Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

  The emails waiting for him gave him some hope. Mike Warner and Katie Wood remained asymptomatic, although nobody had yet located Gary Teocle, the chopper pilot, or checked the Aneityum Island villagers. The team from USAMRIID was in New Zealand and expected to be in Vila by morning, and Mathew Island after lunch. Nate also checked news bulletins from the now quarantined Port Vila. The number of deaths from haemorrhagic dengue was climbing, some passengers on the flight to LA now showed symptoms, others in Hong Kong, Sydney and a dozen other cities were also being monitored as they displayed the early, flu-like symptoms. It seemed the disease was contained; it would not spread into the community at large.

  Near midnight, he shut down the generator. Despite the copious amounts of bleach he'd spread around the cottage, he could sense the virus lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to go to sleep so it could climb into his nose and into his lungs and… He shook off the imagery but left the thin plastic suit on while he lay on the bed. Despite the heat of the tropical night, the suit provided a sense of security, like a child pulling the blankets over his head to hide from the bogeyman.

  Dreams taunted him. Babies born with the skin ripped from them as they squeezed out of pustule-covered vaginas. Dogs with festering sores roaming the clinic, lapping up the blood and half-digested entrails from the floor.

  Abruptly waking, he sat up from the bed with a gasp, and brought his glove-covered hand to his face to wipe away the sweat-but he hit the HEPA mask instead. The dreams weren't nightmares; he could hear the dogs nearby. They had set up an almighty howling.

  Then abruptly, they stopped.

  The village, the entire island, had gone terrifyingly quiet. The rain had stopped. The air was as still as the lifeless corpses in the clinic, and the dark presence of the pathogen was so palpable that terror grabbed and shook him. And shook him and shook him and kept shaking him. The whole world was shaking! And with it, an unearthly screeching noise shattered the silence.

  Nate was knocked from his bed with such force that for one horrible moment, he thought that the volcano had erupted. The floor buckled. Shattering glass and cracking timbers flooded the air with yet more noise. He'd been through plenty of earthquakes; he'd been born in a country where they were as common as rainstorms. Vanuatu averaged five every day, the vast majority of which went unnoticed. But this! An enraged monster seemed to have gripped the island and was lashing it around like a rabid dog. Unaware that he was screaming, Nate slid across the bucking floor and fell into the wall.

  The earthquake that hit Mathew Island at 0128hrs on Sunday, December Fifteen, continued for a full forty seconds. Seismographs around the world would measure it as 7.2 on the old Richter scale-a city-levelling quake. Mathew Island had no cities, just thatched huts that weathered the frequent grumblings of the earth with little more than a few displaced leaves. The only significant damage was to more permanent, concrete structures-like the clinic and cottage.

  Finally, the quake stopped. A different kind of quiet settled over the island. Nate held his breath until an oddly reassuring grumble came from the direction of the volcano. Then he felt around for the Coleman lantern that he'd banged into on his way across the floor. Snatching it up, he primed the light and pressed the trigger. The tiny flame was worse than useless, limiting his vision to a flickering bubble of dust-filled haze. Still, he could now see his way to the bedroom door.

  The living room was gone. Roof beams had collapsed, smashing the table where Warner's laptop had been. His only contact with the outside world now lay beneath the rubble. An aftershock hit, and the remaining section of the ceiling fell inwards. Raising his arm reflexively, Nate crouched under a fallen beam, then crawled through the debris to where the door stood buckled and splintered. He kicked it aside and went out into the star-filled night. Thank Christ for small mercies . The rain had finally stopped.

  In the light of the volcano, the clinic looked to have weathered the quake marginally better. The corrugated iron roof had buckled, and the cement-rendered walls had cracked wide open. The louver windows had compressed and shattered, spraying shard of glass in every direction. But if the lack of sounds coming from the clinic was any indication, there was no one left alive to worry about.

