Pandemic: Beginnings: A Post-Apocalyptic Medical Thriller Fiction Series (The Pandemic Series Book 1)

by Bobby Akart

  They never were concerned about the risks of his working abroad. Gabon was predominantly French and the city of Lawrenceville was relatively crime-free. The biggest concern for Dr. Alexis was mishandling one of the infectious diseases while working in the laboratory. The facility had a spotless accident record and Dr. Alexis was meticulous in his precautionary measures. He was only six months away from returning to Paris with a powerful reference on his résumé.

  The blade pressed closer to his neck, opening the wound a little further and drawing more blood. In English, a man instructed his associates to turn on the camera. This is it, thought Dr. Alexis. He closed his eyes and apologized to his wife and children. Then he prayed to God to protect his family and forgive him for his sins.

  Without warning, more lights were turned on, momentarily blinding him again. His head was snapped backwards and the blade dug into his throat a little bit more. He clenched his eyes shut this time and braced for the impact that would end his life.

  The voice of his captor hissed into his ear, “You will only die today, Dr. Alexis, by your own choice. Now open your eyes!”

  *****

  “Where am I?” asked Dr. Alexis as he struggled to find the words and regain his vision. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak, but he tried nonetheless.

  A fist full of hair caused his head to instantly jerk back, once again stretching his neck and bearing its vulnerability to the blade. This time a sword wasn’t the weapon of choice to inflict pain upon him, a cup of salt did the trick. Dr. Alexis screamed out loud as the stinging pain from the table salt met the open wound on his throat. Tears ran down his face. He had never experienced pain like this, much less the brutality of his captors.

  “Pay attention, Dr. Alexis,” whispered the man behind him while he forced the Frenchman’s head to look at the fifteen television monitors mounted on the wall. Only one monitor was on, and it was streaming images of the front of his home in suburban Paris.

  Dr. Alexis stared in shock as the single monitor played surveillance video of his house. “What? That is my home! Why are you filming my home?” he shouted at his captor and attempted to wriggle out of his restraints.

  A heavy hand covered in salt immediately began to choke his throat, causing him to scream in agony. The man gruffly rubbed his rough hand to grind the salt into the wound. He calmly spoke into Dr. Alexis’s ear. “You will not speak until it is time. Do you understand? My next method of pain will be far worse.”

  Dr. Alexis managed a nod but was unable to vocalize the word yes. His throat was incredibly dry from fear.

  “Turn them all on,” instructed the faceless man, who continued to stand behind him. He gripped the doctor’s head in both his hands and firmly turned his attention to all the screens.

  “Oh no,” moaned Dr. Alexis.

  “Do you see, Doctor?” the man whispered in his ear. “Do you see your wife and children as we do?”

  Dr. Alexis shook his head as tears streamed down his face. He began to sob as the videos were played on all fifteen screens. His children were walking into school together. His wife, naked, was entering the shower. All three girls were watching television. Every aspect of his family’s life was played out in front of him.

  Dr. Alexis’s chin dropped to his chest, despite the searing pain from the wound. He gasped for air as he tried to speak. In Arabic, his captor asked for the pitcher of water sitting on the table to their right. He grasped his captive by the hair and poured water over his head, down his throat, and over his wounded neck. Dr. Alexis coughed violently in an attempt to clear his airway.

  “Why? What do you want from me?” he begged.

  “It is very simple for a man of your intelligence and position,” came the reply. “You are going to do your job in Franceville, but now, you will take your instructions from me. But remember, we will be watching you, and them.”

  *****

  Gabon, where the BSL-4 laboratory in which Dr. Alexis worked was located, was not exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity. Unlike Northern Africa, which was predominantly Muslim, Gabon’s population was largely Christian and only five percent of the population was Sunni Muslim.

  In the nearby country of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly called Zaire, Islamic State terrorists had created a stronghold as it continued to expand its presence around the world. Unbeknownst to Dr. Alexis, the DR Congo arm of ISIS was designed for this specific operation.

  In the aftermath of the abduction and the revelation that his family was in grave danger, Dr. Alexis considered his options. He feared his movements were so closely tracked that unthinkable harm would come to his wife and young daughters. He became a recluse out of fear of saying or doing something that might be misconstrued by his handlers. He’d focus on the assigned task, and then as soon as practicable, he’d rush to Paris, gather up his family, and head for the Alps to hide.

  As instructed, Dr. Alexis positioned himself to work with the team assigned to a recent outbreak of plague in Madagascar. Two of the districts in Madagascar had been declared by the WHO, the World Health Organization, as endemic for the plague bacteria. The most recent outbreak was blamed for sixty-two cases resulting in a fatality rate of eighty-five percent.

  Dr. Alexis could not grasp how his ISIS captors came by this information, but their intelligence was correct. The strain of plague that Dr. Alexis was to work with was the deadliest form of the plague known as pneumonic plague, not its more recognizable sister, bubonic plague.

  For weeks, he performed his duties in isolation, despite the fact that he was part of a larger research team. He’d become gloomy and unsociable. His co-workers didn’t want to associate with him. He maintained limited contact with his family to mask his troubles. He was singularly focused on one thing—complying with his handler’s directives.

