The White Death

by Rafferty, Daniel

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  The

  White

  Death

  Daniel Rafferty

  © Daniel Rafferty 2015

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means including graphic, electronic or mechanical without expressed written consent of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author.

  Dedicated to

  My Dearest Grandmother

  01/07/2015

  Chapter 1

  December 2039

  “The health of our breed is deteriorating at an alarming rate. I fear that soon, without immediate global action, our gene pool will reach such a point that it can no longer sustain a healthy population. Twenty-five years ago, the United States had eighty-one hospitals dedicated to long-term treatment of the disabled. Today, that number has risen to 989. Fifty more are planned in the next decade. Put in the simplest of terms, there are too many sick and disabled in every population across the globe.”

  Peter boomed out his speech, wanting no one to miss a single word of it. He paused, staring out at the packed, almost overflowing auditorium. The Ibis Building, a towering skyscraper in the center of the city, was hosting the tenth global conference on human genetics. He was, of course, aware they’d already heard everything he was saying. They may have been in a new venue, but the problems faced were the same. One conference wasn’t going to solve anything, he knew, but he lived in hope. Optimism was the only thing he now had.

  “Dare I now say, the future of humanity depends on the conviction of one politician? The newly elected President of the United States has promised to implement and lead a transformational program that will allow us to both recover and rebuild. But the United States cannot do this alone. In this room, we have the best of the best. Let us use this week to agree upon a course of action and allow the governments of our world to charge forward and tackle this crisis, head on!”

  The room broke out into general applause. The question of whether or not to act was now irrelevant. Everyone, from government officials to the scientific community, knew something had to be done. What caused bitter disagreement—and no progress—was what course of action to actually take. Peter could pick out the usual colleagues who did not agree with him. They would be the ones to ask the difficult, argumentative questions afterwards. He took a sip of his water. It was freezing, like San Francisco itself. Thick, firm snow covered every street and rooftop of the city. Harsh winters were now the norm each year, with global warming intensifying extreme weather phenomena. This created an almost endless cycle of emergency weather alerts across the globe.

  The applause died out, and he continued. “We are traveling into the darkest darkness, and soon there will be no light. The human race is dying, and our window to change is quickly closing.” He took a deep breath. “I will now take questions.”

  The middle-aged and vibrant Doctor Peter Roberts finished his keynote speech to the one thousand in attendance. It was almost 7:00 P.M., and he was eager to carry on with a week’s worth of lively debate. As head of the newly expanded Centers for Disease Control, he was a major voice in the debate, representing the American government. Stepping back from the podium, he watched as colleagues shuffled in their seats, getting notes ready.

  Peter took another drink. He looked forward to the dialogue and open debate.

  “Your new president has promised an international program, but he’s yet to detail what that is. How do we know this isn’t just all the fanfare we usually get?” said a prominent geneticist from Germany. “We’ve been hearing this from governments for a decade now, yet we still sit here, debating.”

  “I agree,” shouted another. “Politicians have been promising to fix this problem for twenty years, and it’s only gotten worse. We need a global initiative that gets to the root of the problem! America can barely keep a lid on genetic hatred now, but you plan to lead a global health drive?”

  Most of the chamber clapped, and Peter dropped his head in dismay. He knew where this was going, as usual. Genetic hatred was the new phrase coined by the media. Those who gave birth to sick children were coming under attack from an increasingly large segment of society. This segment of the population believed only healthy newborns should be allowed to live, before global economies collapsed under the pressure.

  “We must give this new young president the benefit of the doubt,” said Peter in his usual frank manner. “We have no choice. As a community, we can’t do this alone. We need the large resources that only governments can provide, and not just the American government. America, Europe, Asia—we must all stand together, or not at all. I refuse to leave this world in a worse state for our children. This is a human problem, and we must fix it.”

  “What we need is less of the usual rhetoric from you and the CDC. What we need is action!” shouted Robert Hashcroft. He headed up Future Mankind—a quickly growing movement that wanted to abort any fetus with detected harmful genetic mutations or physical and mental defects. Not only that, the group wanted the government to allow states to experiment on and then euthanize any babies at birth who possessed defects that were not detected in the womb. Future Mankind had acquired over ten million supporters in the United States alone. Hashcroft himself was an unremarkable looking man, with thick brown curly hair and a bushy moustache.

