The Mayan Trilogy

by Alten-Steve

  The 46-year-old senior marketing analyst at Waterford-Leeman has been jogging three times a week since recovering from his second heart attack six years ago. He figures the “morning mile,” as his wife calls it, has probably added another ten years to his life while keeping his weight under control for the first time since his college days.

  Bill passes another jogger and nods, momentarily picking up his pace. A week’s vacation in the Yucatán has done wonders for his blood pressure, but the rich Mexican cuisine has not helped his waistline. He reaches the deserted lifeguard stand, but decides to go a little farther. Five minutes and a half mile later he stops, totally exhausted. Bending over, he removes his running shoes, stuffs the disc player inside one sneaker, then strides into the balmy waters of the Gulf for his morning dip.

  Bill wades out until the incoming swells reach his chest. He closes his eyes and relaxes in the warm sea, mentally organizing his day.

  “Son of a bitch …” Bill jerks sideways, clutching his arm, searching the water for the jellyfish that stung him. “What in the hell?”

  A black, tarlike substance has adhered to his forearm, searing his flesh. “Goddam oil companies.” He swishes his arm back and forth in the water, unable to wash the ooze away.

  The scorching pain increases.

  Swearing aloud, Bill turns and takes several strides inland. Blood is pouring from both nostrils by the time he staggers onto the beach. Purplish spots blind his vision. Feeling light-headed and confused, he drops to his knees in the sand.

  “I need help! Can somebody help me?”

  An older Mexican couple approaches and stops. “Qué pasó, Señor?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish—no hablo. I need a doctor—el doctor.”

  The man looks at him. “El doctor?”

  A stabbing pain inflames Bill’s eyeballs. He cries out in agony and slams his fists into his eyes. “Oh, God, my head!”

  The man looks at his wife. “Por favor, llame a un médico.” The woman hurries off.

  Bill Godwin’s eyes feel like they are being skewered. He tears at his hair, then bends over and pukes a bloody, acidic black bile.

  The older Mexican is leaning over, futilely attempting to assist the sick American when he pulls back suddenly and grabs his ankle. “Hijo de la chingada!”

  Sizzling vomit has splattered on the man’s foot—searing the flesh.

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Ennis Chaney feels the eyes of President Maller and Pierre Borgia upon him as he reads the two-page report.

  “No clue about where this toxic crud came from?”

  “It came from the Gulf, probably from one of PEMEX’s well fields,” Borgia states. “What’s more important is that a dozen Americans and several hundred Mexicans have died. The currents have confined the black tide to the Yucatán coast, but it’s important that we monitor the situation to make sure the ooze doesn’t reach American shores. We also feel it important that we maintain a diplomatic presence in Mexico during this environmental crisis.”

  “Meaning?”

  Chaney notices Maller’s discomfort. “Pierre thinks it would be best if you headed the investigation. The drug-trafficking problem has strained our relationship with Mexico. We feel this situation might present us with an opportunity to mend a few fences. The press will be accompanying you—”

  Chaney sighs. Although his official term as vice president was not to begin until January, Congress had confirmed his appointment to the vacant seat earlier. The new post, combined with helping his senatorial staff adjust to his leaving the Senate, was wearing him thin. “Let me get this straight. We’re preparing for a potential conflict in the Persian Gulf, but you want me to head a diplomatic mission to Mexico?” Chaney shakes his head. “What the hell am I supposed to do, other than offer my condolences? With all due respect, Mr President, our ambassador to Mexico can handle this.”

  “This is more important than you realize, besides”—the President forces a tight smile—“who else has the stomach for it. Your work with the CDC during the dengue fever outbreak in Puerto Rico three years ago was a terrific public relations coup.”

  “My participation had nothing to do with public relations.”

  Borgia slams his briefcase shut. “The president of the United States just gave you an order, Mister Vice President. Are you planning on fulfilling your duties, or are you planning on resigning?”

  The raccoon eyes open wide, shooting daggers at Borgia.