  Overcome with exhaustion, Nate sat down on the warm, soggy ground. He was tired, deathly tired. Tired of being hopelessly terrified, tired of his impotence in the face of a microbial monster, tired of being slimy with sweat and rain and mire. Just…tired.

  Another aftershock hit. The warm sludge jiggled. Through his gloved hand it felt soft, inviting, like a comforting blanket. He was tempted to lie down and sleep. Instead, he stood and staggered to the Land Rover, climbed inside, backed the vehicle out of the rickety shed, now leaning at a precarious angle, turned off the ignition and promptly fell into a-thankfully dreamless-sleep. If he was lucid enough to care about anything, it was that he didn't care if he never woke up.

  -Chapter 25-

  Norfolk Island

  Dispersal: Plus 6 days

  "Welcome to Australia." Jordan walked down the boarding steps of the aircraft. "At least we're half-way there."

  The runway was set in the middle of a rural landscape dotted by large stands of spindly trees, aptly named Norfolk Island Pines.

  Susan's look of exasperation softened. Back in New Zealand, Jordan had suggested that the response team meet the USS California at Norfolk Island. Geographically closer to Mathew Island than either Noumea or Port Vila, Norfolk was inhabited by the descendants of Fletcher Christian and his band of mutineers. Genetically predisposed to a suspicion of all authority, the Islanders were nevertheless Australians living on Australian territory. The sudden, unexplained arrival of the California , followed soon after by a charter flight from New Zealand, had the small community buzzing, and more than a little wary. It was no secret that Vanuatu was isolated because of an Ebola-type outbreak.

  The current plan was to depart Norfolk Island for the twelve-mile territorial limit around Mathew Island, where the ship would wait until the diplomatic standoff was resolved. However the situation was changing by the hour. The condition of the nine United passengers had deteriorated rapidly, and the organism responsible was definitely not dengue. Assistant Director Reynold had been whisked off to the White House to brief the President. The French and Vanuatu governments were fast running out of excuses for declaring Mathew Island off-limits.

  Once aboard the California , heading northwest at flank speed, communications techs set up a secure satellite video link to Washington, DC. Susan called Brant for the latest update, including the status of Warner and Wood.

  "They remain asymptomatic," Brant replied.

  "Particles could have been in their clothing, hair, anything, and been sucked into the aircraft's air conditioning system," said Susan.

  "Yet they avoided infection." Jordan didn't mean to sound suspicious, but it did seem kind of odd.

  "Pretty much confirming we're dealing with a weaponised virus-"

  "Because the chimera was probably encapsulated to protect it against decimation during delivery by an explosive warhead." Jordan smiled stiffly, conceding the point. "I suppose they could have carried particles without inhaling them."

  Susan shot her a sideways look. "You've been doing your homework. It also means the entire aircraft and everything on it could be carrying the active chimera virus. Reynold's off the hook with the White House, and we have every reason to demand access to Mathew Island."

  "Full decontamination procedures of all quarantined aircraft are being implemented as we speak," Brant replied. "But we still can't enter New Caledonian/Vanuatu territorial waters."

  "What about Nathaniel Sturgess? Has he been in contact since the earthquake?"

  On the video feed, Brant frowned. "No. We have no idea what happened to him. He could simply have lost the generators and the radiotelephone."

  "Or he could be dead." McCabe voiced what Jordan conceded was probably on everyone's mind. "Sturgess' last report said that everyone
on the island was symptomatic-except him."

  "Dammit!" Susan exploded. "We could have been on that island this time yesterday but for that dickless cretin in Vila, Gene Marshall."

  "He's still insisting that their outbreak is dengue," said Brant. "According to him, the number of people being admitted to Vila Base Hospital is still climbing, but their fatalities are what you'd expect from dengue."

  "If he's telling the truth," McCabe said.

  Jordan bit her lip. No government wanted to admit it had Ebola. Vanuatu still insisted it was completely AIDS-free, when that was patently not the case. "I can't see how Marshall could hide it," she said. "Call the local newspaper editor. It's a small town. He'll know what's going on in terms of symptoms and fatalities."

