The Panic Zone jg-2

by Rick Mofina

  Now, as Gretchen’s plane began its descent, she swallowed hard.

  She knew what was coming. She could not stop it. She glanced at the sky and clamped her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip as the horrible images swirled around her.

  The stadium had become a cauldron of hell.

  People screaming. Whistles bleating. A foot on her father’s shoulder. Waves of men scrambling above the paralyzed crowds. A sharp kick to her head. Blood trickling. Her mother collapsing under two men, then three more stamping her, then more bodies stamping on her from above.

  Wake up from this nightmare! Wake up!

  “Nooo!”

  Shoes, boots, fists smashing on her father. Her father falling to his knees. More bodies raining down from the upper levels. Thudding, cracking on them, forcing people down.

  “Daddy!”

  Gretchen struggling to keep on her feet. Her mother’s grip loosening. Her mother’s fingers slipping from hers.

  “Mom!”

  Her mother vanishing. The light above blotted by wave after wave of frantic bodies. Crawling above them, falling from above, wedging into the immobile mass.

  Smells of body odor, sweat, tobacco breath.

  Fear.

  And death.

  Blood flowing everywhere.

  “Noooooo!”

  A boot grazing her mother’s skull, tearing a chunk of her scalp clean off.

  “Mom!”

  Her father being trampled to the ground, his body lost in a pulpy blur of stamping.

  “Daddy!”

  She felt Will’s hand tight in hers, his warm little hand.

  “Gretchen! Help me! Gretchen!”

  She did not let go of his hand, but she couldn’t see him anymore.

  “Nooo!”

  One of Will’s arms disappeared into a crush of solid bodies. Compressed so tight people were suffocating.

  Bones snapping, organs compressing like accordions.

  A heart-wrenching squeal.

  Will.

  “Gretch-help meee!”

  His hand went limp.

  Lifeless, it protruded from the tangle of corpses.

  The death of innocence. The death of reason before her eyes.

  “Will!”

  Her baby brother was dead.

  Her mother was dead.

  Her father was dead.

  Gretchen fell into a dream-trance. Helpless to battle the consuming force that was slowly killing her, she prayed.

  God, I beg you to let me live.

  She felt an overwhelming force slowly ending her life.

  And the ants devour their prey.

  She felt her blood pressure slipping, slipping. Her life slipping, slipping…away. God, I beg you…

  The 737 shuddered.

  The flaps adjusted the jet’s approach with hydraulic groans.

  The landing gear grumbled down into position and locked.

  Dr. Sutsoff blinked her troubled memories away, inhaled and took in the outskirts of Yaounde and the dark forests beyond. She’d come to Cameroon to complete the most critical-most dangerous-aspect of her work.

  God had let her live.

  She’d come to avenge her family’s death by correcting the error of human evolution.

  For here she would find the last key to her ultimate goal.

  To exterminate the ants.

  42

  The Devil’s Tail River, Cameroon, Africa

  The diesel-powered barge chugged along the river that coiled its way through the forests of Cameroon’s remote northern region.

  The boat was laden with equipment for Dr. Sutsoff’s expedition.

  After spending the night in Yaounde, she’d chartered a float plane to an abandoned riverside outpost. It was as far as the Cessna could travel to land safely before the river narrowed. There, four trusted members of her research team awaited her arrival.

  They’d arranged for the boat to take them upriver to their field station.

  And the discovery.

  They had to work fast. Time was running out.

  Sutsoff sat alone at the bow in a director’s chair, drinking in the solitude. The isolation offered relief from the episode she’d endured on her long flight. The water rushing under her was mesmerizing, gently pulling her back over her life.

  The aftermath of the stampede was a blur of images and moments.

  The toll was 249 dead.

  Gretchen had survived because she’d been pressed into an air pocket. But she’d suffered a serious concussion. Her head throbbed as if it would crack open.

  Vridekistan declared three days of national mourning. They’d used a school gymnasium as the morgue. Embassy staff accompanied her to identify the battered bodies of her brother, mother and father. They looked like bloodied broken mannequins.

  “Get up!” she screamed at them before she collapsed.

  Orphaned at fourteen.

  The embassy staff contacted her mother’s cousin in Paris. He got her the best medical care. She’d sustained major head trauma. Her skull had been fractured in six places. “A miracle she survived,” one specialist said. Her disturbing brain activity concerned doctors who had warned that over time it could degenerate into a psychopathic condition, an inability to feel empathy or remorse or, at worst, a loss of connection with reality. Medication could offset the effects of her injury but she was at risk of painful seizures and potential dissociative episodes for the rest of her life.

  After a year of therapy, her uncle helped her return to school in Switzerland and over the years she excelled with near perfect grades, completing degrees in science, medicine, chemistry and cellular engineering at Berkeley, Harvard, Oxford and MIT.

  On her own time, she conducted research on the psychology of mass hysteria, mob mentality and population control. As she developed a pathological loathing of crowds, she began forging a personal ideology, a near fanatical belief, that there were too many people in the world.

  Too many ants.

  Her outstanding academic achievements led to her being recruited by Foster Winfield, the CIA’s chief scientist, to join a secret team to conduct work on a range of subjects under a new program.

