Less than ten minutes later, the front door of the house moved open and Mitchell stepped forward covered by the hazard uniform. The fog began thinning now, as the distant building outlines appeared. Mitchell looked down the long silent street and to the black outlined trucks. He watched as two of the cryo-units were wheeled up the ramp of one white step-up van that lacked any military markings at all. Next, the CPU of the main-computer data storage-units followed up the ramp.
Mitchell continued the walking in and out of the houses along his street. Another yellow-clad man turned and joined him at the street’s edge, flipping thumbs up. Mitchell nodded and returned the gesture.
The speaker in his ear came to life shouting off names. After each name, a tinny, clipped “sector cleared” replied. It took two calls of the name, before Mitchell remembered the name on the dead soldier’s shirt.
“Spencer, report!”
“Roger,” he answered, “sector cleared,”
The speaker responded, “Roger that, all units report back to transport. Maintain radio silence.”
As he joined the others in the queue for the trucks, he looked out for the last time across BL-4. The blue-white morning fog remnants over the base turned to smoke filled with flickering reds and yellows. As he returned to the truck, each man exchanged his rifle for a flamethrower. Mitchell watched and followed the others’ actions. Men with flamethrowers walked down the streets, spraying chemical flames across the houses. He received and shouldered the cold tanks against his back as the others had done. Retracing his steps to the assigned street, he examined the gun-like wand. The trigger mechanism was thankfully obvious. He whirled as he heard metal screeching and crashing as the bulldozer plowed repeatedly into the ruin that had been the laboratory building.
Intent on playing his roll, Mitchell jumped and gasped as a familiar voice came through the small headset. Col. Forester spoke nearby somewhere amongst the yellow clad men. His baritone voice calmly came through the headset, “Burn it all. Leave no records, no intact structures.”
Three hours later, the men climbed back into the transport trucks. Mitchell carefully hung back in the line, placing himself close to the back of the truck. As the driver slammed the back flap into place and tied the canvas top flap down. Mitchell watched the black smoke billow out of what was left of the houses of BL-4. He noted the one of the few remaining structures was the tree in Stegan's yard, now just a blacken trunk. The rest of the base and his home changed from a peaceful garden community to a bombed out war zone, completely unrecognizable. Tears welled up in his eyes as he fought to stay silent. Somewhere among the smoke and flickering flame laid his dead wife and child. Their bodies eaten by fire and returning to dust. The last evidence of their existence passing into silent eternity.
Under orders over the headset speakers, none of the twenty men removed their helmets or gloves until they reached decontamination at the airbase, fifty miles away. Fortunately, no one felt like talking. By the ride’s end, Mitchell had made his plans. He'd somehow slip away as soon as they stopped and disembarked. Eventually, he would make his way back to the ruins and the blacken stump to regain the treasure he buried there. After that, he planned to make sure the world would never forget the people of BL-4 again.
Chapter 5
June 5, 2026
Arnold Jake Noonan smiled as he checked the water bath temperature. In a couple of days, the bacteria colonies in this third culture set would grow large enough to start the slow process of drying out for spores. The other batches stayed safely locked away in vials in his cabinet until the right buyer came along. Spores existed as the perfect seed life form. They didn't need refrigeration or warmth. They stayed inert for years until they hit an area of warm moistness. Then they exploded in growth and reproduction. Not many bacteria created spores but the ones that did make the perfect time bombs.
Arnie practiced patience. A person had to in order to work with bacteria. Normally he fed bacteria, harvested it, and kept it growing in a continuous process from week to week. However, bacterial spores used a different process. Arnie hummed quietly. He lacked any concrete political leanings himself. All he wanted was money enough to live the good life. Others burned with fiery zealousness that included terrorism as their campaign points. They paid in the high six figures or more for his specialized talents and his spores. They would pay enough to ditch his mother, move out of this crappy Maryland suburb and enjoy a life filled with beach babes and luxury.