  “Pierre, would you give us a few minutes.”

  The Secretary of State tries to stare Chaney down with his one good eye, but he is overmatched.

  “Pierre, please.”

  Borgia leaves.

  “Ennis—”

  “Mr President, if you’re asking me to go, then of course, I’ll go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Just inform Cyclops that Ennis Chaney quits for no one. As far as I’m concerned, that boy just rose to the top of my shit list.”

  The vice president boards the Sikorsky MH-60 Pave Hawk two hours later. His newly promoted assistant, Dean Disangro, is already on board, along with two Secret Service agents and a half dozen members of the press.

  Chaney is angry. Throughout his political career, he has never allowed himself to be used as a public-relations lackey. Party lines and political correctness mean nothing to him. Poverty and violence, education and equality among the races, these are the fights worth fighting. He often imagines himself a modern-day Don Quixote— fighting the windmills, he calls it. That one-eyed Jack may think he can yank my strings, but he just got himself into a street fight with the king of all brawlers.

  Dean pours the vice president a cup of decaf. He knows Chaney hates flying, especially in helicopters. “You look nervous.”

  “Shut up. What’s this I hear about us making a detour?”

  “We’re scheduled to stop at Fort Detrick to pick up personnel from USAMRIID before heading on to the Yucatán.”

  “Wonderful.” Chaney closes his eyes, gripping the armrest as the Sikorsky leaps into the sky.

  Thirteen minutes later, the chopper touches down at the United States army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. From his window, Chaney sees two men supervise the loading of several large crates.

  The two men climb aboard. A silver-haired officer introduces himself. “Mr Vice President, Colonel Jim Ruetenik. I’m the military biohazard specialist assigned to your team. This is my associate, Dr Marvin Teperman, an exobiologist on loan to us from Toronto.”

  Chaney looks over the short Canadian with the pencil-thin mustache and annoyingly warm smile. “What exactly is an exobiologist?”

  “Exobiology concerns the study of life outside our planet. This sludge may contain a strain of infectious virus that we’ve never seen before. AMRIID thought I might be of some help.”

  “What’s in the crates?”

  “Racal suits,” the colonel answers. “Portable, pressurized space suits we use in the field when dealing with potentially hot agents.”

  “I’m familiar with Racal suits, Colonel.”

  “That’s right, you were in Puerto Rico during the dengue outbreak in 2009.”

  “This stuff is going to be a bit nastier, I’m afraid,” Marvin says. “From what we’ve been told, physical contact with the substance is causing immediate crash and bleed-outs— profuse hemorrhaging from all orifices of the body.”

  “I can handle it.” Chaney grips the seat as the chopper takes off. “It’s the damn chopper that gets me queasy.”

  The colonel smiles. “Once we land, our first concern will be to assist the Mexicans in establishing gray zones— intermediate areas between the contaminated sites and the rest of the population.”

  Chaney listens for a while longer, then eases his chair back and closes his eyes. Racal suits. Crash and bleed outs. What the hell am I doing here?

  Four hours later, the Sikorsky slows to hover over a wh
ite beach blotted with a black, tarlike substance. Sections of the infected shoreline have been cordoned off with orange, wooden barriers.

  The helicopter follows the deserted shoreline to the east, approaching a series of Red Cross army tents that have been erected along a secured stretch of beach. A massive bonfire burns fifty yards from the site, its dark-brown smoke leaving a thick trail, miles long, in the cloudless sky.

  The Sikorsky slows, then touches down on a cordoned-off parking lot adjacent to the tented area.

  “Mr Vice President, this suit looks to be about your size.” Colonel Ruetenik hands him an orange space suit.

  Chaney sees Dean pulling on a suit. “Wrong. Sit your ass down, Papa, you’re staying here. The press and security men, too.”

  “My job is to assist you—”

  “Assist me by staying here.”

  Chaney emerges from the copter twenty minutes later, accompanied by Teperman and the colonel. All three are wearing the bulky orange Racal suits and air tanks.

