my watch, about three hours."


  "Where do you think we are?"

  "That is a good question. I believe we traveled primarily west with a couple of banks to the southwest along the way. That would put us on course for—"

  "We are landing on an island to the north of New Guinea," Waters answered as he emerged from behind the curtain and walked up the aisle.

  "I find it hard to believe that New Guinea is behind your research," Gant fished.

  "That would be quite comical, yes," Waters said. "No, we are landing at a place very similar to the one we just left. A private island, with no national allegiance."

  "I don't believe you," Gant responded. "Tioga was a rare exception; a land mass with no country claiming jurisdiction. I don’t believe two such places exist."

  Waters smiled — a little — and admitted, "You are most probably correct. However, there are thousands of small islands in this part of the world. Someone may, in fact, claim sovereignty, but discovering exactly who that is might take some time. In fact, with so many claims and counterclaims, there may not be a correct answer."

  "Deniability." Gant eased back in his chair and slowly nodded his head in understanding of Waters's point.

  "Who, then, are you, exactly?" Stacy joined the conversation.

  Waters considered for a long moment and then told her, "I will leave that revelation to others. Unless, of course, you care to share with me your background and identity? An even swap?"

  She glanced over at Thom, who simply stared back.

  It struck her that their anonymity might be keeping them alive. Furthermore, soon the plane would land and answers from Waters's employers might be forthcoming.

  Stacy replied, "I suppose I'll leave that revelation to others as well."

  Waters continued on to the front of the plane. She saw him open the cockpit door to converse with the pilots.

  "Another private island," Gant muttered.

  "What's that?"

  "I said, another private island. Another place where people hide from the world to do things they would not want that world to see. I have spent far too much time in places like that."

  Stacy picked up on his thinking.

  "Tioga was like Las Vegas on steroids. Sex rooms and secret liaisons, way off the beaten path in the middle of the ocean where the celebrities and playboys could hide their fetishes. What do you think is waiting for us down there?"

  Gant glanced out the window as he answered, "The same type of thing, but with laboratories and researchers instead of satin sheets and mistresses."

  "Are you still betting on The Tall Company?"

  He turned back to her and said, "Let's just say I would not put it past them. They are well funded and connected, exactly the type of organization that could pull off something like this. The question is why."

  Waters came back up the aisle and returned to the seat across from Stacy. The older man checked his seat belt and sat rigid.

  "It could be bit of a rough landing," he warned.

  The plane dropped from the sky at a sharpening angle, to the point that Dr. Stacy wondered if a suicidal pilot planned to drop them into the drink. However, after a minute or so the descent evened, and a quick glance out the side window told her they traveled close to the water, practically skimming the ocean.

  She figured that the pilot's aggressive flying might have something to do with avoiding radar or other forms of tracking. Either way, she had the distinct feeling they faced a challenging landing.

  Two minutes later the view of ocean outside the side window was replaced by that of jungle. She saw no signs of civilization, but the squeal of the jet's tires as they touched down suggested contact with a paved surface. The landing turned into something of a skid as she sensed the pilot slamming the brakes in the face of a short runway. The momentum pinned her in her backwards-facing seat. In front of her Waters leaned forward, held in place by his seat belt.

  Stacy found her heart beating in her throat and her fingers clutching the armrests, and she expected the plane to careen out of control or smash into some barrier at any moment.

  Fortunately, after a few seconds the jet slowed to taxiing speed. The view out the round portal offered a quick glimpse of the larger transport planes she had seen on Tioga, except here they were covered in camouflage netting.

  The plane came to a halt. All aboard — including Waters — stood. The guards collected their rifles and kept a close eye on their two charges, who were shuffled to the exit.

  Stacy emerged into thick, humid air that seemed heavy enough to swim through and filled with a myriad of scents ranging from sweet to sour. She now saw that they had landed on a very thin stretch of paved runway surrounded by thick rainforest. If that did not make this place hard enough to find, she noticed a small truck stretching more camouflage nets over the pavement. She realized that in a few minutes the landing strip would be all but invisible.

