Chucklers (Book 1): Laughter is Contagious

by Jeff Brackett

  “Bugging out?”

  Linton looked over at her. He could see that she was taking him seriously now. She knew that of all of them, Emmet Pismire had the most to lose by overreacting. Things had to be grim, indeed, if he was willing to risk blowing a promising career in Naval Intelligence. More than that. He was evidently willing to risk prison.

  “So what is it?”

  “He couldn’t give details over the phone. All he was able to pass on was that it has something to do with a global pandemic. That whatever it is has a very high mortality rate, and that we need to get everyone to the bunker within the next three days. Two days now.”

  Michelle was silent. Linton assumed she was thinking through the implications of what he’d told her. It had been a low blow, invoking her dad to bring her home. She’d known he was lying, of course. Her father had been in a boating accident last year. He had been fishing on Lake Conroe and some drunk in a jet ski had slammed into him. He had spent two months in a coma while Michelle had been forced to watch him wither away.

  Linton had tried his best to support her emotionally through the ordeal. He remembered how much it had hurt her to have to sign the papers that let the hospital disconnect her father from life support. Even worse was that the man had held on without life support for almost an hour, chest heaving as his body instinctively struggled for air. At the end, his eyes had flown open, and the old man had stared sightlessly at the ceiling as his last breath left his chest. Michelle had buried her face in Linton’s chest as her father had passed away, and for several months she’d had nightmares in which her father had accused her of killing him.

  In bringing that memory back to the surface, Linton had hoped to stress to her the importance he placed on getting her home. And it had worked. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be pissed at him for doing so. From the corner of his eye, he watched her anger fade as she thought through the implications.

  “All right. So what do we do?”

  “I’ve already got the bugout bags in the back of the truck. I also have some gear packed up at home. For now, we go home and get some rest. We’ll wait to hear from Emmet tomorrow and hopefully he’ll be able to give us more details.”

  “What if something happens before we hear from him?”

  “Then we head for Winnie. Erin’s already notified the Hive members, and everyone is supposed to be there by tomorrow.”

  She was silent for a few more minutes before asking, “This isn’t another drill, is it?”

  Linton shook his head.

  Her shoulders slumped. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot.”

  Chapter 37

  Interview with Dr. Shiri Sondheimer at the CDC Quarantine Station

  Bush Intercontinental Airport

  Houston, Texas

  Recorded November 23rd following the Bahama Queen Coast Guard rescue

  Recording presented to the Joint CDC/WHO Emergency Commission investigating the Kampala Syndrome Pandemic

  Two men come on screen on one side of a clear glass wall. The first man, dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt, takes a seat in the plastic chair placed there before the recording began. He opens a small tablet computer and turns it on. The second man is dressed in a military uniform, and stands to one side, barely within the frame of the video.

  On the other side of the glass, a young woman in blue scrubs sits in a similar chair. Hers however, is behind a small desk on which a small pot sits on a pad. Steam rises from the spout, as it does from the coffee mug beside it. There is also a folder from which the edges of several sheets of paper protrude sitting before her.

  The interview begins:

  “Dr. Sondheimer, we appreciate your seeing us so promptly. My name is John Markham, and I’ve been asked to record this interview with you as part of the CDC investigation into what happened on the Bahama Queen.”

  “Of course.” Dr. Sondheimer picks up the coffee mug and sips. She sets the cup back down, and appears lost in thought for a moment.

  The man in khakis clears his throat. “Dr. Sondheimer?”

  She looks up at the faces before her, her own face drawn and weary. “Apologies. I haven't slept in almost two days. Let me begin by saying that this is not going to be good news.”

  The man in the chair nods. “I suspected as much.” He waves a hand at the camera. “For the record, would you start at the beginning?”

  Sondheimer shuffles through the notes before her and selects a particular page. She skims through it, apparently refreshing her memory before she speaks. “In the pre-dawn hours yesterday morning, the Coast Guard was sent to investigate a suspected outbreak of Kampala Syndrome on the Bahama Queen, a luxury cruise ship in the Gulf of Mexico. The cruise line’s home office contacted them after they lost communication with the ship. At almost the same time, the Coast Guard received a garbled transmission from one of the crew indicating that some of his fellow officers had… his words were that they had ‘gone crazy.’ The transmission ended abruptly, and all attempts to re-establish communications failed. The ship lost power shortly after that, and the Coast Guard immediately launched an investigation.

  “The first helicopter they sent out reported that they saw large crowds of people dancing and laughing on the decks. Upon landing, they reported that they were under attack. Recordings of the transmission revealed that there were several people laughing in the background while various weapons were being fired. It’s unknown what the fate of the helicopter was, as all communications were lost, and the helicopter wasn’t there when the second one was sent. Analysis of the recording, however…”

  The man on the outside of the quarantine wall nods impatiently. “Excuse me, Dr. Sondheimer. We’ve read that report and heard the recordings, too. Could we skip ahead to the autopsy? We’re more concerned with what caused the death. Was it the result of a disease? If so, where did it come from, is it contagious, and just what is our level of exposure?”