  “And I suppose you think Futu
re Mankind are the ones to lead it?” laughed Clarice Bloodworth. She headed up the pro-life movement Forward Together, arguing everyone and everything had a right to life. She was a tall, lanky, and feisty redheaded woman. Bloodworth was an accomplished geneticist in her own right, and although Peter had much respect for her scientific abilities, he disagreed with her tactics to get public attention.

  “That’s enough,” shouted Peter. “I will not have this conference descend into the same chaos as last year, and every year before that. We are meant to represent the people of this planet and act in their best interests. Despite what you think, Mr. Hashcroft, no government will ever take away the right of the parents in deciding the life of a child, nor will any humane society condone experimentation on infants or any other humans.”

  Clarice let out a smug laugh, but Peter rounded on her next.

  “Nor will the CDC or any sane government believe everything including earthworms needs to be given the right to life.”

  “Every life form on this planet has a right to life, not just us,” shouted Clarice, standing up. She was furious. “We are not the only inhabitants of this planet.”

  “Can’t you just leave Earth and go on home?” joked Hashcroft, to many laughs.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” said Peter. “The president will be outlining his proposed package to the CDC tomorrow. After that, there will be a detailed press announcement, and information packages will be distributed.”

  He felt the knot of his baby blue colored silk tie, ensuring it was still centered against his crisp white shirt and black suit.

  “We need trillions for genetic research. Sprawling scientific complexes. Correcting these mutations and defects is the only way forward,” Bloodworth insisted.

  “And we’ll spend the next 500 years trying to do that,” retaliated Hashcroft. “While you’re dreaming up fantasy scenarios that exist only in perfect worlds, our gene pool continues to degrade. A newborn healthy baby is becoming a rarity.”

  “China has the right idea,” said another scientist from the back. “It’s begun issuing breeding licenses to its population.”

  “Unless the two of you have anything meaningful to say, why don’t you both sit down and shut up?” said Professor Ursula Barrington from Britain. Her tone was cold and cutting. “You can saber rattle outside in front of the world’s media. Let us scientists get on with it.”

  Peter remained silent. He remembered a time when scientific conferences were actually civil. While his colleagues continued to argue, he took stock of the room. They were the best in their fields, yet Peter could see the fear. Each one of them really wanted to stop this impending disaster, of that he was sure. But it was a frightening world outside now. Living a long, healthy life was something talked about from the past. People were more frightened than ever, and that included those assembled.

  “Well, I think we can take more questions from others now.” Just as he was trying to anticipate the next question, Peter found himself crashing down onto the cold hard tiled floor. The room shook, and the roof above began cracking. Large chunks of concrete came firing down toward the audience as the building fractured and the power cut off. Emergency lighting blinkered on, and alarms roared throughout the building.

  “What the…” mumbled Peter, feeling his forehead. He tried to shout but choked on the dust that filled the room and covered his inky black suit. Cries of pain and shouts for help filled the air as he urgently tried to stand up and survey the damage. From what he could tell, the entire roof had collapsed on them. He hoisted himself up, painfully, to the podium.

  “Everyone stay calm,” he tried to shout through coughing. “Stay exactly where you are, and wait for the emergency services to arrive.”

  “Help!” came the blood-curdling cry of a middle-aged woman somewhere toward the far left. A slab of roofing had landed straight down on her leg, shattering her bones and causing her leg to explode.

  “Anyone with first-aid and medical experience, begin helping those around you,” ordered Peter, shouting as loudly as he could. The room was vast, and with no power, he tried to project his voice as best he could. The cries for help started to increase as people gathered their senses. Already, he could spot Professor Barrington taking charge at the rear of the room, barking orders and bringing some of the chaos to an end. Peter threw his jacket off, ready to help the injured, when he felt rough hands grab him from behind. Before he knew what was happening, he was hustled outside and thrown into the back of a waiting black jeep. It sped off with a police escort and no time to spare.

  “What are you doing? I need to go back there!” he shouted.

  “Peter, you know the rules,” said Gilbert Nolan calmly. He was head of security for the other organization Peter worked for. Nolan possessed the typical bodyguard/bouncer look—broad, imposing, and intimidating.