  By analyzing case studies of the dead, Dr. Alexis determined that the Madagascar strain of Yersinia pestis, or Y. pestis for short, the bacterium causing plague, could be improved—enhanced.

  His handler’s directives were crystal clear, but the choices he had to make were clouded by the love for his family. The moral fight raged within him. There was no one to talk to. The choice was his to make.

  Plague was one of the oldest diseases known to humans and had caused over two hundred million deaths worldwide. There was no preventive vaccine. The plague could be treated. However, if it was modified and weaponized…

  Sixty days later…

  PART ONE

  WEEK ONE

  Chapter 1

  Day One

  Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

  “It’s too early in the morning for interviewing dead people,” mumbled Dr. Mackenzie Hagan as she sloshed her way through the wet jungle path, which was well worn at this point from activity. She attempted to duck under the low-lying branches of a thorny lime tree and was almost successful before it grabbed her ponytail, which protruded through the strap of her cap.

  She had taken a hodgepodge of modern transportation from Atlanta overnight, bouncing from a packed-like-sardines Delta flight, to a single-wing Cessna, and finally a decades-old Jeep J8 Patrol Truck, which was utilized by the Guatemalan military for its special guests. With only six percent of the Guatemalan population owning a vehicle, she felt lucky that her options weren’t more unconventional. She had only wished the soldier escorting her to the site would keep his eyes on the road and quit trying to sneak a peek down her blouse.

  June was one of the wettest months of the year in Guatemala, and this particular day did not buck the norm. A heavy downpour had just ended as the sun began to rise, causing the plant life to wake up in all its glory and the humidity to kick into high gear.

  Mac, as her friends called her, was not an early riser. She often joked she either needed twelve hours’ sleep or just four hours’, although the latter generally resulted in a socially challenged epidemiologist.

  After they arrived, Mac stepped out of the Jeep into the wet, soggy jungle. The sounds o
f chattering monkeys filled the air, as well as a light sprinkle dropping through the tropical foliage. The soldier led the way up a well-worn path created by foot traffic and hand carts carrying the CDC’s gear.

  Her escort pushed back an areca palm and opened up a gateway to a clearing that stood in contrast to the third-world vistas that made up the northern part of the country. Her counterparts from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the CDC’s Central American Regional Office in Guatemala City, had arrived twenty-four hours prior.

  White tents surrounded the village, which was nestled into the eastern edge of the Laguna del Tigre National Park on the country’s northern border with Mexico. A score of native settlements, dwarfed by the rising hills, lay scattered throughout the jungles of this region, which used to play an important political and economic role in the ancient Mayan world.

  Like the nearly two million Indians that made up half of Guatemala’s population, the residents of these outlying areas spoke various dialects of the Maya-Quiche language, which evolved from the descendants of the Maya Empire. On this day, as Mac interviewed the dead, the language barrier wouldn’t be a factor.

  Mac caught her first glimpse of the dead wrapped in colorful body bags and lying unceremoniously on the soggy ground. Signs of village life still remained—tools to cultivate corn and primitive back-strap looms used to create colorful and complex textiles designed to differentiate the village from others nearby.

  This village was small by comparison. Only twenty to thirty small adobe houses were compactly grouped around the central square—where most of the bodies lay.

  No roads connected this village with others in the jungle. The inhabitants traveled on foot and occasionally on horseback, along narrow paths that wound around precipitous hillsides. They owned no vehicles except for the hollowed-out canoes fortified on each side by clapboards. Mac could visualize a canoe’s occupants paddling from a standing position, the one in the stern expertly steering the vessel along nearby Santa Amelia lake.

  What is wrong with me? She never got distracted on an investigation as serious as this one. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of a village set in an era a thousand years ago, but now surrounded by modern technological advances. Or it was the sadness of an entire group of people—families, with children, lying dead in their primitive village.

  She took a calming breath. She seriously needed to buckle down. Taking her eye off the ball in a situation like this would not be prudent. She let out a tense breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

  Mac bit her lip as she studied the scene again, taking into her imagination what life looked like in this desolate village before death came knocking. Several large raindrops snapped her out of her daze as well as the smell of something familiar.

  Chapter 2

  Day One

  Guatemala Jungle near El Naranjo

  “Dr. Hagan, I presume?” asked a lanky technician with a British accent. He extended his arm to shake hands with Mac, who opted instead to adjust her white cap with the letters CDC embroidered in blue across the front. She had abandoned the custom of shaking hands with others years ago. She had seen too much.

  “Good morning, Sherlock.” Mac chuckled, attempting to bring herself to the land of the living. “Please tell me that’s coffee.”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” replied Lawrence Brown, one of the career epidemiology field officers, or CEFOs, stationed in Guatemala City. “A little bird told me that you liked it black, full strength, and piping hot.”

  “A little bird?” Mac asked, tipping the warm brew into her mouth. She instantly received a waking jolt of energy.