He moved through the two lines of tables in the large basement. Unlike many of the homes in the area, his mother's house included a basement with an eight-foot clearance that dropped only a little under the heater vents and pipes. Arnie wired it for electricity and put in plumbing. The old woman was delighted when Arnie installed the dry wall panels over the gray cement blocks. It lightened up the whole space but Arnie had ulterior reasons. Dry wall didn’t drip years of built-up dirt onto clean tables. The whole basement needed rewiring because the small windows set high in the wall let in only a small amount of light. It took two years of labor, unusual purchases and outright theft to create the equivalent of a medical research room. Arnie’s side business of selling drugs financed the changes but the real profits were in biologicals.
He told his mother that he created the lab so he could bring his work home to gain a promotion. His income supported them along with her meager Social Security checks so she didn't argue with him. Other than the occasional stench of chemicals, she never complained about his constant activity down there. She often told Arnie that he needed a hobby to keep him out of trouble, even one as unusual as medical research.
In the far end of the basement, six metal tables gleamed along every wall and jutted out into the center. Various twisted glass, tubes and round bottom flasks covered the tops in a complex maze of fluid motion. Two tabletop incubators hummed against one wall opposite a refrigerator. Arnie moved around the tables, checking gauges and making notes on his clipboard. The water baths sat near the incubators, making soft splashing noises as their internal trays shifted back and forth.
The doorbell rang upstairs. He ignored it, contemplating his plans. The five-foot, nine-inch, twenty-five year old enjoyed the precision of lab work. When his honey blond hair grew out to normal lengths, Arnie looked like an average, nice guy. He avoided any of the normal body piercings and visible tattoos so fashionable for others. He kept his hair long only when he needed to get a job at one of the medical schools. Otherwise, he preferred to keep his head shaved clean for sanitary reasons. Hair around bacterial cultures led to unacceptable contamination.
The jobs at the hospitals or medical schools never lasted longer than a year or two. Each position disguised his equipment and chemical raids. He never took anything big at any one time from his lab. However, through lock picking and purloined master keys, he steadily stole from other labs. Over the months, he helped himself to a steady supply of glassware, balances, chemicals and small precision tools.
Yep, Arnie thought, most folks couldn’t afford a wire job or didn’t want the visible implants that screamed out “rush junkie.” Some desired small, cheap, discrete bundles of joy, just enough to jack up during the day. Independent chemists, like him, filled the void between expensive implants and dirty glue sniffing. His customers included people who desired discretion: kids, college students, corporate clones and occasionally folks more likely to buy drugs than a decent meal.
Ecstasy, heroin and crack were old news. Meth production smelled a mile away. The new drugs included designer treats such as Moonblast, Excite, and Clarity for the college kids, and O, the sexual super trip. Profits steadily flowed in fast enough for Arnie to think bigger and explore new markets. The drug trade always eventually led to someone getting busted. A guy was only lucky for so long before someone else moved into the market, forcing him out of customers or ratting him out to the cops. After all, Arnie used the anonymous tip trick to clear out some of his competitors when he entered the market. An entrepreneur like h
imself needed a retirement plan. After a little research, he discovered the market that paid the best after drugs was biological agents.
“Arnie!” Banging on the small glass window accompanied the shout. “Hey man, let me in!”
He sighed. “Dip shit wirehead,” he muttered as he stomped up the stairs.
He returned followed by a thin, pale high school boy whose brown, twisted hair thumped in a long thick braid against his back. The kid’s brown eyes were rimmed in red. He moved around with bird-like nervous twitching motions. Arnie watched him. At three in the afternoon, the idiots had already powered up and looked close to overloading and crashing.
“I’m telling you for the last time Thayor, you call first and we meet somewhere else. I don’t like folks coming around my house. I don’t need a trail of asshole junkies banging on my door.”
“Hey man, it’s just me and well, I only live four streets away. We’re practically neighbors.”
