Virus: The Day of Resurrection

by Sakyo Komatsu

  Sensing the tide of conversation beginning to ebb, Major Grey looked at the minister—in his position, he had a solid grasp of what was going on behind the scenes of the Karlsky incident. Why had a fastidious man like Karlsky gone and done such a reckless thing as to divulge state secrets? What ring of professional spies had he made the deal with? Who had been trying to buy those secrets from the spies that had served as middlemen? Had the deal been carried out successfully? Intelligence Section Five had been conducting an ultra-secret investigation of all of these questions for the past three months. Moreover, he intended to bury this incident in the shadows, with the approval of the Intelligence Bureau director and the minister. There was nothing to be gained in making public the failure of the Army Intelligence Bureau. There was a ninety percent probability that the deal had not been completed. In which case, he didn’t think it was a grave matter for national defense. Even so, it was necessary now to bolt up that laboratory good and tight, so nothing like this could ever happen again.

  “Talk to our head of security about this problem,” Sir Lindner said, getting up from his seat. “Well, then, I think it’s time—”

  “Arthur,” murmured the minister, looking out the window. “If the unthinkable were to happen at your laboratory, what kind of measures are you supposed to take?”

  Sir Lindner’s white eyebrows drew tightly together for the first time. He glared at Major Grey’s face for a long moment, then in a subdued tone said, “We are living with thirty-five tons of TNT every day.” Sir Lindner cleared his throat. “The only ones who know are the chief of security, myself, and two others. The switch is in my room.”

  “And what about the germ cultures?”

  “Flames from napalm jelly burn at two thousand degrees Centigrade. That should take care of them for us.”

  “I would hope they would …” said the minister in an oddly timid voice.

  “Richard, at the very least, you shouldn’t be asking such things in your position.” Sir Lindner glared at Major Grey once more.

  “Ah yes, well, that’s also true,” the minister said, his voice still soft. “Arthur, we have to assume that word of our MM series group has leaked out to a number of other countries. They most likely know what it is as well. Even if we discount what Landon had to say, that one-in-a-million scenario where this … thing gets out and becomes an epidemic would still be a huge mess, and we would be left standing at the focal point of an international scandal. The Soviets might expose us and start raining down criticism …”

  “You’re not talking about that business with Geoffrey Bacon, rest his soul?” said Sir Lindner. “That was back in ’62. I had no connection with the laboratory until long after he went and got himself that lungful of plague. And we’ve managed to keep the newspapers from catching wind of anything this time.”

  “Suppose, however, that as Major Grey suggests, the MM series passed into the hands of a spy ring by way of Karlsky, and then somewhere along the way, by some incredible streak of ill fortune, it got out and caused the sort of horribly virulent epidemic that Landon spoke of. From the humanitarian viewpoint, we could, under certain circumstances, be placed in a position in which we would have to release everything we know about the MM series to the public.”

  For just an instant, Major Grey’s eyes glinted sharply, and he looked at the minister’s profile.

  “Richard Cronin, don’t talk nonsense,” Sir Lindner said harshly. “What are we supposed to do if a man like you—with a duty to defend our country—starts saying such chicken-hearted things? If we did something like that, it would be damaging both to the secrets of our national defense and to the honor of Great Britain. You’re so taken with Landon’s idiotic fantasies because you’re an amateur. Don’t think such nonsense.”

  Sir Lindner’s face was all wrinkles and brown spots, but for a moment it flushed pink with anger. This old man, filled with his narrow-minded pride, would flare up with anger when it came to the dignity of his homeland. “Even if it came to such a thing, in your position, surely you would deny the United Kingdom’s responsibility all the way to the very end. For the sake of the nation’s prestige! Even if, as the case may warrant, Landon … or individuals related to P-5 … needed to be muzzled.”

  “Indeed, I have become a bit timid,” the minister said with a small, exhausted smile. “After all, I lost my daughter two weeks ago to this Tibetan flu epidemic. What do you think, Arthur? Do you think this dreadful influenza pandemic might be some kind of sign, a warning to you people about what you’re doing? According to this morning’s reports, the number of deaths in England alone is about to reach a million.”

