Simon stood up. “Let me ask you this, Andrea. Do you think Cimil found the transmitter you had on his costume?”
“I …” She stopped. “Hmm, He may not have. I only activated it a week ago and the battery should last at least a month. And you know, the tracker I used is somewhere in one of these cabinets here.” She reached for the handle on a metal cabinet, doors clanging open. She repeated the action on a second and then a third before reaching for a small device that looked like a hand-held video game. Simon and Cortez looked over her shoulder. Crowder got to his feet, but remained in the hallway watching for more guards.
Andrea pressed a few buttons, then typed in a code for the transmitter she'd planted on Cimil.
“No one else knows the code, so there was no danger leaving this here.” A map appeared on the screen and she whistled.
“Unbelievable. It still works. Let me drill down here, and … he's right in the middle of the Chelemha Cloud Forest, at least his costume is.”
“Any chance he could be misleading us?” Simon couldn't accept that it was this easy.
“Well, it's possible. But he would have needed someone to take the bug there. If it's not where he is, that's definitely out of the way. Would have been much easier to just put it somewhere in the City and have us bust down doors to find nothing.”
“OK. I don't know for sure what's the right thing to do. We could look around here and see if anyone's still alive to question. Or we could go where that GPS is telling us to go and hope it's not a trap.”
Crowder called in from the hallway. “I don't wanna be poking around a facility this size any more than we have to. Too much chance of being surprised and winding up dead now that they know for sure we're inside. I think we gotta go with that location. But we need to give Braxton a call anyway, so we can have him check with Yarrow on any more intelligence they may have picked up.”
They all looked at Simon, even Crowder who should have been keeping watch. During his army years, Simon had possessed the ability to make snap decisions without much conscious thought. But the stakes here were much higher. Who knew how many would die if they were wrong? And he wanted Cimil, could almost feel the man like a Siren calling him to the rocks.
He met Andrea's direct gaze and something settled inside him.
“OK, let's get going. It's time to go to Chelemha.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
December 14, 2012: Guatemala
“Me ayuda por favor.” Please help me.
The voice barely rose above a whisper, and the words preceded a wet cough. The doctor sat in a chair next to him, put a hand on the sick man's forehead, and noted the lack of elevated temperature. There was never enough medical help available in these remote villages, and he moved between a dozen different towns on a regular basis. His meager salary from the government didn't amount to much, but he felt a duty to serve his people, the descendants of the ancient Maya.
He didn't know what to do for the man. He'd graduated from one of his country's top medical schools, the Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala, and usually he could at least alleviate the pain. But the last three days had seen at least fifty such patients in half a dozen different towns. Most of those were now dead.
This patient exhibited the same symptoms. No fever, but weak, with sores in the mouth and on the genitals. Unable to eat, difficulty drinking, and coughing up blood. He'd run out of morphine yesterday, so 800 milligrams of ibuprofin was the best he could offer. Not the best prescription for someone with stomach problems. With the morphine, they fell asleep and slipped away. Without it, they died in pain, usually screaming right until a heart attack offered them final relief.
This man didn't scream, although he had to be hurting. He'd already vomited up some of his stomach lining. He just kept mumbling the same words over and over.
Please help me.
The smell of blood and puke hung in the air, but as soon as he took the man's hand, those annoyances faded into the background. He always tried to hold the hands of his patients near the end, to never let himself forget his humanity with clinical indifference. The skin felt dry, almost like paper.
“I wish I could, my friend. I wish I could.”
Five minutes later, the villager's heart stopped. The doctor stood up and sighed. In a small village like this, he heard about patients by word of mouth. He'd go to one house and invariably see two or three others come by to request his services. He knew of at least five more people with these symptoms that he wouldn't get to. He needed to report in to headquarters in Guatemala City before the end of the day, and several hours of driving awaited.
As he climbed into his ancient Volkswagon Microbus, he knew he was seeing a major health crisis. He felt guilty for hoping it was confined only to the Maya villages, his people. But he would have felt more guilty hoping that everyone suffered. At one point the previous day, he'd considered taking extra precautions against infection, but he knew that if it was airborne, he was well past saving. Perhaps he should have returned to the city as soon as he suspected, but he hadn't. One more thing to feel guilty about.
Driving through the rolling hills, he allowed himself to consider his heritage in a different way. As a physician, he believed in science and had little use for the old Maya ways. He honored the traditional beliefs, even though he didn't share them. Now he thought about the Popol Vuh, the Book of Creation, and the prophesy about 2012. He hadn't believed that stuff, but he couldn't help wondering. Was this the start of the Fifth World?
Los Angeles
Nurse Enid Stanley hated it when she was right. It almost always meant she'd identified some obscure bug that would be hard to cure. This time, she'd recognized a public health crisis before anyone else. Which counted for exactly nothing. By the time the brass had notified the CDC two days ago, no one remembered who first spoke up.