Arnie had a clear policy of not doing business out of the house. Less your customers knew about you, the less leaked back to the police. Plus, he needed his mother to stay clueless. No, he dealt in the back of schoolyards, parks, Internet cafes and shopping malls. His com-unit allowed him to make bank transactions and no one knew any more about him than absolutely necessary—a first name and a phone number. Now this punk, Cabbot drove around and saw Arnie entering the house. He then did a little research and discovered the house was Arnie's home. One day, Arnie planned to crash Cabbot's brainpan completely, but not yet. Cabbot brought him other customers and Arnie’s retirement project needed more time. It cost too much to relocate and reset up. However, when the time was right, Arnie would kill Cabbot and disappear.
“Get out.” Arnie closed the distance between them and shoved him towards the stairs. “Get the hell out of my house.”
“Hey man, no.” The kid fell back as Arnie pushed him again. He held a hand up in front of his face. “No please, I’ll call next time. I’ll quit coming around.”
Arnie straightened up and lowered his fist. “Last time Thayor or I’ll trash your ass.”
“Sorry Arnie, but hey, I gotta have some stuff. I need Clarity for this huge shittin’ test tomorrow and then the guys are getting together this weekend. I’m supposed to supply the entertainment, you know. Can you hook me up?” Thayor pulled a small plastic credit card out of his black designer jeans. The hologram eagle, talons outstretched, gleaned in the fluorescent lighting.
Arnie took it and headed over to the small computer disk. “We’re talking three hundred for five Clarities and a small bag of ten moonbeams.”
“I’m good for it. Just run the card.” Arnie could hear him moving around the lab. “Shit man, I had no idea you needed all this. Smells bad though.”
“You want some sex stuff too?” Arnie typed the numbers of the account in then stuck the card in his back pocket.
“Nah, I don’t need any help with that. Know what I mean?”
The sound of gentle clinking made Arnie whirl around. Thayor leaned over the Petrie dishes on the slow dryer/agitator, hand hovering over one of them.
“Jesus Christ!” He stomped over, shouldered the kid out of the way. He shifted the half-angled lid back onto the dish. “Don’t touch anything!”
“What is it? Is it something I can test for you?” Thayor craned to get a better look over Arnie’s shoulder.
“No.” Arnie pushed the teen away. “This isn’t for you. It requires a special buyer.” Arnie watched the red-gold liquid swish gently in the dishes. The solution was halfway to powered form.
He turned towards Thayor who was poking through more solution-filled beakers on the desk. “Leave that alone.”
The boy nodded, but he kept wandering around, picking up various beakers and flasks. Arnie swore loudly, He grabbed Thayor by the arm and slammed him into the tabletop incubator, making the small, heavy unit rock slightly. He twisted the boy’s wrist upward into an elbow lock until he squirmed in pain. Inches from Thayor’s face, Arnie hissed. “And if you ever fucking come down here again, I’m going to force feed you some fucking stuff that will permanently blast you. I’m talking comatose with a feeding tube up your nose for the rest of your life. You got me?”
“Yeah Arnie. Sure man. I was, you know, just looking around.”
Arnie let him go and backed off. Thayor slowly pushed himself off the incubator, shaking slightly as he rubbed his arm. Arnie pulled the credit card from his pocket and handed the boy back the card. “Your shit’s by the computer. Get it and get out of here.
Yesterday, the Food and Drug Administration announced another recall on 84 imported products in addition to the 147 products recalled last month. Consumers are requested to visit the FDA website for a full listing of the recall products. In related news, the director of the FDA, Samuel Goldstern, requests that the government consider an import ban on over 400 products from 212 international manufacturers, citing unsafe manufacturing processes that do not conform to the U.S.’s standards for consumer safety. The products include food, chemicals used in health and pharmaceuticals, toys, and electronics. Countries affected by this ban include Thailand, China, Korea and Vietnam.
