Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  “But can your dikes withstand a major typhoon?”

  Hans removed his spectacles and wiped fertilizer dust from them. “Typhoon, yes. Tsunami?” He held out his hand and wiggled it. “Depends on how big the wave is. At least that’s what the computer models tell us.”

  A fan of Kipling’s tales, Corrie pointed out some of the spots he had written about 200 years earlier. She also retold seventeen of his stories during the round trip. By the time they pulled back into Mumbai late the next evening, Tim believed he knew more about Rudyard Kipling than The Arabian Sea Reclamation Project. Although it was late, Hans insisted on treating him to dinner.

  The small café prepared some of its food as it had been for centuries in India. Into a four-foot high beehive shaped oven went dough, flattened and sticky enough to cling to the inner walls heated by a closely watched bed of coals along its bottom. The various curries and kabobs cooked atop a stove fueled by natural gas. With a three-foot brick wall separating dining area from kitchen, patrons could watch the entire meal preparation.

  “They don’t even have a microwave.” Corrie said. “But the food tastes better here than the places that use microwaves.”

  While they ate, Hans described the long range goal of his project. “Once we have finished the initial stage of reclaiming land here at Mumbai, we will continue on south to the tip of India and then work northward on the east coast of India.”

  “How long will it take to finish the project?” Tim asked.

  “Longer than I will live. But Corrie might see its completion. There is no other way. India is now the world’s most populated nation. Either they get more land or millions, maybe hundreds of millions, will die from famine.”

  23

  “So how did it go with Ms. India?” Tim brought up the subject Bud had avoided.

  Bud shifted in the ferry’s deck chair until it creaked under his restlessness. “It was no use trying to sell her on my dad’s import/export company. She was too busy. She said she didn’t recognize the pictures I took of Minh, Ramon, and Ahomana. But I didn’t get to scan her. So I think she probably has the implant still inside of her. Maybe Dr. Graves contacted her and told her to get rid of me.”

  “Speaking of Minh, why didn’t you get interested in her at Dr. Graves’ house if she’s the most beautiful woman in the world like you claim?”

  “My only contact with her there was while she was asleep and I took her to the casino to catch the shuttle to the airport. It’s not just her looks. It’s what she says and how she says it.”

  “Does your dad know why we’re going around the world in less than eighty days, just so you can track down The Club members?” Tim hoped enough false sincerity accompanied the question to which he already knew the answer.

  “Probably. At least he was happy when I talked to him this morning. I told him how I lined up two potential prospects in Mumbai for his business. It was the first time I remember him say he was proud of me.”

  The waters of the Arabian Sea were calm, allowing the ferry to maintain its maximum speed of fifty-seven knots per hour as it hovered above the waves. But as the outline of the coast of Africa came into view, an alarm sounded until all 1,862 passengers and thirty-five crew members had heard it. From his wheelhouse, the captain issued instructions, first in four Indian dialects and then English.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our radar indicates an unknown vessel is approaching us. For your safety, please move from the outer decks to inside of one of our sheltered rooms.”

  Bud and Tim joined a group lined up by the window of the lounge.

  “Don’t worry.” One passenger said as he rapped his knuckles on the window. “It’s two inches thick and bulletproof. Only the strongest lasers can penetrate it.”

  A few passengers who regularly made the crossing between continents clapped when a tall man took up a position on the outside deck. “It’s Pardeep,” one of them said.

  The name was whispered from child to child.

  “Who is Pardeep?” Tim asked.

  “He’s an undercover sea marshal,” said the one who had spotted their protector. “Best shot I’ve ever seen. You’re safe if he is on board. He puts on quite a show, from what I’ve heard.”

  “There they are.” An eight year old girl perched on her father’s shoulders yelled.

  Pardeep removed his coat, folded it, and draped it on the rail. This exposed the tan leather holster strapped under his left armpit. He pulled a weapon the size of his hand from it and aimed. The first laser blast skipped off the water and missed the speedboat carrying four pirates armed with laser rifles capable of shorter ranges than Pardeep’s state of the art gun.

  When Pardeep’s second shot burned a hole into the speedboat’s bow, waves pushed salt water into the hull’s cavity. The extra weight caused the boat to spin sideways, exposing its full length broadside to the ferry. Pardeep’s laser gun drilled four more holes an inch above the speedboat’s water line. The pirates dropped their weapons and began bailing water as the driver of the boat cut the engines to a speed of ten knots and turned it toward shore.

  Before the captain could announce that it was safe to return to the outer decks, a throng surrounded Pardeep. Some of his admirers offered to buy him dinner ashore or a drink at the ferry’s well-stocked bar.

  * * *

  After docking at Lamu, Kenya, the ferry’s passengers filed down its nine gangways and through the customs office next to the pier. The process of entering Africa separated Tim and Bud for a half hour. When they met outside the customs office with new visas, Bud was mumbling.

  “What’s wrong?” Tim asked.

  “Remember how I was supposed to meet Mr. Africa in Nairobi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s been called away on some type of emergency to Uganda. I checked out the possibilities and can only reach him by bus. You sure you don’t want to come along?”

