Mr. Li's father was the laboratory supervisor at Bug City and Mr. Li was easily affected by a mix of alcohol and chloral hydrate. Careful application of feminine wiles by Cho's friends helped immensely. Mr. Li was especially susceptible to feminine wiles, even more so than drugs. His normal dose was much smaller than for the others, possibly because he was thin, possibly because of the feminine wiles and possibly because, far more than any of the others, Mr. Li really wanted to be important. As important as his father. But as Mr. Li turned back toward the window, John could see tears slowly creeping down Mr. Li's cheeks. Mr. Li now understood he would never be married and he would never be important.
As John turned back toward the factory across the street, he saw faces reflected in the glass once again. Faces that were hollow, atop bodies which were transparent. Transparent as the ghosts they would soon be. John was glad he had met these apparitions and sad they soon would be ghosts in his memory as well as in his life. He could only hope he would not be one of them.
Twice this month and once last month, at his all-weekend bashes, John's guests had talked of the latest super-deadly modified plague virus being perfected at Bug City, N23Sx4-17a as it was known. Not just deadly, but highly communicable, far worse than the Black Plague, a bacteria which set civilization back hundreds of years each time it hit.
It was the twenty-third version created and it was a combination of bird, swine, human and bovine flues. The cellular genetics department had spent many years combining genes of the parent viruses with parts of different human flue viruses. A major task, it was their crowning accomplishment. Not just a single virus, it was seventeen different viruses all genetically welded into one. The letter 'a' at the end was significant, but John had not found out why. Without a doubt, this virus was a feat of genetic engineering magic designed to produce gruesome death and devastation.
John sent three communiques over the last two months to his handlers in Quantico, coded into pictures of sunsets he posted on his innocent-looking blog. A blog that spy agencies of many governments, no doubt, spent many late-night hours trying to decipher.
John had spent his whole life watching others. Recording what they did. A historian of sorts. Not really taking part in life, just observing and reporting. But, that time was now over. He could wait for someone to come to help him, But, then he would die a ghastly death because no one would ever come. No matter how long he waited and no matter how many sunset pictures he posted, his handlers back in the US would not help. Sending in a plane for an extraction, as they always did in the movies, was never an option. The Marines would not invade China to save a lone twenty-five year old American. If he waited, he would become that ghost he was watching in the window.
John knew the situation when he took this assignment. He was on his own. That was the real challenge of the job, not obtaining the information. That was easy and fun. The hard part was getting away with it. This was what made his heart pound in his ears, his brain swirl with plans and his fingers tingle, anticipating his next move. He had been watching for signs. He had uncovered the strongest hints and rumors, but now the signs were as clear as day. Clear to everyone. Clear as a man-sized black plastic bag could be. Three of them.
In summer camp, they said those best at surviving had four major skills. The first was staying calm in a crisis. John figured he was normally calm and after a little initial nervousness, he was now calm and completely in control. The second was to be an expert in improvisation. He thought that his improvisational skills were decent, but not the best and not as good as Cho's. She could always pull a rabbit out of the hat.
The third was to be an expert in DIY. John was not a DIY person, although he had some survival skills. He had never built a house or even changed a tire on a car, but he had some friends in the US who were as experienced in DIY and improvising as any human on the planet. These men were not only talented, but reliable and trustworthy. They could be counted on. Especially if he could work things just right with a Japanese friend. It would take a little finesse, but his plan was definitely doable.
The last requirement was to be a good leader. He had led many teams in spy summer camp and in school and had led the operation in Ruhan. Not exactly a rookie but not a seasoned professional, either. Cho was a good leader, operating her own businesses. Between the two of them, and his friends in the US, he and a few others could take control of their destiny and survive in the lawless aftermath of a soon to be devastated world.
Many other skills would be needed. Medical and dental, food preparation, hunting, farming, shooting, military tactics, scavenging, and more. He had planned for this day. He not only had a bug-out bag, as all survivalists recommended, but he also had a bug-out list. People he could trust and people who trusted him. All the pieces were now in place and fit tightly together like a precision jigsaw puzzle. He just had to bring them together into a team -- to survive.
A phrase kept running through his mind. 'The strong may survive, but the weak shall die.' Was he strong enough to survive? Or was he already dead and now just waiting for the first symptoms of the plague to catch up to him? Scratchy throat, runny nose, sneezing, weakness, pain in the muscles, redness in the face. Who knew what else? Was he destined to be dropped into one of those black plastic bags and tossed into a pit in the ground where a giant bulldozer awaited to cover him with six feet of dirt. He couldn't avoid noticing a slight tickle in the back of his throat. Imagination or reality?
It was late, possibly too late. Time was important. He turned quickly to Chung to provide him with an alibi.
"Chung, I have a meeting in a few minutes and I left my notes in my apartment. If anyone asks, I'm going back to my apartment." John knew no one would ask. No one would care. So, he grabbed his sunglasses and hurried toward the stairway.