  "Already have," Brant replied. "At this time we're running with the theory that Port Vila escaped being hit, although we're not ruling out the possibility that the dengue is masking it." He looked off-screen, then added, "Major, I have Jake Arnold from the CDC on another line to talk to you."

  There was no image, but Jordan could hear someone asking if he could be heard.

  "Yeah, Jake," Susan replied. "What's happening?"

  "You tell me," came the aggrieved reply. "You promised to keep me in the loop."

  "Hey, you got first crack at the samples from the United passengers."

  "You only sent them because you guys no longer have the facilities."

  Susan pulled a sour face. Jordan could guess why. As a result of fiscal cutbacks dictated by a Republican dominated Congress, USAMRIID had been downsized and no longer had Level 4 biohazard facilities.

  "Stop sucking on a lemon, Jake. If it weren't for President Clinton the CDC would be in the same mess. How long before you can give us some answers?"

  A theatrical sigh cut through the static fizz. "I'll need samples of the original particles, and blood samples from the presumed index case, Tom Kaleo."

  "Jake, we need to know what you have, now ."

  "Gimme a break, Susan! You know this could take days, more 'n likely weeks to run to ground. And, if your paranoia pays off, upwards of three months before we manage a genetic assay of a hybrid virus. The good news," Arnold added, "is that I've talked to the guys at the Pasteur Institute."

  French virologists and epidemiologists had watched in dismay when their government ignored their warnings and allowed AIDS to propagate unchecked. Their scientists were far more jittery about potential pandemics than their bureaucratic masters, particularly in light of Kikwit.

  "And?" Susan replied impatiently.

  "And whatever the hell this thing is, it's shredded the red blood cells. They've eyeballed it and are preparing to take electron photos this afternoon. They told me it wasn't hard to find. The samples were almost pure viral mush. First glance, it looks like smallpox, but more complex. They're guessing it's some sort of mutated haemorrhagic Variola , although there's no way they're going to publicly state that. Hell, rumours that it's Ebola are bad enough, but smallpox? Nuh-uh. Besides, you and I know better, right?"

  "You and I also know better than to express that opinion to anyone. Don't we, Jake?"

  "I'm insulted."

  "I'm serious."

  "If the French are right, if we're right, it won't take long for the world to know, Susan. Once they analyze the genetic sequence-"

  "Which, as you said, could take months. And meantime, the French government may have something to say about what information is given out. Jake-"

  "I'm still insulted that you thought you'd have to ask," he replied in a hurt tone. "And yeah, okay, I'm jealous. You didn't invite me to your little party."

  "You'd sooner be in front of an electron microscope."

  Jordan heard his snort. "All right," he replied. "I'll let you know as soon as we see anything. And I'll send you a copy of the photos as they come in. Just…keep me informed."

  "Will do," Susan replied.

  Brant was about to sever his connection to the California , when he held up his hand. "Wait. Wilson' s hooking up a satellite feed from LA. You still got visuals there?"

  Aboard the California , the naval technician nodded and turned to another screen. It spluttered for a moment then a low-quality pixilated image appeared. It was not, as Jordan had expected, the DIA agent, but the rugged features of a middle-aged, bearded, heavyset man standing in what looked like a sterile containment ward.

  From somewhere off screen, Wilson introduced Michael Warner, adding, "Dr Warner has been in contact with his office at the University of Seattle. His team there are receiving seismic data from Vanuatu. We've set up a satellite link so that he can monitor the situation on Mathew Island."

  "How are you doing, Dr Warner?" Susan enquired politely.

  "Less nervous with every passing hour. You're on your way to Mathew?"

  "Yes, sir. How bad was the earthquake?"

