Sophie raised her hands tentatively. Luke ignored the man. “Luke, put your hands up,” she hissed.
“Why?”
“Because he has a gun.” She nodded towards it.
“That’s not a gun. It’s a flare.”
“It’s a phosphorus flare, if it doesn’t kill you outright, the flare would burn a hole right through your chest.”
His eyebrows knitted together. “Fair enough.” He raised his one good arm.
The man screeched at them. “What have you done?”
Luke looked puzzled by the question at first, and then said. “This is nothing to do with us.”
“You work at the hospital. You must’ve leaked some chemical or something. My old lady is suffering bad.”
Sophie moved forward slightly. “Let me see her. I’m a Doctor.”
The man stepped back and pointed with his flare-gun to the woman laid prone on the floor behind the counter. One glance told Sophie all she needed to know, she shook her head gently. “She’s too far gone. I can’t help. She’s got it.”
The man’s eyes widened. “What’s she got?”
She paused reluctant to say the words aloud, as if by not saying them would somehow stop the virus’s progress, but eventually she muttered, “The Bubonic Plague.”
The man wailed, tears streaked down his face and he raged again, thrusting his flare-gun in her face. “Make her better. I order you to make her better!”
“There isn’t a cure for this strain.”
“Make her better or I swear I’ll shoot you!” His knuckles whitened as they slowly pulled back on the trigger. . . .
CHAPTER 5
21.15 PM
Moored ten miles off the east coast of Florida, on the aircraft carrier USS Thomas Jefferson the crew prepared to lower a landing craft from the starboard bow. The three men inside were wearing gas masks. Commander Roscoe, a ramrod straight, silver haired man in his fifties addressed them. “You know why we’re doing this?”
“We’re mopping up the slop, sir.”
“That’s right. You must eliminate all the possible carriers.”
The three crewmen snapped to attention, “Aye, aye, sir.” They said in unison.
The Commander stared them in the eye. “You’re OK with this? You’ll be killing fellow Americans.”
“No problem, sir.”
“I can’t have you balk at the last moment.”
“I took an oath, Commander.”
Commander Roscoe felt uneasy. “This is why we’re leaving it until dark. We can’t be seen to be doing this. You understand why?”
The second lieutenant replied. “They’re either carrying the disease, or they’re the terrorists themselves, sir. I’ll mop up the slop. No problem. They’ve released a nerve agent. They’ve killed everyone on the island. They don’t deserve to live, sir. They’re traitors as far as I’m concerned. I’ll kill them as easy as stepping on a bug.”
“You’re to leave no one alive. Go to it.”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
21.20 PM
“Cool it, man,” Luke said firmly. The wild-eyed man pointed the flare-gun at Luke and then back to Sophie again, unable to comprehend her words. “How can she have the plague?”
“Everyone upon the island has been exposed to it,” Sophie explained.
“Then, why ain’t we dead?”
“It’s ninety-nine percent fatal. We’re obviously immune.”
He waved the flare-gun furiously, “Cure her. Now.”
“She is too far gone, I’m sorry.”
His hand trembled and pointed the flare-gun at her, “Make her better, or I’ll kill you!”
“I can’t,” she said.
His body trembled and his eyes glared, he raised the gun to her head and his finger squeezed back on the trigger. . .when Luke snatched up a harpoon-gun and fired, the harpoon whooshed out and shot into the man’s chest, pinning him to the wall.
The wild-eyed man’s legs kicked and danced in his macabre death-throws. Blood gurgled from his mouth then he twitched for a moment.
Sophie found Luke outside throwing up. “You saved my life, thank you,” she said gratefully.
He looked at the vomit bashfully. “Must’ve been something I ate,”
She looked down at the puddle of vomit. “It looks like everything you ate,” she joked. “Still, proves you’re human,” she patted his back. “I thought you might’ve said some tough-guy corny line like, ‘stick around, dude,’” she mimicked his deep voice.
He clicked his fingers, “Oh man, I wish I had said that, let’s go back in.”
She rolled her eyes, “I think we should keep moving.”
21.25 PM
The navel landing craft bounced across the waves as it headed to shore. A gung ho kid scanned the beach back and forth with night vision goggles, and then shouted. “Gotcha!”
“How many?” asked the second lieutenant.
“Two of ‘em. Man and woman.”
The gunner operating the forward-mounted machine-gun braced himself, as the boat hopped a large wave. He steadied himself and prepared to fire.
“Let’s get ‘em,” The gung ho kid whooped with glee at the thought of the coming action.
“Ready?” the second lieutenant asked and the threesome touched knuckles, “OK, let’s light ‘em up.”
With a loud bang, he fired a flare that zoomed into the night sky.
__________
Luke and Sophie strolled bare-foot at the water’s edge feeling the sand between their toes and the tide lapping at their ankles, looking like newly-weds without a care in world. They carried the scuba-tanks and passed discarded jet skis.