Mitchell turned off the InterRadio on the com-unit and removed it from his ear as he weaved his way through the crowds at the Anacostia Metro Station. Only one battered looking taxi waited at the station’s exit. Mitchell passed it by. Taking a taxi through the impoverished district pegged him as a tourist or one of the cult-style religious fanatics that sometimes flowed through these neighborhoods looking for converts.
Back-to-basics religious groups were on the rise with the promise of salvation and the simple life. Mitchell heard about the rising popularity of cult groups while working at BL-4. The evangelical movement flooded the airwaves and 'nets with the messages of equal parts doom and salvation. Their pervasiveness flowed through all levels of society as driftless people sought for some tangible philosophy to grasp. Reasoning implied that, like the rising number of shut-ins, back-to-Earth greenies and drug abusers, the cults acted as just another way of dropping out of an overly stressed society.
He didn’t mind being taken for a Jesus freak most of the time. The mindless smile and Luddite attitude mask fit his features easily. Most people in this area avoided eye contact, not wanting to be drawn into a protracted conversation. However, the real missionaries that dropped into the impoverished areas tended to move in packs for safety. Belief in Jesus didn’t stop armed robbers or rapists.
However, today Mitchell avoided playing the potential victim. Today he carried too much contraband cash to be robbed. Dressed in shabby jeans and an oversized button-down shirt, he hunched his shoulders and walked head down. His light brown hair had grown long down his neck and looked unwashed. To visually blend into the gang-riddled area, he glued a fake pleasure unit onto his head. The wire ran from the base of the skull to the three-inch wide metal circuitry glued just below and behind his right ear. The circuit itself was a dud but at first glance looked like any other sensory-implant. The torn and stained clothing, along with a few false piercings around the eyes and nose gave the whole effect of an old burnout.
Mitchell knew very little about Macon Foster, the man he sought out. Geller left some notes of a few of his underworld contacts but very little about Macon. Many of the other suppliers met cautiously with him, ready to bolt until he waved the old bills at them. Mitchell used them to live on fake ID cards for a few months, but now he needed detailed information he couldn’t get himself. In the old list, Macon’s name had “hacker/supplier-unusual items” next to an email and password. Internet searches on the name came up mostly empty. Mitchell wrote to the email, used the password and signed it Geller. The response only stated a time and address.
The shut-in lived ten blocks away from the station in a red brick, three-storey that looked so distressed that it was one wall crack shy of being condemned. Squatters and burnouts littered the steps of the building and inside of the door. Gang symbols scrawled
across the brick façade so pervasively that no red peeked through below the seven foot height.
Mitchell stepped into the doorless entrance and around the derelict bodies that occupied the bottom floor rooms. He climbed the sagging stairs, trying hard not to breathe in the urine and vomit smells. Rounding the corner, he heard steps that jerked him to a stop. He looked up at the gun-toting youth on the second story landing.
“What the fuck do you want?” the kid snarled, raising the shotgun.
Mitchell raised his hands, palms out and away from his body. “Easy boss, I’ve got some business with Macon.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you got, dumb-ass.”
Mitchell watched his movements without meeting his eyes. The boy’s eyes stretched wide, showing a lot of white in the dark face. When he twitched his head, bright metal gleamed behind his right ear and flat against an inflamed section of his shaved skull. The boy twitched from the new wiring and probably something pharmaceutical. Mitchell briefly wondered why the kid hadn't filled the stairway with dead bodies.
“Perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place.” Mitchell ducked his head down and, keeping his hands outward away from his body, he began slowly to walk backwards down the stairs.
The click of the gun cocking made him freeze. “Too late! What’s the word, mother-fucker?”
“Master-Blaster,” Mitchell grimaced and thought wryly that it said something when a person fashioned themselves after a megalomaniac midget from an old nihilist film. A few nervous seconds passed as he waited for a response.
A door opened above and to the right. A tenor voice rang out. “Shit, Tyrone, how the hell am I to do business if you keep scaring the fucking customers away?” The tenor voice sounded educated with an accent. “Let him up. Mr. Whitebread and I have an appointment.”
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