  The minister was glaring at him with blazing, bloodshot eyes, but when they met the gaze of his stubborn friend, he added apologetically, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the duty you’re carrying out for our country, Arthur. After all, we both bear responsibility for this.”

  3. Japan

  Golden week was long over, and clear days continued one after another, arid and crisp enough that it was a little chilly outside.

  From time to time, there were intervals of terrible humidity, and then the rainy days began to come interspersed between the periods of sunny weather. The Weather Bureau forecast that the rainy season would arrive a little earlier this year than usual.

  Between half past seven and half past eight on one such morning, commuters riding into downtown Tokyo on the loop line were feeling suddenly surprised to notice an oddly different quality in the usual morning rush hour.

  Three months ago—or even two months ago—the trains at this hour would have been packed to overflowing, but lately they were becoming strangely sparse. At rush hour, the train cars on the national lines were usually so crowded that their doors would bulge outward, as though they might burst open at any moment. Lately, however, there had been room enough that there was no longer any need for station employees to help push last-minute stragglers into the trains or pull them away from the doors when it became impossible to cram any more inside.

  Even among the eddying currents of passengers embarking and disembarking as they headed to work or school—all but spilling over from the platforms—sparse gaps had become visible when one suddenly took a look around. Every year, people always said that as winter gave way to spring, the crowding on rush hour trains would ease somewhat as people stopped wearing their winter coats and began to dress more lightly. This was a myth, however. In a city of twelve million like Tokyo, such seasonal changes were not enough to be felt by commuters. All year round, they were packed in as tight as they could fit—at least under normal circumstances.

  But that May, it was different. It wasn’t because the city and national railway companies’ efforts at easing the nightmarish overcrowding had finally borne fruit. In fact, the national lines were being forced to rearrange their rush-hour schedules to run fewer trains now, since drivers and security personnel were getting harder and harder to find. The trains coming in one after another at each terminal station, which had once arrived at a near-miraculous rate of one every thirty seconds at the peak of the morning rush, had slipped to intervals of forty seconds, then to one minute, and were now arriving two minutes apart. In spite of the smaller number of trains, there was still room to spare in the cars, and people were able to get on and off without jostling one another at all. Was it really conceivable that from half past seven until eight o’clock in the morning that May, you could easily get on and off trains at any platform at Shibuya, Shinjuku, Ikebukuro, Akihabara, Tokyo, or Yūrakuchū stations without having to push and shove against thronging crowds? Three months ago, who could have imagined that by eight-thirty it would already be possible to find places to sit here and there on an inbound train?

  But despite the roomy atmosphere of the train cars, all of the passengers wore brooding, uneasy expressions on their faces. They had at last begun to feel the sense of unearthliness that took hold near the end of the morning rush—an emptiness like the space where a missing tooth had
once been—and to understand that things had now reached a stage at which they could not be easily undone. Although it was May, men were sweating under full overcoats and had silk scarves wrapped around their necks. Whenever people looked around, they saw white masks dotting the insides of the cars like strewn flower petals and felt anew a vague chill within the confines of these sparsely populated rush-hour cars, as when a draft is blowing in from under the door. It was then that they would feel a moment of terror as they wondered if the nasty chill running down their spines might be the first sign that they too had been infected with that loathsome Tibetan flu. Any time someone looked at the as-yet uninfected with moist, feverish eyes, any time that someone coughed violently, people would turn aside and shrink away in faint disgust. However, nearly all of these people also felt a dull, heavy pain around their own eyes and in their own throats and lungs.