“If I’m right,” she said. “It is going to be a pandemic like the world has never seen. We are going to need a massive quarantine of the infected, mass evacuations of the uninfected, and then we need to develop a cure for this new strain of plague.”
“How hard can it be?” he said with nonchalance.
She looks at him incredulously.
“I’ll give it a go.”
She laughed. “You idiot,” she playfully hit him on the arm.
He winced. “Argh!”
“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry.” She touched his injured arm and baby-talked him, teasing. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, of course it damn well hurts. I had half a helicopter smash through my arm.”
“Half!” she laughed and punched him again, then immediately realized her mistake but couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and felt something pass between them.
He pulled her in close to him. “I just want to say –” with an enormous ground shaking bang a flare burst above their heads flooding the area in bright light. “- Shit.”
Machine-gun bullets plopped into the water a few yards from them. Quick as a flash, Luke jumped onto the ink-black Kawasaki Jet Ski and fired it up, “Get on!”
She leaped onto the back and they sped away, with the machine gun bullets slapping into the water inches from them.
Luke zigzagged away as the flare dimmed. He saw the high-powered searchlight ahead, banked steeply nearly tipping them off, then corrected the maneuver successfully. He opened the throttle fully and headed for the nearby coastline when the landing craft sailed into their path.
On the landing craft, the searchlight picked them out only yards ahead. “There!” said the gunner pointing out the fugitives. He spun the mounted machine-gun around, but his colleagues were in his line of fire.
The second lieutenant noticed and pulled hard down on the wheel to turn the craft around. Luke swerved to dodge the landing-craft and realized they were about to cross the craft’s wake, he stood to take the impact of the wave, Sophie followed suit, as the first wave hit they took off, soared ten feet into the air and crunched back down onto the ocean still in one piece.
“Oh, maaan, that was awesome! Wanna do it again?”
The lumbering landing craft was slower to change direction than the zippier Jet ski, which Luke u
sed to his full advantage. He aimed at the beach and drove hell for leather towards the target, not letting up on the throttle even as they made land. The Jet ski cut a groove up the beach until they came to a grinding halt and fell unceremoniously onto the sand. They lay on the beach, catching their breath, before remembering they were still in danger.
Nearby tourists rushed to them, some to help, others to film them with their camera-phones. Sophie and Luke mingled with the crowd that thronged along the promenade, although he was still easy to spot wearing his hospital gown.
Hard as Luke tried to blend in with the crowd, the machine-gunner still sought him out, had him in his crosshairs and readied to shoot, when his Superior put his hand on the barrel forcing him to lower his weapon. “Not in front of witnesses – besides you can tell they’re not the terrorists.”
“How come, lieutenant?” asked the Gunner.
“Because they’re white.”
CHAPTER 6
DAY TWO
SATURDAY JULY 2ND
06:45 AM
The American United Boeing 777 flight 416 out of Miami bound for London glided through the sky silhouetted against the rising sun. Luke sat in business class on his way to the British capital to cover yet another Royal scandal. He blasted down the air-phone to his boss back at the studio. “It’s the scoop of the century and you won’t run it?”
“Only half of my staff turned in today,” said his boss. “I’ve never known anything like it. The ones that have turned up are dropping like flies.”
“I’m telling you, they’ve got the virus,”
“The authorities aren’t saying anything.”
“I told you what happened.”
“I did some checking,” said his boss. “It’s a bridge malfunction apparently.”
“Sure it is,” Luke said sarcastically. “Then why are troops guarding it?”
“To stop folk swimming across. There’s a dangerous alligator in there.”
“Uhuh. Have you dispatched anyone to the island yet?”
“Look, Homeland Security’s on it. We can’t use it.”
“You ain’t gonna broadcast a worldwide sensation?” Luke felt himself getting angry as his boss stonewalled him, trying to cover his sorry ass. “Show some balls. It’s a worldwide scoop.”
“You want me to go up against the might of Homeland Security? You seriously want me to risk my job on YOUR hunch? Remember last time?”
“OK, so I called it wrong last time -”
“But that was a doozy. I nearly lost my job the last time I played one of your hunches. It’s not going to happen, Luke. Not without more evidence.”
“By the time you wait for the evidence everyone else will have the story.”
“That’s it. Enjoy London, Luke.”
“Boss, do me a favor,” Luke calmed himself, knowing he’d lost this round, and changed tack. “Go home. The only way to survive this virus is to isolate yourself from other people.”
His boss noticed the change in Luke’s tone and took him seriously. “And does this new virus have a name?”
He sighed deeply, knowing what his boss’s reaction would be. “It ain’t a new virus; it’s an old one, a very old one . . . the Bubonic Plague.”
07:30 AM
Sophie drove up the I-95 interstate in her rented jeep, as hers was still upon the island. She was on her way to visit the Seminole Native-Americans at their reservation, for their monthly consultations. These were the purists, who still lived on the land, shunning their more famous cousins with their casinos, gift shops and alligator wrestling. They despised them for selling out, and dressing like fools, acting as if they were cast members at Disney World. They preferred the quiet and solitude of the old ways, and Sophie enjoyed meeting with them and hearing of their folklore and traditions. She’d been particularly surprised to find that they had taken in and welcomed the freed slaves, who had made their way down south to Spanish Florida and allied themselves to the Seminole, who called them, ‘Maroons’.
