Under a Graveyard Sky

by John Ringo

  “Keep working on it, Sophia Ranseld,” Steve said.

  “Why are we having to change our names?” Faith asked. “We’re not meeting this guy, right?”

  “No,” Steve said. “But I need to remember my ‘real’ name.”

  “Okay, Mr. Ranseld,” Stacey said. “Conspiracy to commit fraud and grand larceny. Great.”

  “Nothing really turning up on the radio,” Steve said. “We need to get internet access.”

  “We need more supplies,” Stacey pointed out. “We’ve got at most thirty days. Not food, other consumables.”

  “And you can’t make toilet paper,” Faith pointed out.

  “Make a stop,” Steve said, getting out of the Nissan. “Level One protocols. Best we can do without freaking people out. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

  * * *

  “Felix,” Steve said, stepping out of the rental Mercedes. “Glad you could meet me so early.”

  “You know the drill,” Resto said, sipping his coffee. “We also serve who sell boats,” he added with a grin.

  “Tell me about it,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Speaking of which—boat?”

  “Follow me,” Resto said, walking over to his BMW.

  Steve kept his eyes open and carefully, if covertly, examined the marina. There was a guard shack but a drive-by the previous night had shown it to be unoccupied at night as well as day. They’d staked out the marina for two hours and had seen no sign of any roving guard, although a security car had passed at 4:23 AM. Probably the marina had once featured “guard on duty twenty-four hours” but had cut back with the current economy to an occasional drive-by. The gate had a keypad lock, which Resto opened. Which gave at least one code to the lock, given the punch-tracker that Stacey had installed. If the con didn’t work they could always slip in and slip out with the boat. Assuming the owners hadn’t removed something critical from the ship systems.

  Better to just buy it with fake money. Money was basically fake anyway. At least the way his source did things . . .

  * * *

  “Tom,” Richard Bateman said. “You’re the man at this meeting.”

  Dr. Richard Bateman, Ph.D. Econ, was CEO of Bank of the Americas. Tall and nearly as broad as his security chief at six foot four, he had the de rigueur height for a Fortune 500 CEO and graying temples so perfect everyone wanted to know what hairdresser he used. “Yes, sir,” Thomas “Train” Smith said, standing up and going to the end of the board table.

  Tom’s full nickname was “Thomas the Train Engine.” This was given to him back in officer’s Basic Course and had stayed as his handle ever since. The joke around the office was “Clark Kent turns out to be Australian.” In his “banker suit” and Birth Control Glasses he did rather look like a sandy-blond Clark Kent. And the typing pool generally agreed that when the suit came off he looked exactly like a blond Superman.

  When the young ladies he met in clubs asked him what he did, he generally just said “Investment Banking” because that meant he had money, and he’d get laid. Well, the dancers and actresses. The Goth and Emo chicks at the alternative clubs seemed to prefer his other answer: “I’m the bad guy that gets killed second to last in the movie. You know when the villain turns to his boss henchman and says ‘Take care of it’? I’m that guy.” With some who were way out there, this occasionally backfired. The one time he got a call to come help him move a body he’d agreed to meet her, asked where, then politely called the police. Fortunately, it turned out to be an OD, and NYPD had limited their questions.

  In fact, he had yet to be told to “take care of it” in any extreme manner. When he’d taken the job he’d wondered if dirty work was in the offing, and even, tactfully, checked during the very long vetting process. The response had been, for bankers, humorous at best. Bankers didn’t have to have their employees kill, defame or otherwise destroy enemies. There were lots of people that just did it for them because, well, people wanted their money. When a new dam was being negotiated in some developing country, it wasn’t banks who paid “laborers” to go beat up “protestors.” That was the local government who was going to make money off of the dam. To the extent that investment banks did anything along those lines, it was to quietly protest “No. Stop. No. Seriously . . . It looks bad . . .” and then lend them money anyway.

  Tom was still unsure if he was disappointed or relieved. Most of his job came down to making sure that servers had distant off-line backups and checking to see what Shining Path was up to lately.

  Saturday morning was not a normal time for all the senior executives of the Bank of the Americas to meet. And since they were only one of many such groups meeting all over the world on this particular Saturday, the cat was going to be out of the bag by noon, latest.