  A physician greets them outside the main tent. Chaney notices a green ooze dripping from the man’s white environmental suit.

  “I’m Dr Juarez. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Colonel Ruetenik makes the introductions.

  “Is that the toxic substance on your suit, Doctor?” Chaney asks, pointing to the green liquid.

  “No, sir. That’s envirochem, the good stuff. We use it as a disinfectant. Make sure you douse your suit in it before getting changed. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the bad stuff.”

  Chaney feels beads of sweat drip down the side of his face as he follows the others into the quarantined area.

  Beneath the Red Cross tent are dozens of people lying on plastic cots. Most are in bathing suits. All are covered in black blotches of blood and bile. Those who are conscious are moaning in agony. Workers dressed in plastic body-suits and heavy rubber boots and gloves are removing body bags from the tent as fast as newcomers are being led inside.

  Dr Juarez shakes his head. “This place has turned into a real hot zone. Most of the damage occurred during the early-morning hours before anyone realized how contagious the sludge was. We had the beaches quarantined by noon, but the first wave of physicians and volunteers just kept getting contaminated, making things worse. We’ve resorted to identifying the victims, then burning the bodies just to slow the spread.”

  They enter an adjacent tent. A pretty Mexican nurse in an environmental suit is seated next to a cot, holding a middle-aged American man’s hand in her gloved palm.

  Dr Juarez gives the nurse an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Nurse, who do we have here?”

  “This is Mr Ellis, an artist from California.”

  “Mr Ellis, can you hear me?”

  Mr Ellis is lying on his back, staring into space, his eyes wide open.

  Ennis Chaney shudders. The man’s eyeballs are completely black.

  The colonel pulls the doctor aside. “How does the infection appear to be spreading?”

  “Physical contact with either the black tide or another infected subject’s excretions. No evidence to suggest an airborne virus.”

  “Marvin, hand me the microcassette recorder please, then stand by with the hatbox.” The colonel takes the miniature recorder from Teperman and begins speaking into it as he assists Dr Juarez with his examination.

  “Subject appears to have come in physical contact with the tarlike substance on thumb and second and third fingers of right hand. Flesh on all three digits has been seared clear to the bone. Eyeballs are fixed and hemorrhaging and have completely turned black. Subject appears to be in a stupor. Nurse, how long ago did Mr Ellis come in contact with the black tide?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe two hours.”

  Marvin leans close to Chaney. “This stuff works very fast.”

  The colonel overhears and nods. “Subject’s skin is clammy, almost yellow, with black blotches appearing along both upper and lower extremities.” Colonel Ruetenik gently manipulates pockets of blood beneath the skin of Ellis’s arm. “Third spacing is evident along both upper extremities—”

  Dr Juarez sits next to his patient, who appears to be coming out of his stupor. “Try not to move, Mr Ellis. You’ve come in contact with some kind of—”

  “—my fucking head is killing me.” Ellis sits up suddenly, black blood dripping from both nostrils. “Who the fuck are you people? Oh, God …” Without warning, a massive quantity of thick, black blood and tissue is forcibly expelled from Ellis’s mouth. The sizzling bile pours down his chest, splattering Teperman and the nurse across the headpieces of their protective suits.

  Chaney backs off several steps, the sight of the black bile causing a gag reflex. He swallows back the vomit rising in his throat and turns away, trying to regain his composure.

  The nurse remains kneeling before her patient, holding both of Ellis’s hands in her own, compassion preventing her from looking away from the dying man’s horrified face.

  Mr Ellis stares at Dr Juarez and the colonel through two dark holes, a zombie-like expression plastered on his bloodied face, the victim sitting in a rigid, upright posture as if he is afraid to move. “My insides are melting,” he moans.

  Chaney sees the man’s upper torso begin to quiver and convulse. With a sickening gurgle, the black bile is vomited again, this time pouring from the nostrils and eyes as well. It runs down Ellis’s neck, followed by a stream of bright, crimson blood.

