by Mark Wandrey
“Then I guess we understand each other,” she said and turned back, “science is often founded on mutual animosity between researchers.” There was a snort, half laugh, half disagreement, but the older scientist remained silent. “I guess our line of research makes me the closest to thing to what you want on this part of the planet just now, so here I am.”
The lab was state of the art, for what it was built for. The biology lab specialized in research on domestic livestock. Improving the strains of chickens and helping the poultry industry develop more effective nutritional supplements and disease resistant strains. It was chosen for the current project because it had a level two bio-containment lab. Some animal contagions were risky to work with, especially in a country that consumed billions of pounds of chicken every year.
Dr. Lisha Breda stood with her arms crossed under her breasts and looked around the lab with a critical eye, picking out each piece of equipment she would need. She also noted the sealed chamber at the back and how the lab staff was reluctant to go near it. Something didn't feel right here.
“Better fill me in on the details,” she told Dr. Amstead. He handed her a tablet computer and began explaining the case. She'd read it twice on the way to Las Cruces and once more in the cab, but long experience had taught her to always listen to the facts from the source of the story as well as the written notes. There were often details to be gleaned that didn't make it into print.
Two days ago a ranger in the Brokeoff Mountains Wilderness Study Area had found what he at first thought was a deceased red fox. Upon closer examination he was unable to confirm the species as vulpes vulpes. There had been some decay of the specimen, as well as predation by unknown scavengers. It was an unusual find because the wilderness area was not inside the known range of that species of fox. So he bagged the specimen to return to the ranger station. It was only after returning that he noted the lack of substantial secondary evidence of decay. No odors, and no presence of insects.
Lisha looked through the thick glass into the isolation chamber where the chupacabra, or fox, lay. The pictures didn’t really do it justice. Of course now, only a few meters away, it was obviously a fox. What wasn’t obvious was why it wasn’t decaying like a dead animal was supposed to decay. Inside with the dead animal a technician in a biochem isolation suit was carefully taking pictures, moving the body and examining it in intricate detail. The person, sexless in the bulky protective gear, was using the microscope feature of the handheld camera on the fox’s nose which appeared shredded.
“Can I see the tissue sample images? They weren’t included in the data packet you sent.”
“I know,” Amstead admitted and scratched the thin whiskers on his chin, “we had a new set taken this morning. They should be mounted any time now.”
“What was wrong with the first series?”
“They got tainted somehow.”
On cue a technician brought over an SD card and gave it to Dr. Amstead. He moved to a large display nearby and slid the chip in, accessing the files. In a moment he was frowning. “Same problem.”
“And that is?” Lisha asked, coming up beside him.
The older man pointed to an enlarged image showing muscle tissue biopsied from the fox. “There is no microbiological activity,” he said and ran his finger along a capillary, visible in stark relief due to the dye added to the slide. “Even though the dye would kill all the microbes, a carcass like this should be crawling with bacteria and insect larvae.”
Lisha nodded and leaned closer. The image shifted to another, then another. One after another, all showing the same complete lack of bacteriological life. It wasn’t only unlikely, it was impossible. “Well,” she spoke after a few minute observing, “at least the lack of living insects on the carcass when discovered is less of a mystery.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if whatever it is that killed all the bacteria was some sort of chemical, it is probably also what kept flies and scavengers away.” The other doctor nodded, accepting her professional opinion in an area outside his expertise.
What she didn’t say aloud was the problem that really bothered her. It could be possible to expose an animal to a chemical that would kill all the microbes and bacteria, even in the gut. But that didn’t account for the remains of the same. All the samples were pure, with no signs at all of foreign organisms. It was almost as if this fox somehow was resistant to all bacteria.
Six hours later she’d learned what she could, having unequivocally confirmed it was a fox of vulpes vulpes, and she took a vacuum sealed case of tissue and fluid samples before calling Andre and heading for the exit. Dr. Amstead saw her off with a handshake and his thanks just as Andre’s late model sedan was pulling up. It was a long day of travel in exchange for such an interesting mystery. All the way back to LA, Dr. Lisha Breda couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something very bad.