  “This is the issue,” Tom said, bringing up a photo of the pathogen in question. “The pathogen is currently called H7D3. There is no common name associated. It is definitely man-made and has been widely spread. Spread method is currently unknown. Currently there are no manifestos or declarations related to it. FBI is trying to trace the source, but they’re barely getting started, and this isn’t the movies. They don’t find the culprits overnight, if ever. For details on the pathogen and immunological response I’m going to turn this over to Dr. David Curry. Dr. Curry is a virologist who has consulted with us on emergency response as well as business risk management in biological investments. Dr. Curry.”

  “I always start with ‘excuse mah accent.’” Dave Curry was a bit under six feet tall with dark brown hair and bright brown eyes. “I was born in lower Alabama and ain’t quite got rid of my drawl.

  “The pathogen is, as Mr. Smith noted, definitely man-made, antiviral-resistant and very sophisticated. For one thing it is both an airborne pathogen and a blood pathogen. First one of those in, well, ever. Otherwise I won’t bore you gentlemen with the technical details, they’re in my lecture notes. Progress appears to be as follows: Normal flu nonsymptomatic infective period of about five to seven days. To refresh you from Swine flu: Influenza, unlike some other stuff like SARS, is infectious for a period of time, generally around seven days, before you get your first sniffle or fever. Which, by the way, is a bugger and a half. Individuals are, again, nonsymptomatic but infecting everyone and everything they come into contact with. And it means that the origin, assuming some sort of device, is going to be hard to pin down. Then flu-like symptoms. No major differences between this and any other sort of flu. Somewhat worse than seasonal but not as bad as, say, swine flu or SARS. Not a patch on avian flu. But it’s extremely infective. Upper respiratory, which is the easy stuff to catch. Lots of coughing, hacking, spitting, and occasional pneumonia for those who are susceptible. Current model is about five percent mortality in the flu stage, mostly in the old and young. Not much worse, as I said, than seasonal. Usually lasts twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Then there’s a dead period. Most symptoms except low-grade fever disappear. This is the first point that it becomes non-flulike.

  “After a period they’re trying to pin down, looks like two to five days, neurological symptoms start. Probably, and it’s only probably, that is the point where subjects become blood-pathogen infectious and may, again, may, no longer be airborne infectious. Best to assume all subjects are both vectors until we’ve got a better handle on this. Initial presentation of neurological symptoms are, in no particular order, palsy, disorientation, dizziness, blurred vision and, notably, formication. Note: I said ‘for-mi-cation.’ This refers to a form of paresthesia or ‘itching, tingling’ which feels like ants crawling on or biting the skin. Series of presentation is somewhat random, but at a certain point the patient tends to strip to get the ‘spiders’ or ‘ants’ off.”

  “Strip?” Richard said.

  “Yes,” Tom said. “In all of the cases that have come to the attention of the police, the subject has been naked.”

  “That seems . . .” Dr. Bradford J. Depene was not as tall as his boss, by nearly a foot, but he weighed at least tw
ice as much. He and Tom were not by any stretch of the imagination best buddies. Depene had been born with a silver spoon and had apparently used it as hard as he possibly could his whole life. Tom really wasn’t as bothered by the gross obesity as by the fact that, while unquestionably brilliant, Depene had the common sense of a duckling. “That seems sort of . . .”

  “The term you’re looking for is obscene,” Richard said. “Any idea . . . why? Just for the embarrassment factor? Pornographic?”

  “If it’s intentional, it’s smart,” Dr. Curry said. “But can I cover that later?”

  “Continue,” Bateman said.

  “After the formication period things vary. There are so far twenty-four identified patients in the U.S. None of those have gone through the full series while under observation. Most have presented symptoms outside quarantine: In other words, they were picked up by the cops as crazy, naked people before they were identified as being H7 infected. There have been nine of those in the U.S. so far who were in advanced neurological stage. One has died while under care and one is critical. That’s not a statistical study, but it looks as if this is also a real killer neurologically.”

  “Twenty percent death rate?” Bateman asked.