  Warner's tanned face darkened. "They're used to quakes. That's not the problem. It's the type of quake that worries me." The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. "Mathew is huge volcano, most of which is underwater. When it blew up a thousand years back it ejected a hundred cubic kilometres of earth into the atmosphere, leaving behind a caldera twenty miles in diameter. That's the big basin now sitting in the middle of the island. The explosion also cracked the island in two."

  "Are you saying it might erupt again?" Susan's eyes widened.

  "It's erupting all the time," Warner replied, his image on the screen periodically fracturing and freezing. "Mathew has two magma chambers. The largest is like a massive pressure cooker under tremendous pressure. It feeds into a smaller chamber above it, which in turn acts like a release valve."

  Reaching off-screen, he lifted a piece of paper and held it up close to the camera lens. It was a geological map. Somewhat blurred, Jordan could nevertheless see what the vulcanologist was getting at.

  "Of the eight big eruptions in the last two hundred years," Warner explained, "all have been from the small chamber. Generally what happens is that it forces the lava lake on the mountain to bubble over. Now, if that's blocked, lava either eventually shoots out like a champagne cork in what we call a Plinian eruption-like Vesuvius-or if it stays blocked, the fault splits open instead." He pointed to a series of pockmarks that stretched in a rough line across the island. "These are maars, old vents not much bigger than tennis courts, that sit directly above the fault. When they erupt, they toss out fountains of lava. Over here-" he pointed to the north-eastern tip of the island. "Are lava tunnels. The villagers have traditionally used them to escape eruptions.

  Warner lowered the map and then replaced it with a photograph. "Last year, the data stopped transmitting because of a large quake. I now know that this quake caused the main magma chamber to be cut off from the smaller one." He didn't have to point out the features. A yellow and orange blob dominated the centre of a craggy cinder cone. "This is the lava lake a week ago. The level has dropped, which fooled me into thinking the activity was down. In fact, it's because the big magma chamber, the pressure cooker itself, has no way to vent.

  "The night before we left Mathew, we had a massive rainstorm-almost eight inches," he continued. "I was too damned busy trying to salvage what I could before the helicopter arrived, so I didn't see it." He moved the photograph away. Despite the jerky image, his frustration was clear. "The hot springs weren't overflowing onto the runway. They were new mud pools breaking out!"

  "And all of this means…?"Susan wanted to know.

  Jordan had lived in Vanuatu long enough to have already guessed the answer. "When you analyze the data over the past twelve months," Warner replied, "integrate the epicentres of the magma quakes and factor in the current data, it adds up to one thing. The pressure's been turned up, and the release valve has shut down. Mathew Island isn't going to simply erupt. It's going to blow itself into oblivion."

  -Chapter 26-

  Mathew Island

  Dispersal: Plus 7 days

  Nate sat inside the clinic's small office, finish
ing his report. His last patient, a boy of eight or nine whom he'd been treating with a desperate and bizarre cocktail of drugs, had just died. At first the lad had appeared to respond, but the dosages that Nate had administered to delay the rampant destruction caused by the virus had proved too much for the boy's young heart. As far as Nate could tell, he'd been the last living Mathew Islander.

  The report detailed every step that Nate had taken. He also included observations and recommendations for alternative medication and procedures that he would have taken if there'd been anyone left. It was all very thorough, very clinical, very much what his superiors had come to expect from him. Writing it had also provided an intellectual refuge from the appalling human tragedy that surrounded him. Now that the report was complete, all that remained was bone-numbing despair. It didn't help that the aftershocks from the earthquake had not let up all day. If anything, they seemed to grow more frequent. They also seemed sharper, jerkier, not the long grinding movements of normal earthquakes.

  Nate was right in thinking the tremors were noticeably different from the motion created by faults slipping and sliding past one another. If Michael Warner had been on the island, he would have told everyone to pack their bags and flee, even without first looking at his data. The quakes that shook Mathew Island were the result of extreme pressure in the secondary magma chamber.

  With nothing more constructive to do, Nate pulled out his private journal and opened it to the last entry, made late the previous afternoon.