"Later, Big Guy. But seriously -- John. Talk to me. Where are you going? What should I do? The truth." Chung's voice was full of concern, fear, worry. His last words made it out from a scratchy throat, only with great effort.
John turned hastily, walked back two steps and looked Chung in the eyes. "The truth, Chung, is that we are both the same. We are both watchers and we are, neither of us, doers. We both must now change. We have to do what has to be done. Whatever it is. Whatever. We cannot be afraid to be bold, Chung. We can never again be weak. This is our last chance to live, to be strong -- because the weak shall die."
Chapter 3 - John Thompson
John Thompson was a spy -- with fifteen years of experience. Many spies don't live that long, not out in the field. His stepfather taught him spying and his father taught him survival skills and survival tactics. Most people with that much experience would be in their late thirties, maybe even forties. John Thompson was twenty-five.
After graduating from college, he spent two months finishing spy training, a month visiting friends, and then he moved to Ruhan in southern China. He went to work for a small American import/export company specializing in computer chips. It was a minor town of little importance with a single electronics factory and a chemical plant, which supplied plastics to the chip factory.
Ruhan also hosted a small government laboratory, known formally as the Biological Warfare Research Center, or locally as, Bug City. John couldn't work at Bug City, no foreigners did. No foreigners were allowed to visit or even go within two blocks of the Research Center. John's office was three blocks away and the computer chip factory was across the street.
From his cubicle by the window on the third floor, he could see the entrance to the chip factory and, down the street, the barricaded and heavily-guarded main gate to Bug City. A small high-res video camera and solid-state recorder built into a paperweight made sure he didn't miss any deliveries or visitors. All such information was reported weekly to his handlers by embedding the data into pictures of sunsets he posted on his otherwise boring blog. A blog, which was read by most intelligence services and many newspapers.
The key to writing the blog was to pass his most important informat
ion to his handlers secretly while allowing some basic information to filter through to his other readers. Just enough to keep them reading and grateful. Some day he would need a favor and grateful people might be the difference between life and death.
John was five eleven with blue-black hair, high cheekbones, handsome, well supplied with money, and now, he had Cho. She trusted John and accepted his profession and the illegality of what he was doing just as he trusted her and accepted her illegal and immoral business activities. She helped immensely with women and drugs as well as providing venues for illicit relations between John's quarries and Cho's employees.
John's job as a spy was to extract as much information as possible from the children of Bug City employees. That required alcohol, drugs, women and parties.
John occasionally thought about the illegality of his work, but he was in a foreign land, working to save his country, possibly saving it from total destruction. He could live with that illegality. He was a patriot.
The problem he wrestled with, and often had bad dreams about, was the immorality of how he did his job. He drugged people without their knowledge, perhaps even causing some to become addicted. He plied them with alcohol, name brand and the best, probably making some alcoholics.
He provided them with attractive and willing female companions and venues for whatever activities they wished to pursue, causing or at least helping them to become corrupt and immoral. And perhaps worst, he paid these willing females to be willing. He paid much more than anyone else in the province to make sure that his parties had the most attractive women and the most interesting and compliant.
He paid so much that many of those poor women who were not willing and were not interested were tempted well beyond their capacity to resist. That was his major regret. The corruption of the innocent.
Was his country really worth such perversion? Of course. Saving his country was worth any price. But when the tire meets the road, something wears away and it's not the concrete. John worried that he had corrupted his soul far beyond any chance of redemption.
In spite of his sins, people frequently referred to John as 'charming.' He loved that word. And they were right, if charm is the ability to make others think they are smarter than you, when they're not.
When he wasn't organizing another of his infamous all-night, all-day, all-weekend parties for his special friends, he continued his study of survival tactics. He knew that what he learned would come in handy, if not today, then tomorrow, or the next day.
Chapter 4 - The Inspector
As he started down the stairs from his office, John pulled out his phone and punched in Cho's number. He had to convince her that the threat was imminent and that he needed her -- far, far more than ever before. As much as life itself. That, of course, was true, but he had to sell it, like he had never sold anything before, to Cho and to all the others he would need. His partners must have the skills to survive and the knowledge to survive, but most important, they must have the attitude of a survivor. The sheer force of will to do whatever was necessary to survive, no matter what it was, without question and without hesitation. No matter how horrible or how offensive or how repugnant. The will to survive would be the most important ingredient in this bizarre stew which would soon become the new world.
That little voice in the back of his head had been talking, louder and louder. John had not been listening, but now it was screaming. 'Get out of Dodge!' 'Go somewhere safe!' 'Go now' 'What are you waiting for?' and finally, 'Just GO!' The little voice was right. Stop planning and go. The plan was solid.
Before he was off the phone with Cho, he had run down the stairs and was now running up the street toward his apartment. Police were on every street corner. Not unusual. Every policeman was watching him. They usually watched him. He thought it was because he was American, different, taller, but somehow, this was not like the past. Somehow, not the same. Was that just in his mind? Hopefully.