  Dr Juarez grabs the heaving body by its elbows as the victim’s upper torso spasms violently in his grasp. Chaney closes his eyes and prays.

  The doctor and nurse lay the lifeless bag of infected organs back onto the cot.

  Colonel Ruetenik stands over the bleeding corpse and coldly continues his examination. “Subject appears to have suffered a massive crash and bleed-out. Marvin, bring the hatbox over here. I want several vials of this black excrement as well as tissue and organ samples.”

  It is taking all of Ennis Chaney’s willpower to keep himself from puking within his headpiece. His legs are shaking noticeably as he watches Marvin Teperman kneel next to the dead man and fill several small containers with contaminated blood. Each sample is placed carefully into the hatbox, a cylindrical biohazard container made of waxed cardboard.

  Chaney is sweating profusely. He feels as if he is suffocating within the protective suit.

  The four men leave the nurse to clean up.

  The colonel pulls Chaney aside. “Sir, Marvin will fly back to Washington with you to complete an analysis of these samples. I’d prefer to stick around here a while longer. If you could arrange—”

  “Diego!” The nurse stumbles out of the isolation tent, screaming in Spanish. Dr Juarez grabs her by the wrists.

  “Icarajo!” Juarez stares at the small tear along the left elbow of her protective suit. The skin along the exposed arm is sizzling, a blotch of black vomit the size of a quarter already burning through most of the flesh down to the bone.

  Colonel Ruetenik douses her arm with the green disinfectant.

  “Stay calm, Isabel, I think we caught it in time.” Dr Juarez looks back at the vice president, desperation on his face, tears in his eyes. “My wife—”

  Chaney feels a lump growing in his throat as he stares into the terrified eyes of the condemned woman.

  “Diego, cut off my arm!”

  “Isa—”

  “Diego, the baby will become infected!”

  Chaney stays long enough to watch Juarez and Reutenik carry the shrieking woman into surgery. Then he runs from the tent, tearing at his headpiece as he stumbles across a sand dune. He falls to his knees, groping for the zipper along the neckline of his hood as the bile rises from his throat.

  “NO!” Marvin grabs Chaney’s wrist just as he is about to remove the headpiece. The exobiologist douses the vice president’s orange suit with green disinfectant as Ennis vomits across the inside of his face plate.

  Marvin waits until he is finished, then tak
es him by the arm and leads him to the chemical showers. The two men remain in their Racal suits beneath the spray of disinfectant, then move to a second shower of water where they strip off their suits.

  Chaney tosses his soiled shirt in a plastic bag. He washes his face and neck, then sits down on a plastic bench, feeling weak and vulnerable.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Shit, I’m a far cry from being all right.” He shakes his head. “I lost control back there.”

  “You did well. This is my fourth time in a hot zone; the colonel’s been in at least a dozen.”

  “How do you guys do it?” he rasps, his hands still shaking.

  “You do your best to depersonalize it while you’re out there, then you hit the decon shower, remove your suit, and puke.”

  Depersonalize it. Goddam windmills. I’m getting too old to fight ’em anymore. “Let’s go home, Marvin.”

  Chaney follows Teperman back to the chopper. As he boards, he turns to see two men toss another body onto the funeral pyre.

  It is the nurse.

  13

  NOVEMBER 24, 2012: HOLLYWOOD BEACH, FLORIDA

  The tears are flowing so hard from her eyes that Dominique can barely see Edie’s image on the video-comm. Rabbi Steinberg squeezes her hand tighter, his wife rubbing her back.

  “Ead, I don’t understand. What happened? What was Iz doing out there?”

  “He was investigating those sounds within the crater.”

  A wail rises from her throat. She covers her face in the rabbi’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Dominique, look at me!” Edie commands.

  “—it’s my fault.”

  “Stop it. This has nothing to do with you. Iz was out there, doing his job. It was an accident. The Mexican coastguard is investigating—”

  “What about the autopsy?”

  Edie looks away, struggling to stifle her own grief.