  Sondheimer shakes her head. “Very well.” She shuffles through the folder, finally pulling out another page. “Subject number eight was…”

  “Wait.” The man begins tapping quickly on his tablet computer. “Number eight? I thought the second helicopter only retrieved three people from the cruise ship.”

  “They did. According to the reports I received, they managed to capture, restrain, and sedate three people. Those three were initially brought to Houston Methodist Hospital.” She looks up from her notes. “Methodist has one of the best virology research departments in the area.”

  Markham nods, types something into his tablet, and waves his hand indicating that she should proceed.

  “All three subjects brought back acted erratically, laughing and attacking any person they saw. Kampala was suspected, so I was sent to meet the helicopter. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get there before they did, and since the nature of the outbreak was being kept quiet, the ER crew brought the patients from the helicopter into the ER. Not knowing what to look for, all their reports showed was that the subjects were obviously mentally impaired, and extremely violent. When several of the staff began to exhibit similar behavior, they initiated quarantine procedures. I arrived just as they were locking down.”

  “And that’s when you had them transported here?”

  Sondheimer nods. “For the last few weeks, the CDC has been made aware of the rapid spread of a disease or condition known as Kampala Syndrome, named after the city in Uganda in which the first controlled study was attempted. We received only preliminary reports from the WHO base there before the communications blackout two days later. As far as I know, there have been no other reports.

  “I had seen those initial reports from Kampala before they went silent, and recognized the similarity in reported symptoms. I felt it was imperative that we get these people into isolation as quickly as possible. By this time, there were seventeen of them.”

  “Why did you feel it necessary to move them?”

  “Whi
le Methodist Hospital is a fine virology research facility, they aren't as well equipped to quarantine large numbers of infected patients as we are here at the CDC. Seeing how quickly we went from three patients to seventeen, I felt the more secure facility here was more appropriate.”

  Markham nods again, indicating that Sondheimer should continue.

  “This afternoon, subject eight managed to break free of his restraints. He attacked the physician who was attempting to take a blood sample. Clawed the man's eyes out and bit through his carotid. The guard on duty was forced to shoot the subject, but we were unable to save Dr. Johnson.” With shaking hands, Sondheimer takes another drink.

  “Which is why we are here, Doctor. You reported that you performed an autopsy on the subject, and that there is significant damage in some areas of the brain?”

  “Not precisely.”

  The man sits back in his chair and cocks his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “There is no evidence of actual damage to the brain. Rather, there is evidence of considerable change in the neural pathways of the subject’s brain.”

  “But I was told that only happens when there has been a traumatic event to the brain, or severe swelling, such as that caused by encephalitis or a cancerous growth.”

  “Someone has briefed you pretty well.” Sondheimer nods. “That’s usually true. In fact, I did notice similarities between the patient’s brain, and that of someone suffering from viral encephalitis. However, there was no swelling of the tissue, no tumors, and no evidence of trauma.”

  The man is silent for a moment, apparently thinking about her statement. “All right, Doctor. You’ve told me what wasn’t there. So what similarities did you see?”

  “In the cases you mentioned—cerebral edema, trauma, or cancer—rerouting the neural pathways is the body’s attempt to bypass a damaged, or non-functioning portion of the brain. In the case of Number Eight, it appears to be the work of an unknown virus.”

  “I’m confused, Doctor. Didn’t you just say that there was no evidence of a viral infection?”

  “No. I said there was no evidence of cerebral trauma or swelling as is typically caused by a viral infection. However, the routing of the neural pathways is consistent enough between the subjects studied, that it must be considered a symptom in and of itself.”

  “You said subjects. I thought you had only autopsied the one.”

  “Two actually. I also performed an autopsy on Dr. Johnson. Both subjects showed abnormal density in the white matter of the brain.”

  The man sighs. “And white matter is…?”

  Dr. Sondheimer furrows her brows. “I’m sorry, but I assumed the CDC was going to send a specialist.”

  “I am a specialist, Doctor. Just not in neurobiology.”

  “Do you mind if I ask just what your specialty is?”

  The man shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. But let’s get back to this white matter.”

  Dr. Sondheimer purses her lips, appearing to think for a moment. “I don’t suppose you know anything about computer networks?”

  “Let’s assume I do.”

  “Well, the human brain consists of two types of tissue: grey matter and white matter. You can think of the grey matter as a data center consisting of hundreds, or even thousands of servers. The white matter, then, would be the network cables connecting the servers to one another. And when something goes wrong with one of the servers, the body attempts to reroute the network cables around the damaged computer, allowing the information to continue flowing to the rest of the network.”

  The man nods and waves her on.

  “In the cases of Number Eight and Dr. Johnson, it appeared that there was an unusual amount of white matter in cross sections of the brain, so I decided to test for unusual axon activity with a white matter scan.”