Chapter 3
Tuesday, April 10
Andrew sipped a canned sweet tea and watched as the Skycatcher came around on final approach two miles from the airport. This was one of his advanced students and he’d advised against the man taking his final solo today. There was a seventeen knot crosswind and the temperature was hovering around ninety. Not ideal flying weather. The wind was from a storm blowing in from the west that threatened to bring hail and probably a lot of sand out of western Texas as well. The man had been recalcitrant. He wanted his license and didn’t want to wait any longer. The conditions were borderline, so Andrew signed off and up he went.
He’d made his two previous approaches perfectly, and this was the last one. If he brought this one in, he was home free. Now the wind was picking up another notch and Andrew eyed the radio on the patio table, half expecting him to call in for advice. He’d been a capable student but leaned towards uncertainty and indecision in difficult situations.
The chirp of his smartphone made him jump slightly in surprise. Aside from his mother, who rarely called because she hated ‘those damn cell things’, and an ex-girlfriend who’d last called to tell him she was getting married, there was only one person who’d be calling. He glanced up at his student’s approach, decided he had a minute and snatched the device from its belt holster and flipped up the cover.
As he’d hoped, there was an email from his commanding officer. He was to report for a readiness assessment at the base on Thursday, April 11th. A posting was being held open for him in the wings CAS unit currently stationed in Riyadh airbase. If all went well, he’d be on a transport to the sandbox in seventy-two hours. His heart was racing and he felt light headed. Back in the cockpit again after all these months? He was so caught off guard that when he remembered what he was supposed to be doing, his student was taxiing towards the hangars, having already landed safely.
His fellow ex-military buddies took him out to dinner that night, all toasting his good fortune and seeing if they could get him drunk. With a fitness evaluation in only two days, Andrew kept it to three beers for the entire night. The next morning he was in his skivvies doing calisthenics for a bored army physical therapy specialist and answer inane questions like “Do you ever wish you hadn't been wounded?”
“No shit, Doc,” was the answer he wanted to give, “I wish at least twice a day that some damn eighteen year old kid hadn't crushed my leg with a JDAM.” Instead he shrugged before he spoke. “What happens is often outside of our control.”
The doctor nodded and made a note. “Ever think about ending it?”
“Never.” The doctor regarded him with his dark eyes and Andrew stared right back. That thought had never entered his mind, even as he lay in the hospital bed and a German doctor was telling him he'd lose his leg.
The questions went on as a nurse came in and Andrew went through the grinder. Up and down steps for ten minutes as fast as he could. Jumping jacks. Lifting a ten kilo weight from the floor and putting in on a table as many times as he could in five minutes. After, as he sweated and controlled his brea
thing, they removed his prosthetic and examined the stump.
“A little irritation,” the doctor noted and typed on his tablet.
“Almost gone now,” Andrew admitted. The doctor gave him 'The Eye' once more but Andrew stood his ground.
“Okay,” he said and typed. Andrew tried not to sweat any more. Hey, it's only your life, right flyboy?
An hour later he was buttoning up his shirt in the examination as the doctor walked by to attend another patient. Andrew knew better but he spoke up anyway. “So, Doc, did I pass?”
“You'll hear by tonight, Lieutenant,” the doctor said without stopping.
A cute redhead nurse came in a minute later to pick up one of the testing instruments. She saw the frustrated look on his face and paused for a minute then caught his eye. He looked up and she winked. Andrew drove back to his apartment and started to pack.
* * *
The clerk glanced at his watch, only fifteen minutes to closing. Outside San Antonio, the life in a big-box store could often be crazy on a Tuesday, and he had no idea why. The other clerks all claimed Sundays were the worst, but many of them didn't work Tuesday. He hated Tuesdays. This one, though, looked to be ending on a high note. Then the clerk spotted 'him'.