She turned onto Interstate 75, known locally as Alligator Alley. She cruised along for some miles enjoying the wind in her hair, as it was another scorching day. She thought about the events of the day before. She steeled herself for the telephone call that she had to make and voice dialed her car-phone, “The Surgeon General,” she said with a confident voice, a confidence that she did not feel. She could be about to make the biggest mistake of her life, or if correct she would prevent a major outbreak. She had no choice; she had to warn Quinn Martell.
__________
The Surgeon General glanced at the caller ID and beamed. “Doctor Garcia, how lovely to hear from you. Is this a social call?”
“I wish. No, we have a problem, here in Miami.”
“Tell me?” He asked, wondering how she knew.
“There has been an outbreak centered at the Good Samaritan hospital.”
“I have been hearing snippets. How do you know?”
“I was there.”
“My God . . . are you feeling OK?” he asked genuinely concerned.
“I appear to be immune, but at least fifty people have died of a virulent strain of the Bubonic Plague. Yet there is nothing on the news, no warnings or anything. My question to you is, why not?”
“Sophie, you always were my favorite pupil, no preamble – straight to the point.” He smiled at the memory. “Well, up until you called, I’ve had no official notice. Homeland Security is in charge and playing it close to their chests. The rumor is that they think it’s a chemical attack.”
“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “It has all the symptoms of the Bubonic Plague - the Black Death, but this time it is also pneumonic – it’s airborne.”
“OK, let me see what I can find out. Thank you for the heads up. I’ll call you back.”
__________
Quinn Martell hung up and pursed his lips. He knew that Sophie would not phone without cause. She had been one of the brightest students he had ever had the privilege to teach and she was now one of the foremost experts in the field of contagious diseases, with a fondness for the historic plagues of Europe. In fact, she had always insisted that the plague would return one day, a notion for which he had gently chided her. He prayed to god that he would not be wrong. He’d do some digging. He had some old pals in the Homeland Security, he would try to winkle out information, then call the President, the sooner he acted the better.
Fifteen minutes later he made a scrambled telephone call to the President. “With reference to the viral outbreak in Florida, we believe we know what it is.”
“Hit me with it.”
“The Black Death.”
“The Black Death?” He chuckled. “You mean the Bubonic Plague? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, that was eradicated years ago.”
“Or, so we thought. This is a new strain. In fact, according to the World Health Organization this is long overdue.”
The President sucked in oxygen through a hand-held mask attached to a bedside cylinder. He shuddered, taking in the news.
Quinn continued on video-link and paced his office. “The WHO knew that it was never a matter of IF a virus would cause a worldwide pandemic, it was more a matter of WHEN.” Quinn gazed out of his office window watching the world go by. Folks were on their way to work without a care, going about their daily business, not realizing the horror about to be unleashed upon mainland America. He continued. “It’s arrogant of man to think we can continue breeding at this rate without paying the consequences.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world’s population has increased by a billion since 1999, by four billion since 1960.”
“You’re kidding?”
“It’s more than doubled in our lifetime.”
“And what is the optimum level?”
“Around the four billion mark.”
“And what’s the figure now?”
“Over seven billion.”
“And our resources are already in short supply.”
“Exactly, this is nature’s way of reversing that trend, culling the herd.” The President sucked in more oxygen, as Quinn continued. “Last time, the Black Death wiped out over two hundred million people and that was at walking speed, now we’ve got airplanes trains, automobiles. The way the population is crammed together on this over-populated planet this virus will encircle the globe in days.”
“My God . . .”
“Of all known species to have ever lived on this planet of ours, ninety-nine point five percent have been wiped out – survival of the fittest, et cetera.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Another way of looking at it is if you took the history of the globe as a twenty-four hour clock, man appears at one minute to midnight, our future is far from assured.”
“But we’re talking about an ancient disease?”
“Precisely. Do you know how many doses of antidote for the Black Death we have here in the United States?”
“Surprise me.”
“None.”
“None?”
“That’s how much we have dismissed this virus. We did not think it necessary.”
“My...god.”
“And on top of that, this is a new strain.”
The President hefted himself up in his bed. “And this Intel is sound?”
“Rock solid.”
He flopped back onto his pillows. “How in hell are we going to implement the counter-measures? Any sort of panic and we’ll have riots on our hands. Can you imagine what would happen to the stock market? We need to handle this with finesse, while at the same time try to quarantine southern Florida.” He assimilated the information, then asked. “What’s the projected death toll percentage?”
“Almost one hundred percent.”
“My god . . . the Miami area has two and a half million people alone.”
“Even if we act now we’ve still conservatively estimated the death toll to be five million.”
The Doomsday Infection Page 4