  “A what?”

  “Sorry, it’s a relatively new type of scan, a neuroimaging technique that allows us to see microstructural properties of the brain’s white matter. Basically, it lets us see what parts of the data center are communicating with what other parts. And in this case, we found some fascinating, and terrifying neural activity.

  “There seems to be unusual activity in the limbic system, the nucleus accumbens, ventral pallium, the orbitofrontal and anterior cingulate cortex, the hypothalamus and septum pelluci—”

  “Doctor? Once again, we are not neurobiologists. However, it seems to me that you’re describing functions in a living brain. I don’t follow how you could have found this out during an autopsy.”

  “That’s correct. We sedated the other infected subjects and tested them.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry for the interruption. Please continue.”

  Sondheimer shuffles through her notes again. “It appears that this virus is rewriting the neural pathways of the human brain to create a kind of feedback loop between parts of the brain that shouldn’t be linked. The end result is that the subject becomes disoriented, as if they were intoxicated, and increasingly aggressive and violent. Yet the condition also creates a kind of euphoria, and stimulates the… what most people simply call the pleasure center of the brain. The cognitive ability of the subject is suppressed, and the axons tying it to the pleasure center are, for lack of a better term, cross-wired with the areas of the brain that typically report pain.” She takes another deep breath. “And all of that is tied in to the reward centers, so that the more aggressive and violent the person becomes, the more pleasure they feel, and the cycle turns into an addiction for them.”

  There is silence for a moment on both sides of the glass when she is finished speaking.

  “Have you been able to determine the vectors?”

  She holds her hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “All vectors.”

  “All?”

  “Yes. Preliminary tests show a better than ninety percent transmission rate via body fluids, and nearly as high for air-born dispersal.” She looks up from her notes and clasps her hands before her, waiting for further questions from the men on the other side of the glass.

  “Do you have any recommendations on how to treat or stop it?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s too late to stop it. From what I can tell, it was too late to stop it weeks ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that rerouting the neural pathways of the human brain doesn’t happen overnight. These people were initially exposed weeks ago.”

  “But that’s not possible. The people only got on that cruise ship a few days ago. You yourself told us that the people from the hospital were only exposed yesterday.”

  Sondheimer nods. “Yes, I did. But from what I can tell, that wasn’t their initial exposure. I believe that there is a sequence of events that triggers Kampala Syndrome. The viral exposure is only the beginning. It’s like shingles.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For the last few decades, we’ve had a vaccine for Chicken Pox. But before that, it was simply accepted as a given that about ninety-five percent of children would contract the disease before the age of eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry, but are you telling me that this virus is some… some new strain of chicken pox?”

  “Please just listen. Chicken pox was so accepted that parents would often have pox parties when one of their kids caught it. They would let the other parents in the neighborhood know, and those parents would often purposely expose their kids just so they could get it over with on their own schedule, and not have to worry about it in the future.”

  “And what does…?”

  Sondheimer holds up her hand. “For many people, chicken pox wasn’t the end of the problem, though. It was just the first presentation of a three-stage disease. For about one out of every three adults, the virus reactivated after many years of dormancy. It was triggered by some sort of lowering of the immune system, whether excessive emotional stress, another illness, excessive use of corticosteroids, or any number of other immune inhibiting situations. At that
point, the virus came back in another form. We call that form shingles.

  “I believe Kampala Syndrome is similar in its makeup, except its initial stage is less obvious than anything else I’ve ever seen. Other than possibly a few headaches, I don’t think there are any external symptoms. And like shingles, the later instance lies dormant in the body until a triggering event.

  “This is still speculation, but I believe Kampala’s first stage doesn’t really go dormant. Instead, it continues to replicate within the body. Since there are no real external symptoms, no one is aware that they are being turned into living incubators until the exposed person reaches a tipping point.”

  “What sort of tipping point?”

  “There’s no way to know for sure. Best guess? A certain level of exposure, a density of the virus within the body, followed by a triggering event.”

  Markham is silent, typing notes into his tablet. He finishes, then looks back up at Sondheimer. “And the trigger?”

  “Once the tipping point has been reached, it appears that the actual trigger is simply becoming amused by something.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Laughter releases various neurotransmitters into the body. Once critical mass is reached, the serotonin and dopamine released by a bout of laughter triggers the rerouted neural pathways and the person succumbs to full-blown Kampala.”

  The two men look at one another before the seated man tries another question. “Dr. Sondheimer, if what you say is true, then there are people who are already infected and don’t currently show any symptoms.”

  Sondheimer nods.

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  She takes another drink from her glass. Her hand shakes as she sets the glass back on the desk. “Because once I realized how long it would take for the cerebral changes to take place, I began to suspect. So I tested everyone in this facility. Without fail, every one showed the same results. And I’ve personally seen three of my people succumb to the syndrome. Each time, it was after they began laughing or made some sort of joke.”

  “Doctor, there has to be some way to stop this virus.”