  “They need me in there. People are hurt, dying.” Peter kept arguing, but it was no use. The procedures were clear in an event like this.

  “Ambulances are already on the scene,” said Gilbert. “It’s too dangerous to have you there.”

  “Roberts,” said Peter, answering his mobile. He shook dust and debris out of his dense mop of brown hair.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Christopher. What the hell happened?”

  “Another terrorist attack. Pro-evolution groups are claiming responsibility.”

  “This can’t keep going on,” Peter said. “If the president doesn’t do something, then we might have to intervene. We’ve been putting it off for years now.”

  “You know she won’t,” said Christopher.

  “Jesus, she has to,” said Peter. Freda, his boss, had always refused to intervene. “There won’t be much of a planet to help at the rate we’re going.”

  “Her argument is always going to be that this is a human problem, created by humans.”

  “And it is because of our society,” said Peter. He had heard that speech from his boss dozens of times now. “Can’t you press her? I fear for the future.”

  “I’m meeting her now. I’ll keep you updated. Get back here immediately. The cities are a dangerous place now, especially for the head of the CDC.”

  “See you soon.” Peter rested his head against the leather seat back. Genetic mutation was considered the greatest danger and disease to ever threaten humanity. The CDC had been placed at the forefront of the crisis and therefore shouldered most of the public anger. He tried ringing Professor Barrington, but the line was busy.

  “Transport in five minutes, sir.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert,” replied Peter. He feared for the world and how society seemed to be coming apart at the seams. People wanted someone to blame when their children were born sick and disabled. The scale of the problem was global, and unless they acted quickly, there would be no going back.

  Chapter 2

  Thomas Kevin Morgan ran his hand across the presidential emblem, expertly emblazoned into his black leather folder. He couldn’t help but shiver. At thirty-eight years old, he was the youngest president to have been elected into office. Years of political deadlock and scandal in Washington had seen the public cry for presidents to wield more executive power. Congress was seen as old and decrepit, too interested in dirty political dealings. Each new president since 2020 had steadily increased the power and authority of the presidency. While Thomas was against having power vested totally in one position, he was prepared to use it to its full effect now.

  “How’s the beast?” asked his vice president via text message.

  “Like traveling around in a flashy tank,” texted Thomas in reply. From his earliest memories, he had wanted to become president. In high school, he set out a road map to make it happen—mayor, governor, senator. Everything had fallen into place. While his friends went and made their millions in banking and trading, he had
climbed the greasy pole. With an election result of seventy-three percent, unheard of in modern times, he had a powerful mandate to push through earth-shattering reform. The world had been slowly dying, and his main reason for wanting to be president was to get the job done. Too many had tried and failed. He considered himself a conviction politician and would drag the country off its knees by any means necessary. A change in society was needed, and Thomas knew he had no choice. A one-term president he may end up being, but in these four years he planned do to enough to set America on a path out of sickness and away from societal collapse. It had been a long road to the presidency, but now the real work had to begin.

  “Five minutes to castle return,” said his lead Secret Service security agent, Lorraine. She was the first female to be the lead agent. “Castle” was code for the White House.

  It was 11.30 P.M., and he was tired. A good night’s sleep and then starting in earnest tomorrow morning sounded like a plan to him. He had to admit the White House was still a daunting building. His predecessor had told him before he took oath that you never really appreciate the history of the building until it’s too late. It had all the grandeur of a palace while being a working office for the most powerful person in the world. The Secret Service had expressed “moderated pleasure” that he was unmarried with no children. It made their job a lot easier.

  “Mr. President,” said Gail Jackson, a tall, thin woman with short hair and wiry glasses. She had worked with him for ten years now. Despite some resistance from White House officials, he had promoted her to chief of staff. Her organizational skills and acute political antennae were invaluable to him, even if she was considered a hothead who would happily bypass set procedures to get the job done. Thomas knew he needed trailblazers like this to cut through the bureaucracy. He had four years, and not one day could be wasted.

  “Good evening, Gail,” he said with a smile, stepping into the White House from the south lawn. The warmth instantly hit him, a welcome feeling considering most of the East Coast area was still under the eye of a snowstorm. He had spent the day waving while freezing.