She didn't care about that, but maybe if they'd identified it sooner, someone would have a cure by now. Hundreds of patients had flooded the hospital, and every doctor and nurse would remain on site until further notice. They'd talked in the staff meeting that morning about taking steps to ensure that the medical personnel didn't get sick. But how? They all had flu shots already, standard procedure at most hospitals. Relatives developed it within two or three days of their loved ones showing symptoms, so the problem would likely hit the hospital staff soon. Forty hours ago they'd started taking serious precautions, but it was probably too late.
“What the hell were you thinking, Terry?”
Stanley recognized the voice from across the E.R., a doctor known for his even temper, but also for his low handicap on the golf course. Two days of nonstop work had taken its toll. She turned and saw him gesturing to an orderly. She hurried in that direction.
“You know you can't put this thing right next to a patient. It needs to be up by a window.”
“What's the problem?”
“Terry here plugged in this heater about six inches from this nearly comatose patient. She has first degree burns from it for God's sake. Terry, get out of my sight. Now.”
Terry needed no further encouragement. The doctor looked at his watch. “Shit, I was supposed to be somewhere ten minutes ago.”
Stanley watched him disappear around a curtain. Then she turned to the patient, a woman about her age and with the same short, dark hair. Her heart beat a little faster as she clipped a thermometer on the woman's finger. Somehow the serious problem they were all facing hit home as she imagined herself in the bed. She fought back tears and picked up the chart.
“Water.” The voice came from a dry mouth, but the words were clear. Stanley's head shot up and she looked into a pair of brown eyes. Most of the patients slipped out of consciousness with a day to go, undoubtedly helped by the morphine. Even when they awoke, their eyes didn't open all the way and didn't focus.
She grabbed a cup and filled it with an inch of tap water. The patient—she saw the name Roxanne on the chart—drank it in one gulp and handed back the cup.
“More, please.” Roxanne's voice was stronger and the dry sound had begun to disappear. Stanley filled the cup all the way this time, and watched Roxanne drink it a bit more slowly. Then she sat up in bed and put a hand to her cheek.
“My face hurts. But my throat feels better.”
Stanley held her breath without realizing it. Among the dozens of deaths and hundreds of patients barely hanging on, not one had shown any signs of recovery. This could be important. She grabbed the thermometer, which now beeped to indicate that its job was complete. A hundred and two point six. That heater had caused a major fever. No wonder she was thirsty.
“Do you mind if I do a brief exam, to see how you're coming along? Then I can get something for your face.”
“Sure, no problem. What's wrong with me anyway? I feel so hot. I remember passing out and my husband driving me here, but I was barely conscious. Where is he anyway?”
Stanley began her examination before she answered. “I don't know where he is, but I can check on it in a minute. Whatever's wrong with you seems to be going around, and we're working on it. I'm so glad you're feeling better though.”
Five minutes later, Stanley was even more amazed. No more sores or rash anywhere on Roxanne's body. The woman's throat still showed signs of irritation, but nothing like the bubbling cauldron on other patients. Perhaps the best sign was her hunger. Stanley smiled at her, and for once the act required no dissembling.
“You're doing great, Roxanne. I couldn't be happier with your progress. Listen, I'll be back soon, but I need to go find your husband and get a doctor to take a look at you. After that, I'm gonna get you something to eat.”
Several hours later, Roxanne was walking around. She'd eaten some Jello and oatmeal and begged for a hamburger. Stanley had left her standing by her husband's bed. He'd been admitted that morning, and now he was vomiting blood. Roxanne held his hand and told him that he would get better. Stanley didn't contradict her. She needed some time to think, and some other doctors and nurses to help her figure out why Roxanne had recovered.
The break room felt like a undead funeral parlor, filled with medical staff sleeping anywhere they could find. Some slept on their feet, leaning against a wall. A handful sat at the table drinking coffee, but didn't carry on any conversation. Stanley found a spot in the corner, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
Something tickled the back of her mind. What did this remind her of? It wasn't Nursing School if she recalled correctly, maybe not even something directly related to her medical experience. What was it? She needed some rest for her brain to start firing on all cylinders. She'd just close her eyes for a few minutes. As she drifted into slumber, a thought settled, but not in time to keep her awake. Something about malaria. And something about syphilis.
Washington D.C.
This kind of meeting didn't take place often. A secure video-conference between half a dozen world leaders. Vice President Davidson waved off his makeup artist and put his head in his hands. Not for the first time, he wondered what he'd done to deserve the world of crap now raining down on him. Thirty hours ago, he'd been confronting the first ever nuclear attack on American soil, along with a kidnapped President. After the briefing by the CDC Director an hour ago, those things now seemed unimportant.
“Thirty seconds, Mr. Vice President.” The voice emanated from the ceiling, some techie in the control room arranging the video feed. He'd called this meeting with four other world leaders, but that didn't mean he had any answers. He hoped to hell that they did.
The six foot screen in front of him flickered twice and then divided itself into four equal square quadrants. In each one, the image of another world leader appeared, from China, Russia, the European Union, and India. All had reported similar problems to those now emerging in the United States. None had yet issued a public statement.
