by Darrell Bain
Fridge took the booklet from the man’s extended hand. “Won’t hurt to look,” he said.
“That’s all we ask. Thank you, sir.” Fridge felt his hand being shaken then he was alone again.
Late that night, after reading the booklet, he decided to go see what the Church of Blacks had to offer him. Perhaps they had what he was looking for. He certainly had nothing else to do now, and little desire to do anything else.
* * *
“But Doug, we still don’t know anything about how the Harcourt virus is being spread! There must be something obvious we’re overlooking. Can’t we wait a few more days?” Amelia was agitated and haggard looking. She had been working as hard as anyone else in her scientific capacity and still finding time for all the administrative duties concerning the thirty people she supervised, but she felt their job was unfinished.
“What are you hearing from home?” Doug nodded toward the secure phone on the desk of the tiny office she had been assigned. It contained little else other than a half dozen folded chairs leaning against one wall.
Amelia ran her fingers through the portion of her hair below the clasp holding it behind her neck. It was beginning to feel greasy from not taking the time to wash it. “Oh hell, Doug, it’s popping up everywhere.
And did I tell you? Bob Handley came to me yesterday. I think he may have it, too. He’s presenting some of the symptoms.”
“Oh damn! Hasn’t he been wearing his suit?”
“He says he has. But when I checked in at noon, I heard that a couple of our blacks at CDC contacted it, despite every precaution. We can’t explain it!” She looked almost ready to cry from frustration.
“Well, crap. Amelia, if that’s the case, can’t you study the possible vectors just as well back home?”
“I… yes, I guess we could, so far as that goes, but I was hoping we’d find whether or not it’s a mutation of the poliovirus that was passed from some animal reservoir here or… or…”
“Or whether it was man made?”
“Altered by man, anyway. I… oh hell, Doug, I guess I’ve just been doing some wishful thinking. It’s looking more and more like something that was deliberately altered, then planted. We just can’t figure out how it’s spreading! I…”
With the suddenness of a dish slipping from her hand and breaking, Amelia’s composure finally cracked.
Tears formed, then she began crying in earnest. Doug kicked the partially opened door closed and gathered her into his arms. She sobbed in broken gasps, trying to contain the abrupt release of emotion but unable to stop for long moments.
Finally she stepped back and fumbled in the pocket of her lab jacket for a handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes and smiled wryly. “Sorry. That’s not like me, you know. It’s just that… how could someone do such a thing?” She sniffed again.
“I don’t know, Amelia, any more than I can understand the endless number of terrorists so fanatical that they’re willing to blow themselves up so long as they… never mind, that’s another problem. And security is my decision, not yours. Go get everyone here ready to go. I’ve already sent a truck back for my off-duty troops and any of your people that’re there. Grab your notes and any specimens you think are irreplaceable, but that’s all. Don’t waste time trying to pack personal gear. Send everyone to the lobby.
We’re heading for the airport while it’s still open.”
“Has it gotten that bad already? I thought…”
“It’s going to get that bad. That’s my considered opinion, as well as that of Captain Presley. Go on, now.
I’ll try to make arrangements through the embassy for a plane.”
First Doug used his military-configured phone to alert his off duty troops. He got Martha on the line the first try, and didn’t waste words. “Martha, this is Doug. Get the troops together. Round up anyone else that’s there and pile into the truck I’m sending for you. It’s already on the way, so hurry. We’re getting out of here.”
“Got it,” she said and hung up.
Doug liked dealing with the former medic. She grasped orders quickly and carried them out with dispatch. That matter taken care of, he dialed again.
Amelia’s phone was a duplicate of his; both had securely encrypted lines to the American Embassy in Lagos and the CDC back home. He tried the embassy first and was unable to get through after several attempts. So much for arranging for a plane to pick them up. There might not be enough time to get one here anyway, he thought.
“Damn it,” he muttered and cursed the politicians who blocked the CDC security teams from direct communication with the military. They were required to go through embassy personnel if they thought help was needed. There was another way, though. Gene Bradley, the head of security for CDC, still had plenty of military connections. Doug took out his personal phone, plugged in Gene’s number, then waited almost a minute while his call wound its way from satellite to satellite and through various connections before reaching Atlanta. And that damned line was busy, too. He hung on, hoping that Gene had his call waiting activated; his own phone number was tagged with an urgent symbol when and if it appeared on Gene’s phone.
In the near distance several shots rang out. He heard some faint shouts, a distant scream, then the noise died away. Come on, come on, answer, damn it! he said to himself.
“Doug? That you?” Gene’s voice came through, a little static mixed with it but understandable.
“Yeah. Gene, I understand there’s a carrier offshore here. Can you get through to them and arrange for them to send some choppers for us? I think all hell’s going to break loose here before long.”
He waited impatiently for the answer, knowing that even at the speed of light, a call to and from the other side of the world sometimes took a second or two to make the circuit through satellites and ground relays.
“I’ll put a flag on it to give you priority over the lace panty set. Where’s the pickup?”
“Main hospital in Port Harcourt. They should have the GPS coordinates, but just in case, here they are.”