  “Right at that is what it looks like,” Curry said, shrugging. “Data is still firming up. However, in the meantime they’re a handful. ‘Extreme homicidal psychosis with reduced mental capacity’ is the current psychobabble diagnosis. Think lobotomized and violent as hell. Very bitey. No coherent sentient response. No language per se. Just basically animal responses, and aggressive animals at that. L.A. General is starting to fill up their padded rooms. One customer per or they try to kill each other.

  “Currently there’s a statistical lean to male. Of the twenty-four, sixteen are male. All three of the terminal were male, two of the three critical are male. But that could be from any number of factors including where the infection started and how it spread. SARS looked male-leaning for a while due to how it was spreading. Again, we’ll know more in a week. They’re still examining suspect patients and known subjects who are identified as infected or probably infected. There’s a slightly less-strong lean to male among those. Stats and other indicators as well as potential treatments will start firming up over the next few days. Again, first identification as an outbreak was only yesterday. These are early days.”

  “What do we do about it?” Bateman asked. “We being the bank as well as in general.”

  “If it had been a normal and natural outbreak I think we could get ahead of this thing,” Curry said, shrugging. “As it is . . . It’s spread all over, it has delayed onset of symptoms, two delays, and it’s infective as hell. Airborne and blood pathogen with a violent vector on the latter? That’s infective as hell. There are probably people going into neurological state all over the place that are being viewed as ‘the usual sort of thing.’”

  “The usual sort of thing?” Depene asked. “Naked people are normal?”

  “Police have to deal with naked subjects more than most people realize,” Tom said. “Any large department will deal with someone nude and incoherent at least once a week. Often extremely violent. In New York as often as once a day. It really was only when L.A. was dealing with six in one day that anyone started looking for a central source, and even then they were looking at drugs. Surprisingly it didn’t make the blogs at all. At least, not noticeably. It will soon.”

  “We’d been tracking this new ‘flu’ already, mind you,” Curry said. “It took about a day for UCLA Med to put two and two together. The sort of people who are naked and crazy normally have other illnesses, and this sudden, outbreak ‘seasonal flu’ was considered to be symptom rather than cause. Then CDC noted that this was not a seasonal flu, so the alerts starting going up, given the locus and spread was not following standard models. Then one of the police who had dealt with Patient Zero, and been bitten, started to manifest neurological symptoms. At that point they realized they were dealing with a neurological pathogen.

  “To answer the original question: The only real chance we have is general public and government response. Strong influenza protocols along with some changes in Rules of Engagement by law enforcement will slow this, maybe even stop it. It’s less about the bug right now than it is about general immunology protocols. Your offices already have hand sanitizers. Ensure they get used and if somebody won’t, well, send ’em home or fire ’em. Ditto anyone showing any flulike symptoms. Don’t shake hands. Don’t shake hands. Ever. For any reason. Wash your hands thoroughly several times a day. Right now, usual drill is all we’ve got. Ask me again in a week if there’s a change.

  “As to the nastier symptoms: This is New York. Telling the difference between a crazy homeless guy and one of the infected is going to be a bit dicey at first. But if somebody is clean-cut, basically clean and running around screaming, biting and naked, they’re probably in advanced neurological stage. Be warned: It definitely has a blood pathogen component. And the onset is direct to neurological and fast. The police officer who was bitten started beginning symptoms of neurological stage in six hours. So for our security personnel, Mr. Smith, at the first sign of incoherence on the part of an employee or visitor, especially if they start gittin’ nekkid, you need to taser first, then ask questions from hazmat. Do not allow yourself to get bitten.”

  “Roger,” Tom said, making a note. “Mr. Bateman?”

  “Confirmed,” Bateman said. “We’ll promulgate that.”

  “If I may, sir,” Tom said. “Best to promulgate that anyone acting incoherent for the purposes of humor will be fired if found to be noninfected. There are people who are going to push this.”

  “Also agreed,” Bateman said. “This is nothing to joke about.”

