Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  Her head ached and her legs were a little weak, which threatened to derail her psychological victory. She used the bathroom and then returned to the kitchen canisters to make the headache stop. She gulped a full glass of water, her thirst as powerful as if she’d been parched in the desert for a day. Bending over to snatch up her phone made her throbbing head worse. She couldn’t think about that now. She had to call Reese.

  “Hi, honey,” Reese said.

  Holly burst into tears.

  “Oh, my God. Holly, what’s wrong, sweetie? Why are you crying?”

  Her cries turned to sobs.

  “Holly, answer me, please. You’re scaring me.”

  Holly sniffed, snorted, blew her nose, and finally pulled herself together enough to speak. “I’m okay. No. I’m not, I have a cold, damn it, which would have ruined my vacation if Quinn hadn’t ruined it already. I’m done with him.”

  “What did he do to you, hon?”

  “We’re supposed to be on our way to Spain right now, and he never came home last night. And he’s not home now. I have no idea where he is.”

  “Oh, my God! I forgot. Your vacation. What a bastard. I can’t believe he did this to you. Do you think he left you?”

  “No. I think he’s at fucking work where he always is.” Holly sobbed, coughed, and reached for another tissue.

  “You sound terrible. Hold on. Stay there. I’m coming. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t go anywhere, Holl. Promise me.”

  “I won’t,” Holly said. “I feel like shit.”

  “Take some medicine and get in bed. Get some rest. I’ll be there soon. It’s going to be okay.”

  Holly sat down on the couch, put her feet up, and fell asleep.

  When Reese arrived, Holly struggled to get up and walk through the house to let her in. Every step was a monumental and dizzying effort. She opened the door halfway. Reese grinned and held up a champagne bottle. The top of another bottle peeked out from the large bag on her shoulder. Behind her stood four or five other people Holly barely knew.

  “Reese, I told you I wasn’t feeling well,” Holly whispered. The effort of speaking burned her throat.

  “And, voila! We’re here to make you feel better.” Reese pushed the door open the rest of the way, gave Holly a tight hug, and marched inside with her friends. “And there’s one more person coming too. Just the one you need to make you feel appreciated.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Charlotte, NC

  November 5th

  Scott Hussan’s North Carolina issued driver’s license still held his given name, Sadam Hussan. For obvious reasons, everyone had called him Scott since his high school days in Atlanta, where he lived until college. Although he hadn’t made the time to officially change his given first name, as far as he was concerned, it didn’t exist. He’d built a reputation around his work ethic, his intellect, and for being a nice and fair man. He wanted to avoid any association with one of the most hated men in recent history.

  Even though it was a Saturday, Scott had spent most of the day inside his Charlotte office, not unusual for a young investment banker and part of the reason he had way more money than time. Lately, he hadn’t been feeling his usual invincible self. He had recently returned from visiting his girlfriend, Genna, in Paris, where she was completing a semester of graduate work. The amazing week flew by. He didn’t want to leave her. An unwelcome melancholy hovered over him, beginning the moment they parted with a prolonged kiss at the airport. October 28th at two-twenty in the afternoon to be exact. He’d done his best to keep the something-is-missing feeling at bay by immersing himself in work. As long as he stayed busy and at the office, he didn’t have time to miss her. But at home, in his townhome with the city skyline view, her absence invaded his every pore. His longing became almost a tangible feeling he could grab out of the air and squeeze. He closed his eyes and imagined Genna’s soft skin, the way her kiss sent a shiver through his body. This is what it felt like to love someone. What should he do about it?

  He poured himself a glass of Moscato. He preferred beer, but sweet, white wine was Genna’s drink of choice, and he had a compelling urge to surround himself with anything reminding him of her. Sitting down on his leather couch, he grabbed the remote and aimed it at his DVR. Sixteen recorded episodes of the Big Bang Theory awaited him. He would watch one even though he’d seen it before because it was her favorite show.

  In the scene he was watching, Sheldon wrote quantum physics equations on a white board and Leonard questioned his calculations. Scott sighed and took a sip of wine.