He read off the numbers, then added, “Give us one hour. And it wouldn’t hurt to throw a little air cover over the embassy—and us, too if you can manage it.”
“The embassy’s already in the works, Doug. I’ll try to get the flyboys to add you to their itinerary. Hang tough. Good luck.” The line went dead.
“Gene will try to get some helicopters to pick us up, Amelia. Go round up your people and take them upstairs. I’ll send a couple of my guys up in a minute.”
Doug checked his Glock .45 caliber pistol, as he did several times a day, then hurried outside. Presley was waiting at the main entrance, his rifle in his hands. He was speaking to one of the black guards in a tribal language that sounded to Doug like someone trying to talk through a mouthful of food. As he watched, the soldier spit on the ground at Presley’s feet and walked away. The other two Nigerians stared nervously after him but stayed at their posts.
“News?” Presley asked, not moving his gaze away from two groups of Nigerian civilians back behind the wire. The apparent leader of the smaller group was discoursing loudly to the larger throng, using his hands and arms to wave and point in the direction of the hospital entrance and back toward the center of the city.
“Chopper evac in an hour, hopefully. Can the roof support enough weight to take one? I hope so, because that’s where I’m sending our folks.”
“Why—oh, I see. Might be best, old boy.” He touched the ear plug with the wire leading to where his little radio was belted. “Text to voice from the infonet. Blasted gov’ment wags can’t stop that, no ‘ay.”
“What do you hear?”
“Riots in Lagos. Army desertions. Some whites lynched already. Bloody strange. ‘S not like there’s so many down with ‘t bug, but the net’s gone haywire with conspiracy tales.”
A noise caused Doug to look farther into the distance than the front entrance. The truck he had sent back to the old building where they had been sleepi
ng was already on the way back. Good, he thought. They hadn’t wasted any time.
The truck was only fifty yards from the main entrance and honking its horn to clear the way when he heard the sudden loud rattle of an automatic weapon and saw a row of holes stitch their way across its windshield. The truck veered and plowed off the street and into the barbed wire, running over several in the crowd who couldn’t get out of the way in time. It tore through the barrier and came to rest just beyond the gap.
Doug’s first thought startled him. It wasn’t about how many might have been hurt or killed in the truck. It was concern that June might be one of the victims.
* * *
Manfred Morrison sat across from President Marshall, along with Homeland Security Director Edgar Tomlin. He was giving his first briefing on Enterovirus harcourti i to the president.
“Sir, we’ve discovered the mechanism of the virus’ action. It attacks melanin, the pigment that produces our skin color by interfering with the tyrosine metabolism during melanin production, causing quinol intoxication that progresses to lethal levels in those individuals who…”
President Marshall, held up his hand. “Spare me the jargon, Manny. I don’t know anything about science.
Just tell me when you’ll have a vaccine ready and how many deaths we can anticipate before it becomes available.”
“Mr. President, as yet we’ve been unable to determine the vector but…” He saw the warning glint in the president’s eyes and hurried on. “…and as for a vaccine, we haven’t completely identified the antigen/antigenic properties, but we have determined that the initial and most rapid spread of the disease here is occurring in Seattle, New York City, Los Angeles and Atlanta. Also, South Africa seems to be a center of…”
“The major hubs of entry into the country by air travel,” Edgar Tomlin broke in. “And South Africa! I’ll bet anything that some of their damned white supremacists instigated this and…”
The president slammed his fist down on his desk. “Goddamnit, I don’t want to hear about your bets! And I don’t want to hear that there’s no vaccine. I want to know for certain what country turned this thing loose on the world and I want a cure for this thing, and I want it soon! Do you gentlemen understand me?”
Both men could only nod. There was no arguing with the president when he was in this mood.
Manny rubbed his temples, trying to think of some way to explain to the president that vaccines or cures couldn’t be produced overnight nor on demand. Even if enough was known about the virus to start production this minute it would be six months before sufficient quantities to inoculate all the dark skinned persons in America could be ready. He noticed that the secret service agent standing unobtrusively in one corner of the oval office had taken a step forward when the president exploded, and the agent was looking in his direction, not at Edgar Tomlin. Manny decided that he couldn’t blame the man. Black anger was beginning to build throughout the country with the persistent rumors that their own government had developed the virus and clandestinely spread it into the population in order to rid the country of its niggers. He shook his head at the epithet that popped into his mind, like an assault on his reason, trying to make him join the growing miasma of resentment at whites over their immunity.
“Sir, I have every agency trying to track down the perpetuators of this atrocity. We’ll find them soon.”
Edgar Tomlin tried to make himself sound confident and in charge.
“You’d better, or the goddamn country will explode. We’ve already had riots in Los Angeles.” The president pounded his desk again. “And when we find who did it, we’ll raze their fucking nation to the ground. Damned terrorists, it’s probably one of those fucking raghead countries trying to get cute.” He raved, already having forgotten that a moment before his Homeland Security Director had been blaming white supremacists. “You find somebody that knows something, and soon! And I don’t give a damn if you have to rip them to pieces to make them talk.”