  “No way. I’ll meet up with you later. I’ve got a date. With my daughter.”

  * * *

  Almost a decade had passed since Tim’s daughter Karen left home to fill her need for adventure. After travelling through Europe and Russia, she ventured to Africa. There she found a connection to nature to fill her void, at least partially. Now twenty-nine, she had not seen her parents or brother in person for seven years when she returned to SLD for a short visit one Christmas.

  After Tim’s call from India, she busied herself planning an adventure for his two-day stay at her wildlife preserve.

  Speaking by vision phone to Karen occasionally had been easy for her father. Whenever the conversation became uncomfortable for him, he would say, “Sorry, have to go. I have an incoming call from an editor,” or some other lie.

  But having to answer her inevitable questions of, “How’s Mom? How’s Charles?” in person unnerved Tim. He wondered if her expression would betray her hope of reconciliation for her parents or if it had been replaced by a cynical look she had learned from him.

  Tim took a deep breath as he followed the other passengers off the train. His daughter’s sweet voice welcomed him.

  “Hey, Dad. Over here.”

  She looked the part of a great white huntress, the heroine in a book Tim longed to write. Short black hair protected by a broad brimmed jungle hat made of white canvas like material; matching top and shorts with a total of ten pockets, all bulging; and boots rising above her ankles laced by rawhide strings.

  Tim disliked being a tourist betrayed by his jeans and short sleeved shirt resembling moist sponges because their material retained his sweat instead of evaporating it as Karen’s clothes did. He longed to be as poised and cool as Karen.

  Her Range Rover was a smaller model than the vehicle Tim rode in to view the rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam. But it contained state of the art GPS and computers that allowed Karen to track animals smaller than her hand.

  “It’s about a two hour ride to my reserve.” Karen said as she put the vehicle into gear and pulled away from the station.
“How’s Mom doing?”

  Tim stared straight ahead. “Your mom is fine, feisty like always.”

  “She called and told me how you sent the money you made from your last four stories to her. That was nice of you. She said so, too.”

  “Yeah, I thought she might like that.”

  “So are you two getting back together again?”

  Enough of Karen’s teeth appeared so her Mona Lisa smile now became a crocodile’s instead, Tim thought. What do you say to a daughter whose heart always absorbs the joy and pain of those around her?

  “Anything is possible, I guess.”

  Karen’s smile broadened, which relieved Tim because she now resembled the Cheshire cat from the book he had read to her during happier times. It made him feel old to have a daughter who was almost thirty.

  “How’s Charles doing?”

  Tim shrugged, hoping his body language would put an end to her questions. “We went mano a mano the last time I saw him.”

  Karen whistled. “Hand to hand? Who won?”

  “Who knows? There are never any winners whenever I try to help him out. Only losers.”

  “He called me, too. He said he was sorry that he yelled at you.”

  “That’s okay. I still love him, just like I love you and your mom.”

  Tears blinded Karen’s vision, so she pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road. She buried her face on Tim’s shoulder.

  “I love you, too, Daddy. Thank you for coming to visit me. There’s so much I want to show you. I can’t wait.”

  24

  Getting to Tor Baruti’s location drained Bud. The bus to Kampala, Uganda was forty years old and its maximum speed forty-seven miles per hour. It seemed to hit every pothole and bump on the narrow asphalt road, which jarred the passengers, the lighter ones bouncing up and down, the heavier ones swaying like metronomes. While the Africans slept at will, Bud only managed short catnaps.

  Every part of his body ached as if he had the flu when he stepped foot in Kampala. He silently cursed transportation he thought belonged in the last millennium.

  Mr. Africa hesitated between approaching Bud or a white man who exited the bus, so Bud used his indecision to begin his interrogation.

  “Hi, Tor. I’m Bud Lee. Remember how I met you at Dr. Graves’ house for The Club’s meeting?”

  “Who? What?” Tor’s smooth forehead turned into wrinkles that looked like shallow furrows as he shook Bud’s hand.

  “You know, at the Cheyenne River Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota, America.” Bud slowly enunciated each word, certain that one of them would trigger Tor’s memory.

  A broad smile replaced Tor’s confused expression. “Yes. I remember the casino there and losing money and drinking too much. Maybe that is why I don’t remember you?” He patted his head. “The alcohol destroyed memories of you, perhaps? My pastor says not to drink, but like you say in America, ‘when the cat’s away, the mice will drink all day.’”

  Weary and close to fainting from the most intense heat he had yet endured, Bud decided to play what he called “my ace in the hole.”

  “Can I scan you? I think there may be an implant in you that you don’t remember about either.”

  Tor shrugged. “Go ahead. But only if you agree to visit my work.”

  “Sure, sure, it’s a deal. Whatever you say.” Bud passed the scanner over Tor’s six-foot, four-inch, and 220-pound frame. He stood on tip toes and stretched to reach the crown of his head.

  “Did you find anything?

  “Nothing. I don’t understand it.”