  According to classified data that had come to the Ministry of Health and Welfare, the number of those infected with Tibetan flu nationwide was already nearing thirty million. In cities and densely populated areas, the rate of infection was nearing seventy percent. The leadership of the Ministry of Health and Welfare still couldn’t fully accept such nightmarish numbers. From the day that Tibetan flu first arrived in Japan, not even two full months had passed. Even so, the estimated number of those infected by the Asian flu that had started in early summer of 1957 and continued through the following year had been five million. However, these numbers accounted for a period of about a year and included the second wave that hit Japan after that strain of influenza had traveled all the way around the world and come back again. Thirty million in two months! Not three million. There had been no mistake in the order of magnitude. Moreover, the death rate continued climbing uncannily higher, and in the cities, it was about to surpass twenty-five percent.

  In these mostly empty rush-hour cars, people remained as silent as the dead, as if they were afraid of looking at one another’s faces. Tibetan flu was already spreading its wings over these people as an unmistakably sinister omen, and when they looked up into a bright and clear May sky, they saw inauspicious signs of impending disaster. Even so, it wasn’t impossible to find the cheerful chatter that was a part of city life here and there. Yet in that chatter there was a note of emptiness somehow, and a single sigh or a single sneeze would immediately change the conversation into uneasy whispers. But although this ashen sense of unease gradually continued to unfold in the bottoms of the people’s hearts, the tendency to make light of these circumstances remained strong within them.

  Influenza? Why, there’s vaccine for that, isn’t there? There’s a cold medicine called XX that works wonders. Chinese medicine is good. Drink some water boiled with kudzu root. No, boil some earthworms that have been dried in the shade. I’ve heard that antibiotics hardly work at all. What’re you talking about? Eat some healthy food and put a hot water bottle in your bed—you’ll turn right around. Nothing works better than egg sake. Steam some pickled apricots until they turn black, then put them in shochu … The hospital? You’re overreacting. This is just a cold, isn’t it?

  This is just a cold … or flu, right?

  Somewhere deep in their hearts, the word “just” was slowly changing into the words “it can’t be.” In a deep, deep place that had not yet risen to consciousness, the meaning of the symbol that was the word influenza was slowly changing in its gravity.

  “No, this can’t be influenza!”

  A postscript to this change in thinking was where in the newspaper articles related to influenza could be found. Beginning in April, influenza articles were located in the bottom left corner of the newspaper’s society page, but gradually they began to creep toward the upper right. Lower left to upper right … from three-paragraph filler pieces to the top of the society page. Along the way, these articles leapt like sparks from a flame to the living page and culture page, and at last to the international news on page two. Then, in the form of feature reporting on the worldwide tragedy, the articles quickly began to take over the entire international page, dotting it like a hideous outbreak of spotted fever.

  TIBETAN FLU RAVAGES PACIFIC ISLANDS: ENTIRE POPULATION OF FIJI FACING ‘POSSIBLE EXTINCTION’

  NATO COMMANDER SPEAKS ON FLU-CAUSED STRATEGIC CRISIS—40% OF GROUND, AIR FORCES PARALYZED

  FRENCH PRESIDENT ORDERS SPECIAL EMERGENCY MEASURES FOR THREAT OF TIBETAN FLU—SYSTEM PROPOSED FOR EEC NATIONS TO SHARE DOCTORS, HOSPITALS, VACCINE POOL

  GOYA’S TIBETAN FLU DEATHS REACH 200,000—CHOLERA OUTBREAK ALSO SUSPECTED

  No, these disgusting Gothic-faced sores didn’t stop on the international page, but rather spread to the economy, sports, and entertainment pages as well.

  For example …

  —The tenth game of the season, between the Giants and Hiroshima, was called off. Many players on both teams are sick with influenza. The chairmen of the Central and Pacific Leagues met with VIPs from each ball club for an emergency meeting about the schedule from the eleventh game onward. Does this hint that a portion of this season’s schedule will be changed in accordance with the Ministry of Health and Welfare’s measures for stopping the spread of the disease?

  —The entire pitching squad of Toei is down with Tibetan flu. Every player in their lineup for facing Hankyuu is flat on his back.

  —There were barely two thousand spectators at Kourakuen Stadium.

  —Third Baseman Hendrick of Nishitetsu died during the game. The strain of forcing himself to play while ill was to blame.