  CRACK!!!

  “FBI!”

  His front door splintered down the middle. What the…? A large man wearing a space suit appeared in the doorway, legs apart, reminding Scott of an astronaut. Another appeared behind him. Scott’s mind, sharper than average, reached an unprecedented level of confusion. The bizarre notion of an alien invasion presented itself as the far-fetched but only explanation to represent the scene unfolding before him. How else could he explain it? But did they say FBI? They didn’t look like FBI.

  His back door shattered with a piercing crack. He jerked his head around to discover more men in space suits lined up outside. He jumped up and dropped his wine glass to the floor. Fear of the unexpected and unexplained flooded his system, jarred his nerves, and prevented him from screaming. He froze, mouth agape, in front of his Chesterfield couch surrounded by shards of glass, a snapped wine stem, and a small pool of Moscato.

  “FBI! Don’t move!”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Charlotte

  November

  6th

  Amin woke in the middle of the night to terrible retching sounds, which brought back memories from his childhood. On his eleventh birthday, his family ate at a local family restaurant. The food didn’t agree with his parents. That night, after cake and presents, he lay in bed, staring at the solar system on his ceiling, listening to his mother and father throwing up. His parents suspected food poisoning. They had all ordered the same meal, but Amin was fine, yet one more example of his body’s amazing immunity. He was also reminded of his college roommate puking his guts out, as they used to say, on two different late-night occasions. As far as Amin could remember, those were his only experiences with vomiting. He had never thrown up before. He never got sick.

  The toilet flushed. Kareem’s feet padded across the living room floor. A choking noise interrupted his steady footsteps and he hurriedly returned to the bathroom. Primitive, heaving sounds accompanied another round of vomiting.

  The long trip must have worn his cousin down. Amin considered checking on him to ask if he needed anything, but decided to respect Kareem’s privacy. No one wanted an audience when they were puking. He didn’t know from personal experience, but he’d heard, and could certainly imagine truth in the statement. He turned on his side, pulled his comforter right up to the edge of his chin, and put a pillow over the side of his head to drown out the sound. Pretending he hadn’t heard Kareem being sick seemed like the most considerate thing to do. Eventually he returned to sleep.

  Amin woke up later than usual. At first, he stayed comfortable under his covers with only a vague recollection of his sleep being interrupted numerous times during the night. He rubbed his eyes, eventually recalling the events of the past two days. His cousin had traveled from Syria and was there now, sleeping on the couch. They’d had a great time uptown. Kareem got sick during the early morning hours. Amin hoped whatever had inflicted Kareem sounded worse than it was. He was half-dressed when he heard a low moan from outside his door. He yanked his pants up and buttoned them before peering into the hallway. Outside his bedroom door, the apartment reeked of fresh vomit. Amin pinched his nostrils closed and hoped he had some Lysol spray under the sink.

  Kareem moaned again and Amin hurried down the hall, feeling terrible now about not checking in on his cousin during the night. “Kareem, are you okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.” Kareem’s words ended with a coug
hing spasm.

  “You don’t sound…” Amin stopped midsentence and stared at Kareem on the couch. “Holy shit,” he blurted in a whispered breath.

  “I’m fine!” Kareem didn’t exactly yell, he hissed, which made the situation more surreal.

  The urge to back away thwarted Amin’s compulsion to help. Kareem lay naked on top of the blankets. Amin was horrified by the sight of him. The whites of Kareem’s eyes were red. Strange bruises splotched his dark skin. Amin didn’t know what to make of it. And where were his clothes? That’s what popped into his head—as if it mattered—what did Kareem do with his clothes?

  “What time is it?” Kareem asked.

  “What time is it?” Amin echoed. An absurd question. He didn’t know the answer and it hardly seemed to matter considering his cousin’s condition. It took a few seconds to pull himself together and calmly say, “We need to get you to an urgent care doctor. There’s one nearby. Just—just hold on—I’ll get you some clothes and take you.”

