My Dead America

by Frank Weltner

  In fact, some of them were secretly happy it had happened.

  The rich sucked.

  Let the avengers live free.

  They did. They were back at Mizzou acting like everyone else about the events, hanging at home and lying low. Life for Durango, Debbie, and Brad was still great.

  After awhile, things died down again.

  Besides, life goes on for most no matter what happens.

  Unless, of course, you are one of those New York millionaires who are good and dead and can't do any more damage to your nation because you just aren't alive, or your mind tells you to give up, stay inside, and to be safe.

  Page 9

  Chapter Seven

  Why Am I Dying?

  The President's wife, Darla Pennington, had been visiting Ghana. On the way to the airport, she was feeling ill. Her physician, Gerald Haven, M.D., had been assigned to Darla for years. So, of course, when she traveled, Dr. Haven went with her. Visiting new places with lavish hotels and state dinners was one of his better perks. Once they boarded the aircraft, Dr. Haven did all the right things.

  First, the doctor took her temperature. He noted that Darla's temperature was almost two degrees above normal. That wasn't good.

  Next, Doctor Haven checked the First Lady's blood pressure. It wasn't quite right, either. Doctor Haven noted in his file that Darla's BP was perhaps a bit low, but still in the normal range, but it needed to be watched.

  Next, Dr. Haven looked into her mouth.

  “Open wide, Mrs. Pennington. That's it.”

  As he examined the membranes in her throat, they seemed a bit red which could mean an infection was beginning to set in. It was probably inside her lungs and bronchial tubes as well. He looked under her eye lids. Darla's arterial bloom was reddening in there also. Evidently, a general infection was attacking several parts of Darla Pennington's body.

  “How am I doing, Doc,” Darla asked with a typical flirtatious rise in her eyebrows? She did that a lot. It was not only for Doctor Haven. Darla Pennington did it for nearly everyone. Darla was simply a flirt, even if she was the First Lady, and everyone knew it and liked it. Every imperial throne needed some comic relief, and Darla was just that. The people loved her for it. That was the humorous side of Darla's personality. She didn't do it as a come on. She did it, because it was slightly out of line, and that made it funny. No one was really going to start dialing Darla's cell phone over it. Most laughed when they saw her wink at them suggestively, showing that they knew all along that it was a joke designed to put them at ease. It was like saying, “Hey, I'll flirt with you. Just don't take me as serious when I do it, because we both know that would be inappropriate, and this is merely a gag.” No one wanted trouble with the President of the United States. No one.

  “We are going to have to monitor this, Mrs. Pennington. I don't want the First Lady of the United States getting sick on my watch.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “A bug probably. Probably food related. You've been eating food in several countries on this trip, and each one has a different set of bacteria, virus, and minerals. Maybe something is amiss.”

  “Did your daughter get her essay graded, Doc?”

  “Yes. Thank you for asking.”

  “And?”

  “She got an A.”

  “Of course.”

  “You expected that? I didn't.”

  “Come on Dr. Haven. You are a brilliant physician. That's why you have been hired to do this important job. Very few are called to be the First Lady's family physician, Doctor.”

  “And?”

  “There's an old saying that the acorns don't fall too far from the tree. I think that tells the story about your daughter's educational capabilities. There's no doubt in my mind, knowing you, your wife, your daughter, and your son, all of whom are brilliant, that Pamela is always going to have high grades on her papers.”

  “Really.”

  She smiled.

  “Oh, yes. Really.” She patted the back of the Doc's hand and gave him her big Midwestern smile. “But you know that, Dr. Haven. Goodness sakes.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of my genetic prowess.”

  She laughed.

  “This is not an Hitlerian racist comment,” she laughed. “This is just the honest-to-God truth, and you and I know it. By the way, tell her that the First Lady expects great things from Pamela.”

  “I will.” He smiled at her. She was a treat to work with.

  Once Air Force One was in the air, the doctor took a nap. He had been busy.

  Some problems were beginning to develop. His iPhone app from the CDC had alerted him of a virus that was beginning to appear in many parts of the globe, and it was starting to cause attention. The symptoms were exactly the same as the First Lady's. Where she got whatever she had it was hard to tell. He wasn't certain this was what she had. Doctor Haven figured it was probably just a cold. It didn't matter. The disease would follow its own course. The new disease was so new that nothing at all was known about it, anyway. That knowledge would come later, out of experience, not now. He was hoping that it would be another mild infection that could be sloughed off by the world's medical establishment, coated with drugs, profits, and forgotten, with everyone in the medical establishment all the richer.

  After all, isn't that what American medicine was all about anyway?

  Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen.

  In fact, he went back to the CDC app and found a new and more dire warning had been issued. The disease was exploding everywhere. Hospitals were already full from it in less than 8 hours after the first people with symptoms visited their doctors. Within hours, the infirm were being driven to the closest hospital and placed in beds to make certain their already compromised bodies weren't in danger.

  Better to be safe than sorry.