The guy was a nondescript white dude, in his late forties, wearing his typical faded blue jeans and camo pattern tee-shirt. He cleared the door ten minutes before it was to be locked, and he had a massive list dangling from one hand. And he was a regular. “Fuck.”
Vance caught the look from the clerk as he stopped to orient himself in the discount store and smirked to himself. He always did his bulk item shopping on Tuesday because the coupons came in the mail on that day.
A few minutes later, two shopping carts in tow, Vance was in the bulk commodities isle and had his list in one hand as he moved down the row. Beans, he’d circled on the list, kidney beans were on sale and he possessed two combinable coupons. He stopped to scowl at the stock, there were only forty five-pound bags left on the shelf. With a sweep of the arm, they went into the first cart and he quickly moved on.
The clerk glanced at his watch again, forty minutes later (half an hour after closing) as Vance deftly maneuvered his two carts up with a smile. The manager spotted his arrival from the office and came out to assist. “Afternoon Mr. Cartwright,” he smiled.
“And to you too, Mr. Owens.” Vance liked the older man, he ran a good store. He only wished the guy would hire more amiable cashiers. The young man glared at him as Vance began unloading his heavily laden carts.
Twenty minutes into ringing up the load and scanning coupons, curiosity got the better of the kid. “What do you do with all of this stuff, anyway?” The store manager grinned as he placed a huge bag of rice into an empty cart. He knew what was coming.
“Tee-aught-wawki!”
“Huh?”
“T-E-O-T-W-A-W-K-I,” Vance spelled out the acronym. “Stands for the end of the world as we know it.” Another blank look. “The government is conspiring with foreign mega-corporations to strangle our food supply and kill 99% percent of all humans on the planet.” The kids look turned from confused to bemused, then horrified.
“Oh, man, really?!”
“Without a doubt,” Vance says and fished in his pocket for a card. On it was printed an endorsement to support Ron Paul for president, and a number of internet links that would educate the kid. The store manager just chuckled and kept the goods moving. He'd taken a card that first day Vance came in during an After-Christmas sale. Within a few minutes of checking links he'd realized the 'prepper' was as crazy as a loon. But his money was just as green as any other big customer’s, so he made sure to stay open for him whenever he showed up.
Vance whistled as he loaded his ten year old Jeep Grand Cherokee, emptied of most of the usual accoutrements of his lifestyle just for this trip. The clerk was finishing locking the door and trying to not glare at Vance as he grumbled and headed for his car, a full hour after closing time.
The drive out of suburban San Antonio in the early spring evening was enjoyable. The weather was clear and the temp under eighty degrees. Vance had a well-played cassette of Boston, Don't Look Back playing on the venerable Jeep's stereo and the back of the car was stuffed full of what he estimated to be three months’ supplies.
The sun was getting low to the horizon when he glided down the exit off Hwy 90 just west of Hondo. Another twenty minutes brought him to within view of Flag Mountain off State Road 462, he turned into an unmarked dirt road. His retreat driveway.
The cabin had been originally built in the 1930s. Abandoned in the 1960s, his father had bought it for next to nothing in 1982. Over the intervening decade the elder Cartwright spent many weekends restoring, upgrading, and loving the four room, seven hundred square foot cabin. The three hundred surrounding acres were partially wooded and teamed with wildlife. However, just as he was finishing his restoration, Vance's father had succumbed to a sudden heart-attack. His mother had left years ago, so Vance inherited the cabin.
Vance had left Texas and made a success of himself by selling software in California, but when he sold the company five years ago he found himself back in Texas, and began spending way too much time on the internet. A few conspiracy theories later, and he was a born-again doomsday prepper.
Now, five years later, and considerably poorer than when he started, Vance had recruited a small number of like-minded families, expanded his once small cabin, and stocked it with everything he would need to survive the end of the world, as he knew it anyway.