  Project Crucible.

  The top-secret program encompassed cutting-edge research on synthetic biological agents, theoretical nanotechnology and state-of-the-art genetic manipulation. Some of it was triggered by File 91, flawed work by North Korea. When she advocated that her similar research on DNA manipulation under Project Crucible required secret live trials on a civilian population, her colleagues accused her of wanting to violate the Nuremberg Code.

  They were fools.

  Winfield and the others failed to see her logic, her need for live trials. She left the program and ultimately left the United States, changed her name and became a citizen of the Bahamas. She took pains not to be found, ensuring her personal information was removed from most databanks as she continued refining her ideology in solitude.

  Through her confidential sources in the intelligence and science communities she quietly sought out those who shared her belief that time was running out on civilization. They created a secret organization and explored ways of transforming their beliefs into action. She named her inner circle Extremus Deus, for she was convinced that her life was spared on the day her family died because she was fated to rescue humanity.

  From the day she’d encountered the ants eating the dog, to the horrific moments she’d spent in the stadium, she was destined to reach this point. All of her life’s work had led to it, led her to this country, to this river and, soon, to the final component of her formula.

  The barge’s engine thudded and Gretchen felt Will’s hand in hers.

  Returning spirits of the dead.

  Staring into the water flowing by, she considered an old African legend. It held that when the first white explorers arrived, the masts of their ships on the horizon were the first things seen by Africans, who deemed them to be the dead who’d risen from the bottom of the
sea. As the barge churned around a bend she saw a cluster of thatched-roof huts pressed from the forest to the muddy riverbank.

  It was a deserted village.

  She thought of the old tales of cannibals and leper colonies, but as they glided by the huts so deathly still, she thought of the real nightmare that waited ahead.

  They made camp that night.

  As the barge’s diesel slept, the small group sat around their campfire coated with DEET, listening to the throb of cicadas, the bellow of bullfrogs and the shrieks of things unseen. Flames licked at the night and Sutsoff studied the faces of her team.

  Fiona was a brilliant microbiologist from India. Pauline was a doctor from New Zealand who’d worked with aid groups around the globe. Colin was the former science advisor to Britain’s health secretary. Juan had been a surgeon with Argentina’s military.

  All were followers of E.D. All had left their positions to join her. They were the best of her organization, her disciples.

  They revered her.

  They knew her as Dr. Auden and they adhered to her rules.

  They did not sit near her, or speak to her unless she initiated conversation, as she did now.

  “Give me the outline for tomorrow, Colin.”

  “At daybreak the contractor will arrive with men to carry our equipment overland. It’s rough terrain and should take us half a day to reach the field station. We can proceed in the morning.”

  “Anyone else care to add anything?”

  “Well-” Juan cleared his throat “-we can’t stress enough how dangerous this operation is. No one has ever seen anything like this before.”

  “Do you wish to withdraw?” Sutsoff said. “Would you prefer to wait here while the others bravely make their mark in history?”

  “No.”

  “Your point then?”

  “Thank you for the honor to be part of your team.”

  They retired to their tents, one for Sutsoff, one for the guys and one for Fiona and Pauline. As the fire died, Sutsoff sensed something breathing, brooding, waiting in the darkness.

  And she smiled.

  43

  At dawn, columns of mist curled from the river, enshrouding the camp and the spectral forms floating in the water.

  Four dugouts, each with half a dozen figures waiting. A bird shrieked as Juan poked his head from his tent, fumbled for his glasses, waved to the group then roused the others.

  “Our help has arrived.”

  Sutsoff approached the group and offered a respectful greeting, using some of the dialect she’d learned from tapes Pauline had sent her.

  Yes, they knew of the new discovery, said one man who had a command of English. It was frightening, he said, but other than the river people, no one knew what was happening.

  “Have the white doctors come to help?” the man asked.

  “Yes, we are here to help.”

  Sutsoff’s team washed, dressed, rekindled the fire for breakfast and broke camp. Juan and Pauline saw to the men whom they’d hired to carry the research team’s equipment overland to the field station.

  Payment was fifty U.S. dollars for each man, a fortune by regional standards. Juan instructed them on the equipment, while Pauline distributed ropes and straps, ensuring each man carried a reasonable load. Heavier items were secured to carrying poles and two men were tasked to carry either end.

  The trek began in good time.

  Sutsoff took her place near the head of the line behind Juan and two of the older local men, regarded as expert guides. The dark forests appeared impassable. But the locals knew the way, following paths made by elephant herds that had come to water at the banks of the river.

  The woods came alive with the buzzing of insects. The pungent smells of mud, decay and the fragrance of the flora challenged her senses. Trees rose like skyscrapers, their branches forming a natural roof pierced by shafts of light. While birds and monkeys screamed, the vegetation rioted with creeping crimson vines and giant purple, blue, orange and yellow flowers.

  The load bearers carried items on their head or on their shoulders or strapped to their backs. Sweat glistened on their bodies.