  A moment later, the iPhone rang. It was the Surgeon General. Dr. Haven had called him an hour ago. The Surgeon General's name was Dr. Wallace Houston. He was a specialist in Internal Medicine, a perfect background for someone being appointed to oversee the health of the entire nation. Houston was a graduate of the University of Texas.

  “We have a problem, Haven,” he said. “There's been a bigger blowup on these disease symptoms than we had hoped.”

  “Is this my clue to respond by saying, 'We have a problem, Houston?'” Dr. Haven replied.

  “I've heard it before, Haven. Please don't repeat it. It's overbearing and trite.”

  “Isn't that the point of humor,” Dr. Haven asked Dr. Houston? He figured the old man needed a bit of joking after reading plague predictions day-after-day in DC.

  “Yes, but it is really junky when you hear it ten times a day, Dr. Haven. And, speaking of puns, I am sure you have heard the phrase, 'I came to your office, doctor, because I figured it would be a safe Haven whenever I got sick.”

  “Right. Now we can both puke.”

  Their laughter was loud and genuine.

  “So, General Houston, what is the prognosis starting to look like?”

  “People are starting to die,” Houston said. “It is the worst possible medical scenario in several years. I think we may be in for some real trouble.”

  “The First Lady has it, I think,” Dr. Haven said. “What should I do?”

  “Extreme caution is called for.”

  “So, I tell the First Lady, she is in isolation? Do you know how difficult that is?”

  “Oh, yes. I do. But the lives of many depend on the right decisions we make here and now, doctor. You need to bring out masks and rubber gloves for everyone in that aircraft including yourself, and you need to let them know the protocols for protecting themselves.”

  “I'll do it now.”

  “Good luck, doctor. Let's hope she doesn't have this.”

  * * *

  At Parkland Hospital in Dallas where President John F. Kennedy had died of head wounds minutes after arriving there years before and to the horror of the nation, the emergency
room was filled with people. The beds were full and at the same time opening up fast, because so many were beginning to expire from internal bleeding. The disease was dissolving the cellular structure of organs, arteries, muscles, and everything else it was touching. People were actually starting to melt into their blood streams as the thin dams between body fluids, muscle, organs, intestines, and nerves were melting down from the infection's poison.

  There was blood on the floor of several rooms. A new protocol was issued to place plastic underneath each patient to catch the potential fluids and save the mattresses and sheets. Even the ambulances were covered in patient blood as were the homes where the ambulances picked up the victims. Most people had to line their beds with garbage bags taped together at home, because plastic tarps disappeared as soon as the word went out. This was already the most serious infection since swine flu in 1918 when 80 million people worldwide died from same type of blood letting as their biological defenses were simply eaten away from the inside out, until the blood was no longer being kept inside the patients where it belonged. All of the victims in 1918 were sudden bleeders, and the infection had spread like wildfire.

  The doctor noted on his ledgers that he didn't feel well, either.

  He went to the First Lady's cabin and knocked. When he entered, she was only half awake. Her attendant told him that she was feverish, complained of a blood taste in her throat, and felt like she was going to die.

  “Everyone feels like they are going to die when they first become ill. That's the nature of all diseases. It's just a natural way for the body to wake them, get their attention, and let them know they need to be in bed, and not go around spreading it to others.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “I am right. But to be on the safe side, here are some face masks, rubber gloves, and antiseptic salves. Let her know that this room is now under quarantine, and she cannot leave it until we reach Dulles in Washington DC. She wears these, and you do also from now on. Also, place this plastic underneath her, and do it right away. Patients around the world are bleeding out and ruining their beds. We need this bed if the worst happens.”

  “It's that serious?”

  He put on his own mask and gloves.

  “Yes,” Dr. Haven told her. “You and I and every one else on this plane are in possibly severe trouble. Pretend this is the worst possible scenario and hope that it isn't. I don't want you to panic but people are coming down with this all over the planet, and it's a very contagious and violent infection. It seems very bad. Hideous, actually, according to CDC reports that are piling up. Hospitals worldwide are filled beyond capacity. Evidently it was spread awhile ago and is only now showing up. That means everyone may already be exposed ten times over. Assume that, also. We'll hope that is wrong, too.”

  “How dangerous is this, Dr. Haven. Should I call my family?”

  “Yes, you can tell them about the disease and the precautions. I am sure the news channels statewide are already doing that, but you cannot tell them anything about infection on this aircraft. Do you promise that? You will be violating everyone's medical rights, if you do.”

  “I understand. But what do I tell my family?”

  “Tell them to get to the drugstore and get masks, gloves, and antiseptic hand cleaners, plastic garbage bags and duct tape to make plastic sheets to sleep atop. And tell them to stay at home, don't leave, wash down completely in the shower, and listen to the news. I'm sure it's already being broadcast. Oh, and they need to get enough canned goods to tide them over for 2-3 weeks.”

  If everyone did that, the nation would starve.

  Dr. Haven knew that.

  But your patients always come first.

  He went to the First Lady.