  “I’m—.” He gagged. “I’m fine. I’ve got pills—.” He turned to face the couch cushions and coughed, sharp and painful sounding. “It’s the trip . . . or I have the flu.”

  “No, I think it’s more than that.” Amin stared at a large rash on his cousin’s back. He needed to temper his reaction. He didn’t want to scare Kareem, but there was something going on way beyond a run-of-the mill flu. Kareem wasn’t freaking out, thank goodness, but perhaps he had no idea what he looked like.

  “We have to go to the football game,” Kareem said, his words slurred.

  “Football?” Amin said. “What?” Thinking his cousin must be delirious, he backed away. He went into his bedroom, his mind a jumbled mess of frantic thoughts, opened his dresser drawer and stared at his neat pile of boxer shorts. He had to think, figure out what to do. What sort of sickness did Kareem have? It didn’t seem normal. This wasn’t at all how he imagined the morning. He returned with some of his own clothes for his cousin to wear.

  “I need water,” Kareem said, his voice a strange croak with a gurgle. “Get my pills.” He hacked like something had dislodged from his throat. “Help me up.”

  “I’ll get the water. Can you put these on?” Amin held out a shirt and shorts. He looked down, feeling unsure of everything he did and said.

  Kareem remained limp on the couch. Suddenly he shot up to a seated position and sneezed. The force sprung his body forward like a jack-in-the-box. A spray of blood splattered the wall.

  “Holy shit,” Amin said again before he could stop himself. His hand flew to cover his open mouth. The wall resembled a murder scene. The urgent care clinic now seemed woefully inadequate for whatever was going on with Kareem. They needed an ambulance to come and get him. And quickly.

  “We’re going to the Panthers…” Kareem said, before moaning again. He struggled to sit up but didn’t seem to have the strength.

  “Panthers?” Kareem’s nonsensical babbling only intensified Amin’s fright. Amin knew he should help, do something, but he couldn’t bear to touch Kareem’s mottled body.

  Kareem managed to push himself upright, onto his elbows. He stared at Amin, who shuddered at the drop of blood trailing from his cousin’s eye.

  Amin stepped closer to his cousin to offer reassurance, but didn’t dare touch him.

  Kareem laughed, a weak and pathetic sound that turned into a choked gurgle deep in his chest. He looked insane. He tried to sit up all the way. “My gift to you. Panthers tickets. We’re going.” He fell back against the couch as if he had used up his last bit of energy.

  “They’ll know how to help you at the hospital,” Amin whispered. With trembling hands, he picked up his phone and dialed 911. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from his cousin, as if watching him intently might prevent the sickness from escalating.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “My cousin is bleeding from his eyes and nose. And he was throwing up last night. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not making sense. I need an ambulance. Hurry. Please.”

  “What is the address of your present location?”

  “9413 Sharon Court, Apartment 5.”

  “Does he have any medical conditions?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what’s causing his sickness?”

  “No. I don’t know. I really don’t know. But it’s bad,” Amin’s kept his voice low so Kareem wouldn’t hear him, but Kareem didn’t seem to be processing his surroundings anyway.

  “Has your cousin recently been out of the country?”

  “Yes. He has. He’s from Syria. He arrived in the country yesterday. I was there too.”

  “Hold on. An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Gonna rest one minute. Then go,” Kareen mumbled in Arabic from the couch. “Allah, give me strength. Unless you have a different plan for me after all.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Los Angeles

  November 6th

  Quinn drained another can of Coke. His voice rang in his ears, like an echo, when he spoke. Random thoughts, some of them maddeningly irrelevant—the number of hours since he last slept, the Band-Aid on the Secretary of State’s chin, does diet soda really make people fat—crossed his brain like sequences from a dream, mixing together with the current unfolding events. He struggled to focus on the pertinent thoughts, not the spam generated by his sleep-deprived brain. Time was running out.

