Sam looked at Alex, who merely stared into space.
“He was right, Alex.” Sam placed his hand over Alex’s and squeezed it affectionately. “Think about it.”
Sam and Warren left, and Alex sat in silence with his thoughts of the past and of the present, but less of the future—he wasn’t sure if any of them had a future.
The sun was setting as Alex walked around the parade ground. The breeze bathed his face in the humid evening air, and the green grass was studded with more weeds and dandelions than in the days when men had passed there in review. He kicked a stone and looked out beyond the water tower to the rolling green hills in the distance. The sky glowed red and an occasional wispy cloud floated by. His thoughts turned again to the conversation he had just had about the experiment. When and if all this was over, could he tell Lori he had asked another man to fight for them? He knew that he was right—no one else could do this for him.
The small group was in the conference room because Mark McKitridge felt they would be safe there if, and when, the shooting started.
“Jim Rahway’s on the phone, Alex.”
Alex Kahn looked up from reading a journal and picked up the receiver.
“Thanks, Sam. Yes, Jim.”
“How about Jack Flint as your surgeon? He’s Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery here at Reed.”
Alex knew Jack Flint was considered an excellent cardiologist but that technically he was a lousy surgeon. One of his own residents had characterized him as “a genius in the laboratory, but a butcher in the operating room.”
“No, thanks, Jim. I want an operating surgeon who knows his anatomy—especially the anatomy of the arm—and who’s a good technician. I don’t want a cardiologist or any other kind of -ologist. I want a good surgeon—a man who won’t lose his head if something goes wrong—or faint at the sight of blood.”
“I’ve got you, Alex. That’s why I asked. Then how about John Keith? He’s a damned good surgeon. He’s the guy who would operate on the President if he ever needs surgery.”
“That’s the kind I want, Jim.”
“He’ll be up there early tomorrow morning. Paul Ryder, an anesthesiologist who runs the pump-oxygenator for one of the cardiac surgery teams at Reed, will bring it out and operate it for you. I’ll speak to Keith about any other equipment he wants and ask him to bring it along.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“Alex…” There was a deliberate pause. “Did Sam and Warren speak to you about the volunteer?”
“I see Mark got to you, too, Jim. Yes, they spoke to me. Look—I appreciate everyone’s concern. Honestly. But this is something I have to do myself. I’ve thought it all out. In addition, it will be a distinct advantage to have a physician as the subject. I’ll be able to describe the onset and changes in symptoms more accurately than a layman. Just wish me luck, Jim—don’t argue with me.”
“O.K., Alex. You’re the boss. We’re all pulling with you.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
Alex put down the receiver and turned to Sam Ross, who was reviewing some of the data.
“Well, Alex, all the data seem valid, so far. I heard your conversation with Jim. So you’ve decided to be the guinea pig. Well, I knew we wouldn’t change your mind.” He turned and squeezed Alex’s hands warmly. “In some respects, Alex, I envy you. A person rarely gets a chance in a short lifetime to do something really worthwhile. I don’t blame you one bit. If I were you, I’d have made the same decision. I know it’ll work. You wait and see. When do you plan to start?”
“Tomorrow, as soon as we can get set up.” Alex paused. “That is, if we happen to be on the winning side in McKitridge’s war with Beck tonight. If we aren’t, all our problems may be over.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Who? Me or McKitridge?”
“You, of course, wise guy.”
“Yeah. You can let me clobber you at gin. It’ll be good for my nerves.”
“Penny a point?”
“Sure. What have I got to lose?”
They looked at each other and laughed.
seventeen
Alex Kahn would never forget those forty-five minutes. The sounds of gunfire and screams would remain imprinted in his memory forever. As they sat in the conference room surrounded by protective armed guards, he buried his head in his hands and vainly tried to escape into the darkness.
He had seen only one gunshot wound—when as an intern working in the emergency room, he had cared for a young policeman who had been shot in the chest during a robbery. He would never forget the ragged hole nor the violent stream of blood that erupted from it when he removed the towel the emergency squad had used to stop the bleeding. He had almost vomited when the area had been sufficiently cleansed to show the extent of the damage. Bits and pieces of skin, fat, muscle and bone had been scattered by the bullet’s impact. Blood bubbled up and spilled over onto the man’s chest as air from the punctured lung continued to escape. He had watched the man gasp for breath and turn cold and blue as he slipped into shock. Then—as now—he could not understand how any person could cherish life so little that he could pull the trigger of a weapon whose missile could shatter and destroy flesh with such indiscriminate violence.
Suddenly there were no more shots, no more screams—only the sounds of the night.
The silence was interrupted as Mark McKitridge opened the door and gestured to the guards to leave.
“It’s over.” McKitridge sat down, his face reflecting only sadness.
“What happened?” Marion Slade was the first to speak.