  “This disease is serious,” he told her. “We'll do everything we can for you. I just want you to know that it's a nationwide and global disease, and it just started to show up in the last day or so. But I think it has been festering inside all of us for weeks, and this is its final and hardest stage. I hope I'm wrong.”

  “Oh my god,” she said. “Am I going to die?”

  “No. At least not if I can help it. However, call your husband right now and have a last talk with him just in case something really bad comes of this.”

  She grimaced.

  “I don't want to die,” the First Lady said.

  “I don't either, and I think I'm infected as well. Now, look on the bright side. If worse comes to worse, that means you won't be going alone.”

  They both laughed in their loudest gallows humor, which made it the biggest joke of the day, which is probably the nature of gallows humor.

  The doctor left the room and called a general meeting of the passengers on the aircraft, told them the problem worldwide, and how to best protect themselves from this moment on. He passed out the face masks, gloves, and antiseptic washes.

  He had done all he could.

  The rest was up to God. It all depended on how bad the disease was going to become.

  “Maybe,” he thought, “This disease might be up to Satan and not to God.”

  It could be that bad.

  “Listen to me,” he thought. “I am so close to my patients, I think every disease is a pandemic.”

  Unfortunately for millions, this disease was a pandemic.

  The horror was just starting.

  Death was walking the streets, flying the airways, riding the school buses.

  “We'll just have to see,” Dr. Haven said to himself. “We'll know in a few days what we have here. Hopefully, it will end as dramatically and rapidly as it started.”

  It was bad.

  At the CDC, half of the staff had already bled out before Air Force One neared the East Coast of America.

  The Air Force tracked the First Lady's flight to Nashville, Tennessee. It had stopped communicating 500 miles off shore. Both pilots had expired. A reporter on board manned the mic. He was already bleeding out and was the only one left alive. He was told to sit down and just await his fate. Evidently, he did just that after they had promised to call his wife and let her and the kids know how much he loved them. He then turned, poured himself some good scotch, and sat back sipping it, wickedly refusing to strap himself in out of innate self-respect and a tiny bit of journalistic panache.

  So, Air Force One was a dead stick with no one on board alive. That was about an hour before it burst into flames, coming down on auto-pilot in the Mid-South. The Air Force pilot tracking it said he could see flames and smoke lapping gently at its windows when it was still only a few hundred feet above the trees. It blew up on hitting the ground.

  The disease was so prevalent, most emergency crews were at home with their families dying together, sobbing in their beds, so no one went to properly investigate the wreckage.

  Page 9

  Chapter Eight

  Center for Disease Control

  Ronald Henderson heard his red phone ringing. The sound was Beethoven's Fifth, and he figured the finality to the orchestral composition was just about perfect to identify the calls he would be getting over the next year from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia.

  “Eggplant,” he answered, his secret code name for the Global #5 Virus Project, otherwise known as “Dinky Horseman,” which sounded sort of stupid, but was catchy in the extreme, just like the disease it identified.

  “Hey, it's working great.”

  “I know. The computer screens here are hopping mad with victims. Looks like the entire world is coming down with it.”

  “We have a ninety-seven-percent non-recovery prediction, and, based on what we are seeing, the thing has recombined to make it even more deadly and is picking up speed. It might surpass the 99.9999% we were aiming for. I can safely say that ought to take care of global warming for awhile.”

  “Yea,” said Eggplant, “but who's going to be left to clean the streets.”

  “You know who. You and me and a couple of gorgeous women. Any of them we want.”


  “Really.”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you figure they'd want us?”

  “Easy. We just lie and tell them we can decide if they survive or go down with the rest of them. Nothing spreads a pretty girl's legs like a gun aimed at her right eye.”

  “Works every time, right?”

  “You know it,” Eggplant said.

  “Give me your readings for the Far East, especially Beijing, Hanoi, and Tokyo.”

  “No can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Their signals aren't working. Even their Internet is down. I think they are all sick and crying for Mommy right now.”

  There is a certain feeling of pride among sociopaths when their victims are begging for their lives. Invariably their killers are emotionally drained, and their minds are like onions in that they stink but don't have a thing other than putrefaction to speak about. But, hey, to them it's all good. They get their kicks from weird things. Nothing was more strange than what Ron Henderson, aka Eggplant, had done here. It was more than enough to give Charles Manson a hard on as he dreamed he was Jesus Christ incarnate coming to kill the world's leaders as they bowed beneath his bleeding feet.

  “How's New York City?”

  “About what you'd expect. Some areas are still on the Internet and yelling for help. Others, aren't talking. Its a mixed bag. We'll know more in 24 hours. We have plans to send a reconnoiter crew in there to check it out, but that's classified as of now and on a need to know basis only.”

  “And?”

  “And we don't need to know.”

  “I can predict the outcome, already. They won't find much.”

  “I'd have to go along with that.”

  “So, Eggplant. How do you feel about all of this? Like a King? I mean, you made it happen, big guy.”

  “Yea, I did.”

  “So?”

  “I'm good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I'll always be here for you, Killer. You know that, don't you?”