  —Sumo: Starting from the third day of the tournament, two yokozuna and three ozeki will withdraw due to Tibetan flu. Does the director of the Japan Sumo Association intend to call off the remainder of the summer tournament?

  —S Theater’s musical has been canceled due to multiple absences among the main cast, supporting cast, and dancers. The outlook is bleak for June performances.

  —Production of films continue to be halted. The sudden deaths of big stars have dealt blows to productions that could not be covered for in time.

  —The index numbers for manufacturing dropped by 22 percent in May. Reduction of operation in steel and machinery production is certain. Shortages of skilled on-site workers continue.

  —The Dow plunged to a record low. In June, will it drop another seven hundred yen? Only volumes of chemical and pharmaceutical stocks are rising sharply. The average is 12 percent lower compared to last month.

  —Prices for fresh foods continue to explode. Outlook dim for a reopening of egg trading. The Ministry of Health and Welfare calls for strict punishments for anyone selling the meat of chickens that died of illness.

  —Both wholesale and retail prices climbed dramatically in May. The danger of “Tibetan flu inflation” increases.

  Then at the end of May came the big news that sent shock waves around the world: SOVIET PREMIER DIES SUDDENLY OF INFLUENZA. Once this news hit, the Tibetan flu stories suddenly jumped to the front page. They would never disappear.

  It was on the front page, at the top of the political page, with the large headlines used for international stories. Other articles quickly appeared, such as “Government Convenes Emergency Cabinet Meeting to Discuss Tibetan Flu Problem,” “Temporary Administrative Measures for Combating Tibetan Flu,” “Prime Minister Calls on Citizenry to Fight Domestic Tibetan Flu Crisis,” “WHO Asks Security Council for Peacekeeping Police Cooperation in Tibetan Flu Measures,” and “Rome, Benelux Declare Martial Law,” one after another, on the front page.

  These disturbing changes appeared to have exposed the face of a cold, hard fear that lurked one level below people’s sense of “It can’t be!”

  It can’t be! But what if it is … ?

  It was true—arrayed on that grayish, coarse paper were blunt Mincho- and Gothic-type characters, printed with neither color nor grace, news that could be read drily, mechanically, which allowed you to peer into the events of the world around you as though there were a single plate of glass separating you from them. It took the
direct meaning of the events that happened near you and the things you yourself experienced and reduced them to “the events of the world”—to public events owned by no one—and in so doing served to dull their poisonous colors. If it did not, there would be no way we could casually read about traffic accidents and murders and forget them as quickly as we do. Even so, there also come times when the reality eclipses the reporting, when from beyond that fresh-ink aroma of the newspaper, or from the back of that radio or television receiver, it surges across and spills over onto your side. At such times, the tragedy is no longer someone else’s; it is yours and yours alone.

  You can read, “Seventy thousand died instantly in the atom bomb blast at Hiroshima, but the number climbs to 239,000 when you include those who died over the following five years,” but you were not in Hiroshima at just past eight on the morning of August 6 in the twentieth year of the Showa Emperor’s reign. As far as you’re concerned, it could have said ten or twenty or thirty thousand just as easily. These are common numbers. As numbers go, the strings of zeroes are hardly unbelievable. You can write them down with just four or five strokes of the pen—fewer than it would take to transcribe a new movie’s weekend box office. They’re hardly shocking. And because of that, you’ll forget them right away. It’s already been quite some time ago, so the fact that you’re here reading about Hiroshima now means that you’re not included in that number.

  That really was a frightening thing, you might think. Man, that war was really terrible. Well, enough of that. We were very lucky. I never want to remember that kind of thing again. In the first place, I just don’t have that kind of time …

  So now you read an expository piece. It says that in 1918, fifty million people—roughly a third of the world’s population at the time—came down with Spanish flu, and twenty million of them died from it. Fifty million? That’s about the same as the number of television sets that have been made. One fifth of the entire population of Japan—yet compared to the worldwide population, isn’t that just a handful? This is already half a century in the past, but viewed from that time, medical science has made tremendous progress.