“Yes, sir,” Tomlin said. Damn the man, he was worse than his predecessor, demanding answers and not really caring much about their veracity. In this case, though, it didn’t matter to him.
“And you, Manny. One week. You’ve got one week to come up with some answers. Hire some more scientists. Work overtime. One week, hear?”
“Yes, sir,” Manfred said, his voice trembling with a host of fears that kept boiling up in his mind. Why can’t we ever elect a president with at least a rudiment of scientific knowledge, he wondered. God knows the country could use some scientists in government these days.
“All right, that’s all. Now get to work, both of you.” President Marshall turned away, preparing to greet his next appointment. An aide was already in the oval office, urging the others to their feet and escorting them out one door as the next person came in from another.
* * *
Another rattle of automatic fire exploded above the crowd noise. Doug was already running toward the truck, his pistol in his hand but his rifle still shouldered. Behind the mangled barbed wire the crowd had retreated, then stopped, indecisive. A way into the hospital was open but the gunfire was intimidating.
Doug still hadn’t been able to determine where it came from.
More shots sounded, but this time he could see what was happening. Martha was down on one knee, her rifle in her hand, firing over the head of the crowd in three-round bursts. Abruptly, she lowered her aim and spent the rest of the clip on automatic. A scream answered her gunfire and the crowd broke just as he drew even with the truck and pulled open the passenger side door. Steam was rising from a burst radiator and blowing back toward him. At a glance, he could see that the man and woman in the cab were dead. He blanched sickly for a moment at the sight of the bodies, then grabbed their rifles and backed out in time to meet the rest of the CDC staff jumping from the canvas-covered bed of the truck, with his few men leading the way.
His four remaining troops were armed, holding their rifles high but not knowing where to shoot. Neither did Doug, for that matter. Then he saw the crowd continuing to disperse.
Martha ran up to him, eyes bright. A smudge of dirt streaked one cheek. “I got the one that fired at the truck, Doug! The soldiers ran off with the crowd. Sorry damn bastards!”
That was information enough for Doug. The truck had finished emptying and he gave a sigh of relief as he saw June was among the passengers. He waved his rifle over his head. “Come on!” he yelled. “Get to the hospital. Hurry!” He tossed the two rifles salvaged from the cab to one of his men and they all ran, with Doug bringing up the rear and running backward half the time.
Someone opened the big double doors of the hospital’s main entrance as everyone came toward them, some carrying handbags, others empty handed. Doug and his guards followed, but remained outside. He used them to reinforce the back and front posts where the ones on the opposite shift still held fast. He was wondering whether to try and recover the bodies of his two people from the cab of the truck when he heard his name called.
Presley came around the side of hospital at a trot, breathing heavily. He stopped beside Doug, took a moment to get his breath, then started talking. “All the soldiers are gone. We’re on’r own, now. I checked t’ back. We’re good there.”
“Fine. Can you hold on here a moment while I…” His voice was drowned out by the roar of an approaching jet flying very low. It streaked overhead, the United States insignia plainly visible, and disappeared in the distance.
“I need to go inside for a moment,” Doug finished.
“I’ll hold the fort, old man, but ‘f you hear shots, hurry back.”
“Will do.” Doug adjusted the sling of his rifle even as he realized he was still holding his pistol in his other hand. He holstered it and went inside. He was sweating heavily, even through the lightweight fatigues he wore. As he stepped past the opened doors, the jet roared by again. He turned to look and spotted a rising pall of smoke coming from the direction of the airport. Curious, he
thought. He hadn’t heard any explosions. Then faintly, from the same direction, he realized he was hearing gunfire. He went inside.
Amelia and June were standing together in the little office. Amelia was talking on the phone.
“Did everyone make it okay?” June asked him.
Doug shook his head. Hadn’t she seen? “No. The driver and guard in front are dead. Where’s Bob?”
“He’s sicker today. Amelia put him to bed.”
“The virus?”
She nodded, looking sad. Doug felt the same way. He had known Bob Handley for years, whereas the two men who had been shot were relatively new recruits.
Amelia secured her phone. “I certainly hope Gene has some helicopters on the way. We won’t be leaving from the airport. It’s under attack.”
“What did the embassy say?”
“They’re evacuating, too. The marines are coming in to try and secure the airport.”
“Well, all we can do now is wait. Did you take Bob upstairs?”
“No, I have someone with him, though.”
“Get him up. Carry him if you have to. The choppers will land on the roof when they come. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
* * *
The waiting was interminable. Doug kept his phone off so that the guard downstairs could call if they ran into problems he couldn’t see from the roof. In the meantime, he appropriated Amelia’s phone to find out how it was going at the embassy. So far they reported no violence, though some demonstrators were beginning to gather, the spokesperson said. Once he saw one of the American jets circling the city fire a rocket near where the airport was located, but it was impossible to see the target. More smoke was rising from the area, black and turgid, as if fuel was burning.
Shots sounded from somewhere inside the hospital. Almost immediately his phone rang.
“Doug, some of the ambulatory patients are trying to come up the stairwell! I need help! I had to shoot one of them!” That was the guard he had posted at the entrance to the stairwell leading to the roof.