  He had to summarize the bad news to his team. “Scott Hussan isn’t the guy. The HRT knew from the moment they entered and found him scared senseless. They still bundled him into a containment suit, as we saw, and took him back to an isolation room in the FBI building. They interrogated him and tested his blood. He isn’t sick. He has no trace of infection. He was visiting his girlfriend in Paris. She’s doing graduate work on the Islamic State. Everything he explained was true and verifiable. He isn’t a carrier.”

  “And they’ve checked on everyone else, all the names from the other lists?” Rick strummed his fingers on the table.

  “Everyone on the A and B lists has been tracked down and ruled out. They’re almost through the C list.” Quinn’s body felt heavy, his chest tight.

  Across Charlotte, the few remaining people from the Priority C list were being drawn from their beds and breakfast tables to be questioned by field agents. Meanwhile, Panthers players and thousands of their fans awakened to a beautiful fall morning and started their pre-game routines and rituals. Families packed their trunks with ham biscuits, shrimp cocktail, and gallons of sweet tea to get an early start on tailgating. In less than two hours, Quinn would need to admit defeat by calling the Governor of North Carolina and updating the Security Council. The public would be informed of the situation, to some extent, and the country would be thrown into an unimaginable panic. Quinn and his team had failed.

  “We’re going to have to let a fully-rested team take over from here. They’ll probably focus on executing the contingency plans,” Quinn said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Ken nodded, without lifting his head. Dark circles rimmed his eyes.

  “Okay,” said Stephanie, sounding dejected.

  “Just finish documenting what you’ve done so I can transition our work,” Quinn said before leaving the work room.

  “This can’t be true,” Rick said. “The world is about to learn there’s a deadly disease on the loose in Charlotte? What will they be told?”

  “FEMA will have prepared written statements,” said Stephanie. “There are entire divisions to coordinate the dissemination of information.” She stared at the wall. “I can’t believe this is about to happen.”

  Rashid remained focused, his fingers moving across his keyboards, slightly slower than usual but nonetheless precise—selecting, linking and cross-checking keywords, statistical probabilities, and red flags from hundreds of databases. His knuckles grew white and his key strokes suddenly stopped. With a signif
icant correlation to all his newly-modified risk factors, one name leapt from his monitor. “I’ve got something!”

  Stephanie, Rick, and Ken turned their weary eyes to Rashid.

  “Amin Sarif. He’s twenty-seven, born in America, parents are immigrants from Iraq. He recently traveled in and out of Amsterdam, but when I pulled up his credit cards, he purchased nothing for three weeks.”

  “How do you spell the last name? S A R I F?” Stephanie said.

  “Yes. His aunt and uncle were killed in a recent attack in Mosul by a U.S. security firm. There’s potential motive. He has a cousin. His name is Kareem. Kareem Sarif.”

  Ken and Rick locked eyes.

  “Redman’s Kareem?” Stephanie quickly returned to tapping her computer keys. “This has to be our guy,”

  Ken worked his keyboard, his eyes darting across multiple screens. “It could have been a work trip, all expensed on a corporate card. I’ll look that up. We can’t waste any more time on the wrong person.”

  “No. He’s recently unemployed. I’ve got his income records.” Rashid raised his arms and interlaced his fingers, resting the back of his head in the cradle they formed. He scanned through the information on his monitor.

  Staring at her computer screen, Stephanie’s voice rose with excitement. “The cousin, Kareem Sarif, is in his twenties. He left the United Sates for Mosul eleven years ago. He holds a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology from Damascus University. He might be the scientist behind this. He entered the country two days ago. He was out of our entrance date range by a day!”

  “Guys!” Rick yelled, nearly breathless. “I cross-referenced Amin Sarif’s address. An ambulance was just dispatched there. A man is bleeding from his nose and eyes.”

  “Yes! Quinn! Quinn! Wait!” Stephanie jumped out of her seat and ran from the room. “Quinn!”

  “I’ll locate the dispatcher so they can alert the ambulance,” said Rashid. “Good job, Rick.”

  Rick stood up, his eyes beaming. He placed his hand on Ken’s shoulders and forced out a loud exhale. “We just found the carriers. We found both of them.”