  It hit her how far they had gone down the rabbit hole. Captain Campion and Lieutenant Colonel Thunder might be directing a fleet of navy ships with air support and a battalion of marines to find and secure Tioga, but she and the major had been spirited off to yet another clandestine location, this one even more secretive than the last.

  For about the tenth time in the last twelve hours, she realized that death might be moments away. First the parachute drop from six miles up, then the attack of animated corpses, then the armed intruders … one threat after another.

  If she survived, she wondered if all these near-death experiences would make her numb to danger, or if she would run away screaming from Archangel into the arms of some tenured university position or a cushy corporate job.

  A line of passengers, including technicians or researchers as well as armed security personnel, moved from the jet along a dirt road protected by a canopy of green. She noticed tracks from both treads and tires in the moist earth. This was a well-worn path.

  Moments later a building materialized out of the jungle, showing itself to be wider and longer with each step closer. Shaped like a rectangle and painted in camouflage, the structure stood twenty feet tall and greeted the passengers with a horizontal metal garage door. She saw no windows, although she did notice security cameras keeping a close eye on all who approached.

  The group congregated outside while Waters approached a security panel of some kind and interacted.

  Stacy took advantage of the pause to take in her situation and surroundings. First, a pair of guards wearing black tunics kept assault rifles trained on her and Major Gant. She had the distinct feeling that while her captors wanted to interrogate them, any attempt at escape would be met with lethal force.

  It did not appear to her that Major Gant seemed interested in making a break for it. Perhaps because — she knew — he still nursed a wounded knee as well as occasional pain from a shoulder he had separated months ago. She considered it equally as likely that he had accepted their captivity in the hope of gaining insight into Waters and his employers. What good that would do if they were lined up in front of a firing squad, she did not know.

  As for the island, everything from the airstrip to the hidden complex pointed to concealment. The building was not small, and it appeared to be built of concrete. Such a structure would have required a construction crew and time to build or — at the very least — refurbish from an existing site. Same with the airstrip. That meant Waters and his friends had survived on this island without outside interference for a significant amount of time and would most likely remain hidden for a lot longer.

  The big door cranked open, rising into the roof, shaking and rattling along the way. Only a few isolated beams of sun managed to cut through the tree limbs, but those that did illuminated a big garage area, complete with trucks and Jeeps.

  The line of people moved again, leaving the moist air of the jungle behind for a poorly illuminated chamber that smelled of diesel and grease.

  Once they were inside, the garage door rolled shut, and at the same time a bank of lights came on, improving visibili
ty. At that point Stacy realized that the chamber served a dual purpose, the first being the obvious use as a motor pool.

  The second became apparent as she spied another door, this one a featureless white bulkhead with a red light glowing overhead. Again she spotted a security camera keeping watch over the scene. It seemed the garage was also a antechamber controlling access to the main facility in a manner similar to an airlock.

  This time their host spoke aloud, addressing whoever watched through the camera.

  "Waters here, accompanied by executive team and security detail, as well as two detainees."

  The camera panned side to side, inspecting the occupants of the anteroom, apparently to the satisfaction of the observer because the light turned green and the interior bulkhead rose.

  "Everyone inside," Waters directed. "Even you two," he said, pointing to his prisoners.

  This time they left behind the grease and gas smell for an odor so sterile it seemed like the air was made of plastic, making the scent nearly as surreal as the surroundings: ivory walls to either side of a gray floor, the whiteout broken only by stenciled numbers, red-and-yellow-striped "fire stations," and blue boxes labeled "Security."

  Air conditioning dropped the temperature so fast that the sweat on her back felt as if it had turned to ice, sending the first shiver up her spine that day that did not come from fear.

  The passage merged with another corridor that swept in from her left on a soft turn and then straightened as it continued on like the long side of a race track oval. She spotted several different doors to either side along the way, one appearing rather oversized.

  A computerized voice announced over a public address system, "ATTENTION. THIRD WAVE HAS RETURNED. THIRD WAVE PERSONNEL REPORT TO SECURITY STATION FOR DEBRIEFING."

  With that announcement the group dispersed, although two armed men remained on Stacy and Gant's flanks.

  She turned to him and saw the major surveying their surroundings with one eye cocked and half-expected him to say something like "fascinating," or "impressive," given the apparent size and scope of the operation.