“They wouldn’t surrender. I asked them three times.” His face looked ravaged. “I almost lost my nerve, Alex. Suddenly they weren’t animals, but men, right or wrong. At the last minute, I didn’t want to have to give the order to fire. Do you believe me, Alex? I didn’t want to do it! You were right.”
“I believe you, Mark.” He paused. “But if they gave you no choice, you had to do it. I’m not sure I would have had the guts.” He waited another moment. “What really happened, Mark?”
“It was no contest, Alex. The army’s business is fighting, and we know it well. We killed or wounded most of them.”
“As a doctor, can I help out?”
“Thanks anyway, Alex. We brought plenty of medics from Walter Reed; the wounded will get good care.”
“What about Martin Beck?”
“He got away. And I don’t give a damn any more. After what happened here, he’ll never get anybody else to follow him. If the authorities don’t get him, someone else will.”
The shooting and killing were over, and the lawless mob was no more. But the massacres at Edgewood Arsenal and Fort Detrick were minor skirmishes compared with battling the disease, which continued to spread unchecked throughout the country.
Mark McKitridge was changing into his everyday uniform when Alex knocked on the door to the locker room.
“Come in, Alex. Jim Rahway call you?”
“Yes, Mark, thanks. He’s taking care of everything.”
“By the way, I read that paper of Machdi’s. I’m not sure I understand it all, but from the gist your theory certainly seems sound.”
“Did you happen to notice where Machdi hails from?”
“I sure did. Washington tells me Intelligence is looking into the situation in the Middle East. The only problem is time. It takes a hell of a lot of time to investigate something like this—too much, I’m afraid.”
He wrapped the cartridge belt around the holster and placed it in his briefcase. “I’ll never willingly put this on again, Alex. And if the time comes when I have to, I’ll know it’s time to retire. I’ve been thinking of going back to school to brush up on my chemistry. I think I’d like a professorship at some quiet college with ivy-covered walls.”
“If I know you, Mark, you’d be back in the army twenty-four hours after you retired—still pounding on the front door of the Pentagon asking why you hadn’t been made Chief of Staff. Besides, you t
old me there were no ‘quiet’ colleges any more.”
They both laughed.
eighteen
In the makeshift teletype center set up by Marion Slade, the latest statistics were being printed by an invisible electric hand:
Time: Saturday, 4 a.m.
Total reported cases: 96,850
Total reported deaths: same
The machine stopped.
What these silent letters meant was the beginning of subtle changes, unseen in that small room, but seen with increasing frequency in the face of the country.
Except in an occasional isolated country farmhouse or a hidden mountain retreat or a lone cottage on some small coastal island, hardly a home or office or factory was spared preoccupation with health. “Pneumonia,” “epidemic,” and “death” became household words. From a quarter of a column on the back page, the story of this strange illness moved forward to front-page headlines in the daily newspapers. What had been a sentence or two on the late-night news became a topic of discussion on every newscast a dozen times a day every day. Via the immense communications systems of the country, persons who had never before heard the words “epidemiology,” “attack rate,” “case fatality rate” became as familiar with these terms as they were with the language of the weather report or the sports news. Following the trend of the disease became as much a daily ritual as checking the stock market curve, the racing results, or the major league standings. Politics, pollution, integration and inflation were replaced by health and disease as topics of conversation at the breakfast table, on the train, in the coffee shop, or at the bar. As time passed, the number who could say they did not know someone who was ill or dying or someone who had recently died became smaller—and smaller.
And as the disease and knowledge of it spread, suspicion, superstition and rumor permeated the lives of millions and cast the shadow of fear across their daily existence.
At first, life was the same. But slowly, changes occurred. Isolation became the erroneously conceived prophylaxis for the disease. Each town and city isolated itself from the next; each neighborhood from the one bordering it; each family from its neighbors. The once integrated community became subdivided into small groups, each isolated by the invisible boundary of fear that each person was threatened by, and was a threat to, the next.
Panic, in time, would be the inevitable sequel—and there was not much time left.
In New York, the bustling crowds began to dwindle and the pace of daily business began to slacken. People walked the streets only when necessary. Fifth Avenue at noon looked as it had at midnight only a short week before; now at midnight, it was deserted. Buses and subways ran half filled, and rush hour vanished as people left work at odd hours to avoid crowds. Absenteeism closed many smaller businesses and forced larger ones to consider doing the same. The Stock Exchange shortened its trading day; whispered talk of a prolonged closing sent prices into a ruinous spin. The bright lights of Times Square sparkled down on increasingly empty sidewalks; the few who hurried by walked with heads bent as if against a strong wind. The lights of theater marquees dimmed and then went out as crowds became only memories of the recent past. The few waiters who dared to come to work stood about in their uniforms, unused linen napkins folded neatly over their arms, and talked in small groups and looked at the empty tables and waited for notice not to return the next day. Signs in shop windows announced no enticing sales, no positions to be filled, but told the simple story of the city and all around it: CLOSED.