  “Tweet, tweet, Mac!” announced a female voice from behind her. Mac turned to view a friendly face. It was one of the EIS officers from Atlanta, Janelle Turnbull, a former veterinarian whom Mac had worked with in the past.

  Created in 1951 during the Korean War, the Epidemic Intelligence Service was a postgraduate program established for health care professionals, physicians, and veterinarians interested in epidemiology. Both during and after their course work, these highly qualified individuals would study infectious diseases, environmental health issues, and other tasks within the purview of the CDC. Acceptance to the program was an honor that all of the nearly two hundred participants took seriously. Mac knew Janie to be a tireless worker and willing to travel to any part of the planet to perform her disease-detective skills.

  Mac instantly beamed. “Janie, did you catch the wrong MARTA train?”

  “No, the muckety-mucks wanted to make sure you had everything you needed down here,” replied the petite brunette clad in a newly designed, military-grade biological suit created after the West Africa Ebola crisis. The suit used several zippers and fasteners to fall off and peel outward from the wearer, alleviating the need to touch any outer surfaces.

  Prior to this new innovation created by a design challenge launched by the United States Agency for International Development, USAID, the EIS disease detectives would suit up with many layers of gear that took a partner and twenty minutes to dress. Even worn properly, the headgear didn’t attach to the body suit, creating an opportunity for a miniscule virus one-billionth our size to slip into the suit.

  In addition, the new suit featured an internal cooling system ideally suited for hot climates such as Africa and Guatemala. Air was constantly funneled to the headgear through an air chamber, which helped keep the brain cool. Cooler heads prevented heatstrokes and panic attacks.

  “Are you about to go in?” asked Mac. She glanced around to observe the level of activity at this early hour. She also looked to the sky to gauge the possibility of more precipitation. This hot zone had the potential to be a hot mess if it rained much more.

  “Yes, but I’d like to bring you up to speed first,” Janie replied. “We can go in together after that. Come into the field ops tent. We’ll get you dried off and then outfitted in your very own space suit.”

  Mac followed Janie into a large white tent, which contained an air-locked entry on both ends. The logistics involved in this type of investigation required preplanning and experienced technicians. When dealing with an unknown outbreak, mistakes could be deadly.

  Mac got settled in after exchanging pleasantries with some of the field officers from CDC-Guatemala City. Janie quickly returned in her civvies with another cup of coffee for both of them. Disease detectives were very much like their law enforcement counterparts. Coffee fueled their day.

  Janie settled in a chair next to Mac and opened a file folder, which contained several thick reports. Mac thumbed through the pages of reports as Janie spoke.

  “I’ll recap what you probably already know and then tell you what’s transpired over the last twenty-four hours,” started Janie, taking another sip of coffee before getting down to business. “Four days ago, a young man from another village came here on horseback with a load of yarn to trade. He found all of the villagers to be ill. He described them as being nauseated, weak, and with a high fever.”

  “How were we notified?”

  “He returned to his village to give an account of what he’d seen. One of the village elders traveled into town to report the incident. According to the interview he gave a health care worker from the local hospital in El Naranjo, there were no deaths at the time. The local police and a nurse arrived here two days later. The entire village was dead.”

  Mac reached for the file full of reports and studied the findings. Eighty-one bodies were found throughout the village. There was evidence of vomiting and bleeding from the mouth.

  “We need to conduct autopsies as soon as possible,” said Mac. She rubbed her temple as she contemplated the magnitude of the situation. An entire village of eighty people, exhibiting flu-like symptoms, was dead within days.

  “That’s part of the update,” added Janie. “Before we could mobilize and arrive on the scene, half a dozen bodies were removed to the hospital in El Naranjo. The local authorities took them early yesterday morning.”

 
; “Are you kidding me? They’re not set up for something like this!”

  “I know, Mac. I wish I had been here. We got it together pretty fast, but you know how these hot zones are. There’s protocol. We’ve got to protect our own first.”

  Brown approached the two of them. Janie addressed him first. “Well, Sir Lawrence, what say you?”

  “We’re gathering specimens now,” he replied. “The good news is that the weather radar indicates this low-pressure system has moved past us. The hot zone won’t be further compromised by rainfall. The bad news is that despite the fact the village is small by comparison to American towns, it’s big enough that it can’t be completely contained.”

  “Surely to God we can keep onlookers out of the zone,” barked Mac. While containment was not within her scope of responsibility, she didn’t want to be bumping into looky-loos while she assessed the scene.

  “No, ma’am. The problem isn’t people, it’s the spider monkeys. The jungle is full of them. The military tells us that the village was crawling with them when they first arrived. By nature, the monkeys are scavengers. In addition to being overly curious, they’re also looking for food.”

  “Food that might carry the disease!” Mac raised her voice, drawing the attention of technicians throughout the tent. She took a deep breath to calm down her anxiety. At the same time, as if on cue, the HEPA air filtration for the tent kicked on, causing the walls to quickly expand and then deflate as stale air was forced out to make way for fresh, filtered air.

  “We’ve asked the military to help, but there aren’t enough assigned to our location and the ones that are don’t want to come anywhere within the outer perimeter of the village,” replied Brown. “They’re afraid of getting too close.”