He gave a little honk as he pulled into the covered space next to the cabin. Lexus, his five year-old Doberman/Shepherd mix came running from the woods, tail wagging and tongue lolling. “Hey girl,” he said as he climbed out and got a face licking for his effort. “You ever catch that rabbit?” Lexus didn't have anything to say, and promptly went running off again.
“How'd the sale go?” asked a familiar voice from the cabin door. Ann stood there with a coffee cup in one hand and brushing her long red hair from her face with the other.
“Good, you ready to help with the unload?”
“Tim and Nicole will be here in an hour,” she reminded him, “be easier with four hands.”
“True,” he agreed and shrugged, “got any more of that joe?”
“Sure thing, sailor.”
The trees shaded the cabin well and the coffee was good, as usual. In the years Ann had shared the cabin with him, they'd grown into something more than friends, but less than husband and wife. He'd been within an inch of asking her to marry him more than once, but something always stopped him. Maybe his own short marriage twenty years ago, or her long but equally doomed one that ended just before they met. She was a longtime friend of the Prices (Tim & Nicole) and that had led them to introduce her. Along with Lisa and Brad Hopkins, they finished up the group he'd built around The Retreat.
“I love coming up here,” Ann said as she sipped her coffee and watched Lexus sniffing around a tree a hundred yards away.
“You should stay more often,” Vance suggested. Was this one of those times when he'd almost ask, only to lose his will at the last moment. He pretended to study the bottom of the heavy ceramic mug through the dark brown liquid.
“I'd like that,” she said. Something more was unsaid there and Lance looked up. Sure enough, she was staring at him. He lifted and eyebrow in an unspoken question. She opened her mouth to speak, but took another drink of coffee. To his surprise, a tear formed in the corner of her eye.
“Shit,” he said and moved closer. “I'm sorry I never… you know…”
“It's not that,” she sniffed. “I mean, sure, I'd like to be an honest girl... it's just...”
“What then?”
She pushed the coffee mug away and looked him in the eye. Something said 'uh oh,' in the back of his mind just before she spoke. “I'm late.”
A part of his mind laughed. No, you were right on time for a change. Another part recoiled in instant horror. The c
onfused look on his face must have been obvious because Ann reached into her pocket and produced a tiny plastic appliance and slid it across to him. On its side was a little window where a red “+” was clearly visible.
“Oh,” he said, and promptly fainted.
Chapter 4
Wednesday, April 11
Lisha watched the wind and rain lash at the window pane and tried to concentrate. The rocking of the converted oil rig didn't help her attempt to get some work done. The early April gale was only a Category Two in the Saffir-Simpson scale, or so said the crew. To her, born and raised in New York's Bronx, it was damn near the end of the world!
“Just a little storm, Dr. Breda,” a lilting feminine voice laughed from the corner of the lab. Lisha glanced over to where Assa, her young Irish redheaded lab assistant, worked away on the spectrograph, one ear sporting a compact Bluetooth set that no doubt pumped non-stop techno music.
“Little storm to you maybe,” Lisha grumbled and popped another anti-nausea pill before turning back to her computer, “crazy Scottish bitch.”
“Crazy Irish bitch!” Assa reminded her. Of course Lisha knew where she was from, it was part of their banter. “The sequencer finished its run.”
“Thanks,” she replied to her assistant and checked the computer. Once she'd returned from New Mexico she'd turned over the samples of the unusual fox to another team and went back to work on The Project. However, now she was seeing the first results from the bio-genetic workups come onto her large plasma displays and it made her lean in closer. “What the hell,” she mumbled as she looked at the genetic sequencing.
“Problem, Boss?”
“The protein sequences are all messed up.” Assa was there in a moment looking over her shoulder. The small girl pushed her mop of red hair back over one shoulder as she read the data and nodded. “Polluted, is all I can think.”