As he slowed to a jog, he smiled at one policeman, but the officer didn't smile back. He slowed to a fast walk and smiled at the next, but this one didn't smile either. They usually smiled. Most of them probably knew him or knew of him. Everybody in town knew of him. Because of his parties. Those wonderful parties. Everybody in town wanted to be invited. But that was over. Damn! What a great job. A great life. All over. All gone, with a new and strange and dangerous future awaiting.
He had walked this route four times a day for three years, as he always went back to his apartment for lunch. Each time he passed by the policemen on the corners. Did they know what was going on? What was really going on? Would anyone who knew what was really going on stay where they were? Do what they had been doing every day of their lives -- on the last day of their lives?
The world was about to collapse. Why stay at your job if the world was crumbling around you? Even if you were a dedicated policeman? Why not go home? Why not get so drunk you didn't know where you were? So drunk you thought you'd live forever? John thought about it, but only for a second. Were they ignorant of the situation or not?
As he crossed the next intersection, he turned to check for cars and bicycles and noticed two men in grey suits half a block behind. As soon as he turned, they started running toward him. Definitely, a bad sign. John ran down the next alley, which fronted several electronics shops he frequented. He ran into the first, where he had bought a number of video cameras. The salesman immediately recognized him and smiled. He put up a hand to stop the man from coming to shake his hand, jumped the back counter and dashed through a curtain leading to the back. He was out the back door and into another alley in a second. He turned left, ran to the next street and peered around the corner.
A man in a grey suit was at the intersection to the right. He tried to think of a disguise, but a six foot American was easy to spot in China. What to do? Maybe if he had a dress, he could hunch down and nobody would notice his height. He quickly ran to the left and into a large department store. He made his way past display cases, through the normally dense crowd of shoppers and up the stairs to the women's department. He grabbed a dress with a full skirt and headed to the changing room.
A matronly Chinese woman looked at him and shook her head as he dashed into the ladies' dressing room. He put on the dress over his clothes, rolled up his pants legs and walked back into the store, hunched down. Looking around, he could see no wigs for sale. He grabbed a wig from a dummy in a display and stood in front of a mirror to check his appearance. Not perfect. The dress was two sizes too big and the wig was a size too small, but better than nothing, he thought. The matronly lady again shook her head.
Back on the main floor, he received a few strange looks as he walked hunched over slowly to the main doors and out onto the street, continuing toward his apartment. A bus was loading down the street. He ran as well as he could and jumped onboard just as the bus doors were closing. The driver gave him a strange look, but went back to his driving. The man in the grey suit at the intersection was looking around, craning his head in every direction.
The bus stopped a block from his apartment, as close as the bus would go. He walked, slouched down until he reached the alley behind his apartment building. He ducked in and removed the dress. Finally, he arrived at the door to his apartment building, a four-story brick building where he rented the entire fourth floor. Just as he opened the door to the building, a man stepped up. He was Chinese, five four, around one hundred and ten pounds.
John looked at the cheap, grey, poorly-tailored suit and thought, this is the end. No, the end is only when you give up. And that will happen only when I'm dead. I'm not dead. I will never give up. I have to be brave and I have to be daring if I want to live. I told Chung to be bold. Now, I have to be bold. He looked back at the man and scanned him for signs.
Was the man muscular or frail? The jacket hung badly and there were no wrinkles to indicate muscles. Just wrinkles in the trousers made from sitting at a desk, day after day. The man looked thin in the face and frail. Definite
ly not muscular.
Did he move well? Possibly, but not that well. Not well enough. That was the key. Every muscle in his body was not ready to do what was necessary. His motions were not smooth, a little jerky.
Was the man in total control of himself? No! Definitely not. His left eyebrow was twitching. Sweat coated his upper lip. He was nervous. He didn't normally do this kind of work. He was worried.
Was he watching John closely? Yes. Definitely.
Was his whole body coiled like a tightly-wound spring ready to launch himself into action and rebuff any attack John would make, from any direction, at any instant? Absolutely not! Even with a well-prepared person, the attacker always has the advantage. They taught that in summer camp. 'Never be the victim. Always be the attacker.'
This was a man who normally sat at a desk and whose main exercise was playing with his child at night. Maybe, he was the one who deciphered John's communications. Maybe, he wasn't sure of himself. Maybe, he wasn't sure he could prove John was a spy.
The man was worried, but not readied. An essential difference. The man wasn't expecting serious resistance. That was logical, as John had never shown any signs of aggression or physical strength while he was in China or anytime in his public life.
In short, could he surprise and overpower the policeman and take control? Was he ready to do anything necessary? Definitely. His mind was ready and his body was ready. But don't be overconfident. That was a killer emotion. Do what has to be done. That was all John needed to think about. Anything was better than being trapped in Ruhan with fifty thousand plague victims, dying a painful death from the virus.
The Weak Shall Die: Complete Collection (Four Volume Set) Page 2