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me. I won't waste your time with posturing. If the reports I'm getting are true, we all need to work together. We do not have a cure for this growing epidemic.”
Several seconds passed before a response, mostly due to the interpreters' translations. All the others spoke English, but wanted to be sure they didn't misunderstand the words. The Chinese responded first.
“My government shares your concern. Indeed you are correct about cooperation. Did you have any specific steps in mind?”
Davidson didn't show it, but inside he chuckled. He'd known the Chinese leader would find a way to avoid direct action, he just hadn't thought it would be so obvious.
“As a matter of fact I do. But first I think we should make sure that our other colleagues are in agreement about the serious nature of what we face.”
All the heads on the screen nodded. The E.U. Leader responded directly.
“We are in agreement. The death toll here has topped a thousand and we have no leads on a cure.”
Davidson waited for more comments. Hearing none, he outlined his plan.
“We'll need more than just the five of us, but if we lead, others will follow. What I propose is that we arrange for our top scientists to talk via this same sort of video conference. And I'm not talking about the politicians we all have in the top public health roles, but two or three actual scientists. Pick who you want, as long as they are capable of understanding the science and the logistics. We can handle the politics.
“This meeting should take place within hours. Above all, we need a system that ensures two things. The first is that promising leads are shared as quickly and as widely as possible. The second is that we have enough coordination that we minimize duplication of effort. My people say we are mere days away from the kind of casualties you only read about in horror novels. I assume you are hearing the same thing.”
The silence provided all the answer he needed. They spent another minute arranging the details of the call for the scientists, which mostly involved indicating where they would delegate responsibility. National leaders couldn't micro-manage, even in something as important as this. When they broke the connection, Davidson considered that it had gone pretty well.
Then he pondered the lack of disagreement among five of the most powerful men in the world. One explanation was that some of them had agendas, but Davidson didn't buy that. The more likely explanation disturbed him more. As bad as the predictions were from the CDC, perhaps the news the others received from their scientists was even worse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
December 14, 2012: Chelemha Cloud Forest, Guatemala
Tucked into the highlands in the center of Guatemala, the Chelemha Cloud Forest is a huge swath of conservation land, home to untold unique species of birds and plants. As its name implies, the area enjoys a near constant blanket of fog, cold enough at this time of year to seep into the bones of anyone not accustomed to it. Chelemha represents a successful Guatemalan effort to preserve an important piece of its ecosystem. On this afternoon, it also embodied … something else.
Stone walls gave the room a dark feeling. Medieval, even. The building blended into both the jungle and the ruins that surrounded it. A single sconce near the doorway provided marginal illumination for a queen-sized bed in the center of the room.
Yum Cimil rolled into his back, naked and still breathing hard. Droplets of sweat covered his forehead, and he drew his arm across his brow. Next to him on the bed, Susan Richards drew the covers up to her shoulders as she leaned on her side and looked at him with a wry grin.
“Ah, nothing like welcoming the end of the world with a bang.”
He laughed and ran his hands through her hair, pulling her head towards him. His kiss was one of aggression, domination.
“True. I think I've even used that line before. No shortage of women who want to service the next ruler of the world.”
“That's what I like about you, your humility. But I wonder how many of your admirers would commit murder to help you get ahead.”
“Oh there are tens of thousands who will do what is required to usher in the Fifth World. But y
ou arouse my curiosity. Are you talking about someone in particular?”
She smiled, a smug and expansive crease in her cheeks.
“Well, you know how I took office, right? A few hours after the killings, after they pulled me outta the House Chamber and administered the oath, the Secret Service received an email. Some guy saying he was in love with me and he'd killed the President and V.P. for me. They would've given the email low priority, but the guy included a couple details not released to the public. They traced the email to some internet cafe in California. A dead end. Kind of sweet to have that kind of commitment if you ask me.”
Cimil said nothing, just watched her face. After a few seconds, she laughed.
“Look at you, trying to figure out if I'm telling the truth. Don't worry, I—”
The door flew open with a crash. Andrea Schmidt stood pointing her Sig P299 towards the bed.
“Don't move, Yum.”
At the first sounds, Cimil dived across Richards onto the floor. He came up and put his arm around her neck, an obsidian dagger at her chin. The blade resembled a Native American axehead, with sparkling facets too numerous to count spread across its surface. But the edge looked sharp enough.
“Drop the gun Andrea, or she dies right now.”
Simon appeared in the doorway. “C'mon, Yum, you can't win here. All we have to do is let you kill her and you're history a second later. Put down the knife and you'll live to see your precious Fifth World.”
Richards struggled to escape, writhing in his arms. Cimil tightened his grip and she choked, gasping for air. Then she lifted her feet off the ground, leaving him holding her full body weight. That had to hurt her, but Simon admired how she wasn't giving up. Not many people would try that, especially not naked and being strangled by your lover. Cimil lost his balance and dropped to his knees with her neck still enveloped in the crook of his elbow.
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