  When the expedition stopped for breaks, the locals expertly helped themselves to bananas, oranges or pineapple that were abundant. Their sharp knives sliced with swift surgical precision and they slurped the sweet juices. To the side, Juan crouched and used a stick to draw a crude map in the earth. The elder guides consulted it, then spoke with Juan and Sutsoff.

  “We should be at the field station in two hours. That’s late morning-earlier than we’d hoped,” Juan said.

  “Good. We’ll start work immediately,” Sutsoff said.

  The group had gained its second wind as the terrain sloped downward, and in a little over an hour they had reached the field station. It was a crude wooden shack, no bigger than a garden shed, where Juan had spent the past three months conducting research.

  “We must move quickly,” Sutsoff said. “We must finish our work today. We’ll camp here tonight and leave in the morning for the barge and my rendezvous with the float plane. I need to get a flight from Yaounde and get back to my lab as soon as possible.”

  Everyone moved with military swiftness and order. Equipment was uncrated and positioned. Sutsoff’s pulse quickened as Juan and two of the elders led her down a path beyond the shack. They’d gone about one hundred yards when the elders stopped.

  “They’re frightened,” Juan said.

  “What is it?” Sutsoff asked.

  “They refuse to go farther. They say the area is cursed, that we’re coming to ‘the hole with no end’-what they say is a gate to hell.”

  Barely able to contain her impatience, Sutsoff said, “We’ll go on without them.”

  She and Juan continued, then paused. The forest seemed subdued, waiting, the quiet punctuated with the rattle of a palm frond falling from high above. They walked for another hundred yards, came to a twist, then arrived at their destination.

  The yawning mouth of a cave.

  “They’re in there, about two hundred to three hundred feet,” Juan said.

  While working here, he’d been tipped off by a source conducting studies in the region on African witchcraft about a disturbing development: the emergence of a new and powerful lethal agent.

  Juan had immediately alerted Sutsoff.

  Now, as she stood here considering the cave, the reality of the discovery was palpable. The key to her success lay deep within the darkness-this so-called gate to hell. She’d memorized Juan’s reports and knew that soon international health experts would descend on this site to neutralize what was inside.

  Her job was to isolate and collect what she needed now.

  “Good work. We’ll suit up and collect our specimens.”

  At the field station Sutsoff, Juan, Colin, Pauline and Fiona got into protective encapsulated biochemical suits. Nervous tension seeped into the air. Sutsoff saw it in their eyes as they checked and double-checked their equipment, their breathing masks, two-layer face shields, three-layer gloves, special night-vision goggles, specially modified air-conditioned respirators, radio intercom and hazmat boots.

  As awkward as it was, it was safer to suit up at the station. In their reflective suits, they resembled alien beings as they walked to the cave. It was unmapped, unidentified and estimated to contain about three million clustered bats, not fruit bats, but a rare new species known as the pariah bat.

  The pariah was discovered in the region in the 1980s. But it was thought to have been wiped out after the tragic carbon dioxide explosion at Lake Nyos.

  In his attempt to supply Sutsoff with samples of the Marburg virus and its relative, the Ebola virus, which she required for her work, Juan had learned that his source had encountered a farmer upriver who feared he’d been the victim of witchcraft, thinking someone had empowered bats with a powerful poison to bite his cattle at night and kill his entire herd.

  Tissue samples obtained by Juan confirmed the presence of a ne
w and alarmingly powerful lethal agent.

  The farmer helped Juan track the bats to this cave.

  At that time Juan was joined by Pauline at the field station. Both knew the risks but took what precautions they could. They designated a corner of the station to be a lab. Then they secured the structure with layers of heavy plastic sheeting coated with antiseptic. Finally, they donned military biochem suits obtained from a South African lab and began analysis.

  Their work determined that the virus, which they’d christened Pariah Variant 1 (PV1), was present only in female bats. It was common for bats to feed on insects from swamps where the virus likely emerged. Sutsoff’s review of their testing confirmed that PV1 was one hundred to two hundred times more lethal than Marburg or Ebola. They observed that it would have a fatality rate in humans of 95% to 97%.

  Based on the results on the cows and on their initial study, infection from PV1 could cause death in humans in less than ten minutes, making it the world’s deadliest pathogen.

  Sutsoff had already created an unprecedented delivery and manipulation system back at her island lab. She’d been in the final phase of developing a potent synthetic pathogen from a spectrum of known biological agents. But Juan’s discovery of PV1 meant her model would be far more lethal than she could have imagined. All that she required was a sufficient supply of PV1 to complete her work and initiate her operation.

  As they arrived back at the cave, Juan held up a gloved hand.

  “Do not use your white light unless it’s an emergency. They have an aversion to light, it will agitate them. Use your night vision.”

  They exercised supreme caution as they entered the mouth of the cave, taking time to allow their senses to adjust as the daylight at the entrance gave way to abject darkness. The cave floor was uneven and jagged; a wrong turn, a fall, could mean a tear in the suit.

  According to Juan and Pauline’s study, this was the optimum time to collect samples. For a brief period of a few weeks, the females would be sedentary, docile and incapable of flying because at this stage they were lactating. This was the time to manually extract samples of the virus.

  “Okay, let’s start.” Juan’s static voice came over his radio.