  “And, sorry, gentlemen, that has to go for any rank,” Dr. Curry said, looking at the assembled executives. “If one of you has any habit of bipolar reactions or schizophrenia, if you go off your meds, just figure you’re going to get tasered. And if it’s just a freak-out, say ‘Thank you, Mister Security guard, for tasering me’ when they determine you’re not infected. On that: Right now there’s no way to tell short of a blood test. They’re rolling out nasal antibody tests sometime this week. But that’s for the flu. We’re not sure if they work for the neurological since we’ve never seen a dual-expression rhinovirus. Also everybody and their brother is looking for a vaccine. Any hint on that, I’ll pass through Mr. Smith. Questions?”

  “No antivirals that it’s not resistant to?” Bateman asked. The CEO was clearly unhappy that there were essentially no useful measures to take. “There are ways to get antivirals which . . . aren’t available in the U.S.”

  “None,” Dr. Curry said, grinning mirthlessly. “Whoever did this armored it up. There aren’t even any that are near approval in Europe. Which tells me there is a vaccine. You’re not going to create something that you’re not going to survive. The combination of ‘intelligent enough to create a world-killer flu,’ ‘crazy enough to do it’ and ‘suicidal’ is too small a pool. Similar personality types, mind you, but not overlapping. Whoever did this intends to survive it. Which means there’s a vaccine. Not a cure, mind you. So you’d better hope there’s a vaccine before you or your family catch it. Next.”

  “Cover the ‘making it so they strip is smart,’” Tom said.

  “I’m going to have to say a word everybody is avoiding,” Curry said with a snort. “Starts with a z. Anybody want to say it before me? Mr. Bateman?”

  “Zombie?” Bateman said. “As long as it doesn’t leave the confines of this room.”

  “One thing that always bugged me about biological zombies,” Curry said, musingly, “at least the ones that were something like realistic. Say, I am Legend. They’ve got to crap. Every species eliminates waste. If you can’t figure out how to use a door handle, how are you going to take off your pants to take a crap? And modern clothing is going to plug it up. Eventually the subject dies of impaction and necrosis.”

  “So you re
ally think that was built in?” Depene asked.

  “The words that are on every message about this are ‘lethal and sophisticated,’” Curry said. “It’s why people are saying it has to be a nation-state. But I don’t buy it. If it had been a nation-state there would have been an unusual round of vaccinations somewhere. Trust me, WHO looks for those as much as it looks for plagues. There haven’t been. Not even, say, the Iranian Supreme Council. And what you can do with bugs these days with stuff off of eBay is insane. At least if you know what you’re doing. And not even that. A reporter built Spanish Flu in his damned kitchen! Then there’s people all over hoping to be the next biological Wozniak playing around in their houses with . . . stuff. Usually not pathogens, but there’s an entire industry of tinkerers with biology! Okay, I’m one of them but I know what I’m doing! This isn’t inventing a new computer or the model T. This is the basic building blocks of life and you don’t go playing with them like they’re Legos. Or you eventually get something like, well . . . This,” he concluded with a sigh.

  “Ten to one what we’re going to find is this is some kid, under thirty, probably with a bachelor’s degree, didn’t complete his master’s, and angry at the world. I could figure out how to do this pathogen. The people at, well, my level admit we’ve all figured out how to do a ‘zombie virus’ given current tech. But nobody has been stupid enough to actually do it. Until now.”

  “How?” Depene said. “I mean in general. That sounds like . . . science fiction?”

  “Tell that to your smartphone,” Curry grumped. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we live in a science fiction world. Okay. One: Rabies doesn’t just make the brain swell. That’s a side effect of what it’s doing to the brain. That foam doesn’t come from nowhere. Rabies works by effecting production of certain neurotransmitters. Two: There are other, lesser known, pathogens which have a targeted effect on other portions of the brain. Three: There’s a lot about the brain we don’t understand, but we do know how to mess it up. We know the basic centers and neurotransmitters for about everything simple: Love, anger, hunger, memory, pattern recognition . . . Four, open the door: From AIDS research we know how to stick genes in eukaryotic cells and even target the type of cells. We know how to get cells to sequence certain proteins, also known as neurotransmitters. Put all that together with the pathogens we already know, like toxoplasmosis, modifying them to mess up the brain is easy. You can even make them only target certain individuals or groups genetically. Well, I could. But I didn’t do it. I’ve got an alibi.”