Chicago’s Grant Park was empty except for hungry birds and squirrels that gathered at the bases of statues and scattered through the empty paths to look for food. Their hunger had become constant, and they were angry that no one came to feed them. The wire baskets filled with the debris of last week remained unemptied. The sun shone on empty benches, and the warm breeze caused spray to rise from the fountains. But there were no people on the benches, no faces to catch the breeze. There were only emptiness and silence.
The emptiness and silence spread. Cities took on the appearance of half-empty towns; towns resembled deserted villages; and villages looked like the “ghost towns” of the legendary West. Nothing moved in the countryside except for the trees and the grain that rippled in the breeze. In the afternoon the setting sun’s rays appeared as an eerie wave of disease spreading across the land.
Some tried in strange ways to maintain a semblance of their previous existence.
In Los Angeles, masks, designed for protection against smog and air pollution, seemed a logical answer for an epidemic. At first, only a few braved the mocking stares, but as the death rate rose, concern about social acceptance was overcome by the desire to survive. Fortunes were made overnight by the perspicacious who had stocked this commodity. As the idea spread, the populace soon looked as if it had been replaced by men from another planet. Only the eyes were visible, staring above whatever covered the nose and mouth below. Fashion and an air of levity were added to the scene by masks of various colors and patterns. Some masks bore printed sayings: “Through this mask only the purest air may pass”; “Bugs Keep Out!”; “Cover your face and save the race”; “Remove before kissing”; “Keep the bad air out and the bad breath in!” Words and rhymes replaced facial expressions.
But all in vain. Death chose its victims rapidly and indiscriminately without pausing to comment on color, fashion or wit.
The exodus began as statistics showed the predominance of disease and death in the large cities.
At first, only a few left, departing quietly and surreptitiously. The few soon became the many; and instead of leaving, they fled. But there was nowhere to run—death was everywhere. Many refugees became unknowing vectors, and the disease became the traveling companion of a nation fleeing to a haven that did not exist.
All did not flee. The dead and the dying could not leave.
Only the hospitals, the morgues, and the cemeteries remained crowded. Here business was better than ever.
Fear of hospitals became an understandable obsession, for very few who entered survived to leave—those who did had had some other disease in the first place. Babies were born at home; tonsils were removed on the kitchen table as they had been forty years before. And death showed no respect for time or place or person or profession; here and there among the names of the dead appeared that of a nurse, that of a doctor. The white coat, the stethoscope, the M.D. or R.N. that followed their names had endowed them with no immunity.
In the wake of this hospital-phobia, the quack and the faith healer prospered, preying on the frightened and gullible. They gave the hopeless false hope by promising a cure that was not yet known and life to those destined to lose it. But the disease alone was judge and jury.
No gun had been fired, no bomb had been dropped, no foreign boot had touched the soil. Yet in a few short days the mightiest nation on earth was rendered helpless by an invisible enemy that killed swiftly and silently and so disrupted the lives of over two hundred million persons. A mighty Goliath was being slain by a microscopic David. As in Biblical times, the magnitude of the plague was inconceivable and only time would reveal its aftermath.
nineteen
The rays of the morning sun crept between the worn shade and the chipped window frame. Alex blinked, then stretched contentedly and pulled the covers up around his head. Fatigue had brought the welcome peace of dreamless sleep, and he felt fresh and vigorous.
The equipment for the experiment would not be ready for four or five hours, and he treated himself to the luxury of staying in bed. He dozed for a minute or two, then lowered the covers and bathed his face in the sun’s warmth. For the first time since he had decided to be his own experimental subject, he was at peace with himself. His confidence that he would succeed cleared his mind and stimulated him with an almost reckless eagerness to get stated. But his awareness of the risk sobered his mood. The organism was about one micron—one thousandth of a millimeter—in diameter; it would not take a large error to allow it to escape from
the arm and into the rest of the body via the bloodstream. He would have to discuss the only alternative to such a catastrophe with John Keith.
John Keith was a tall, lanky man with graying, sandy hair that fell onto his forehead. He looked more like a farm boy than an accomplished, forty-two-year-old surgeon. The soft, southern drawl was deceptive; his words left no doubt that his reputation as a surgeon was well deserved. Keith felt there would be no technical difficulties in isolating the arm.
“But can we isolate it sufficiently to prevent bacteria from leaking into the rest of the circulation, John?”
“I think so, Alex. We’ll monitor the system, anyway.”
“How?”
“After the system is all set up, I’ll inject a fluorescent dye into the arm. Needle probes will be placed at index points in the rest of the circulation beyond the arm. They’re capable of picking up one part in ten million of the dye. If there’s a leak, the probes will pick it up.”
“You know, John, some day surgery may actually become a science.” Alex smiled playfully, but then paused and rubbed his left arm, the experimental limb. “Let’s just hope we don’t have any problems.”
“I plan to use a brachial block for anesthesia. Are you allergic to xylocaine?”
“No, but I thought you’d just anesthetize the cutdown areas, not the whole arm.”
The 11th Plague Page 14