  “I could have told you that you would not. Now let’s go get you scanned.”

  * * *

  Bud answered forty-two emails during the three hour drive to the camp. At the first gate, he walked through a full body scanner calibrated to tell its operator the minutest detail, even the composition of the six fillings in Bud’s teeth. At the second gate, Bud and Tor entered a concrete building with a corrugated metal roof.

  They showered.

  Then they walked naked through a sonic ionizer. Its waves killed any remaining bacteria or viruses the antiseptic soap had not removed. The sanitized pair donned protective suits with material so thick that they communicated via two-way radios embedded in helmets. Dry ice packs cooled the suits so the wearers could endure the ninety-seven degree temperature after they stepped outside.

  “Sorry for such primitive measures.” Tor’s voice crackled inside Bud’s helmet. “But all of our equipment consists of cast offs from the U.N. or missionaries who have come to Africa. I think you Americans call it, ‘operations on a shoe string budget,’ don’t you?”

  Within minutes, Bud discerned the triage nature of the camp.

  Its perimeter was square, two miles long for each of the four sides. In the first section Tor took Bud to, those still able to help each other went about their daily routines. Some toiled in gardens supplying vegetables and fruit for the camp. Free ranging chickens kept down the insect population and provided eggs and meat.

  Others worked in a shop crafting beds, chairs, and other pieces of furniture. And the bravest of all toiled in the camp’s hospital and dispensary, caring for the sick and dying. Many of the dwellers in the first section greeted Tor by name.

  In the second section were those unable or unwilling to take part in providing for their neighbors.

  Bud noticed how these people gathered by age, with younger children playing games appropriate to their size; some teens playing pick-up games of basketball on an outdoor court with a floor of six-inch thick concrete or soccer on a field of dirt packed so hard that little dust rose from it as players attacked net and goalies. Other teens sat jabbering or going through courtship rituals. The adults tended to sit alone or in pairs. Few in the second section of the camp greeted Tor.

  Bud tensed when he saw the ten-foot high concrete wall, 300 meters by 500 meters, with towers every fifty meters along its perimeter. “What’s in there?” Bud pointed at the enclosure.

  “The criminals,” Tor said. “Some of them were criminals before they arrived. The rest broke our rules after they arrived here. Either way, we must lock them up to keep peace here.”

  Bud continued to walk to the prison.

  “I’m sorry but you can go no further. Our guards are very professional.” Tor pointed at the nearest guard tower. Leaning against a rail, a uniformed guard pointed her laser rifle at Bud. She returned it to a rack after Tor waved and gestured that they were leaving.

  “Well, time to go.”

  Bud followed Tor back to the building where they had suited up an hour earlier. They removed their suits and placed them on hooks in the sanitation chamber. Sensing the bacteria and viruses on the suits, the chamber started its twenty minute process to render them harmless. Once washed from the suits, the organisms then exited down a drain to a chamber where a laser vaporized the water. The steam produced would be analyzed before its release into the atmosphere.

  Next they went through an airlock.

  In the adjoining room, they walked through the ionic sanitizer. Its waves raised goose pimples over much of Bud’s body. He thought his hair, dyed brown to set him apart from the black hair found in the rest of his family, stood on end. It flattened out under the hot water of the shower.

  “Two showers in one day,” Bud said as he dressed. “Hope I smell good enough now. The way I’ve been sweating since I got to Africa, I don’t think my deodorant pills are working.”

  Tor laughed. “You must be hungry. Let’s go eat.”

  The dining facility served food cafeteria style. But instead of the local African fare Bud expected, every stainless steel pan held dishes of Chinese origin. One line consisted of Mandarin style items, the other Cantonese style.

  After filling their trays, Tor and Bud sat at a small table in the corner. The other nine tables held camp staff who were either coming on their shift or going home after their workday.

  “Do you mind if I pray first?” Tor asked
.

  Bud’s fork stopped at his open mouth. “Uh, no, go ahead.” He dropped his fork on his plate and bowed his head.

  “Dear Father in heaven, thank you for Your endless supply and for this food. And thank You for sending Bud here. Amen.”

  “Amen.” The sincerity of the simple prayer impressed Bud. “How many patients are in your camp here?”

  “About 1,200 or so. What did you think of it?”

  “I was really surprised at how docile all of them seemed.”

  Tor nodded. “The ones who can’t come to terms with their illnesses end up in our small prison.”

  “Don’t some of them ever try to escape?”

  “Only the very foolish sneak away. This camp is surrounded by miles of jungle and range land that is reserved for lions, hyenas, zebra, and wildebeests. The big cats enjoy a change in diet if one of our patients walks away from the camp. And then there are the snakes…”

  “What exactly is wrong with the patients?”

  “Everything. Some have the flu. Others have cholera, polio, Ebola, pneumonia, AIDS, or diseases the scientists have not named yet. But they all have one thing in common, no, two.”

  “What?”

  “First, the viruses or bacteria that they carry are super strains that are untreatable. Second, they can never leave the camp.”

  “Never?”

  “Not unless some doctor invents a cure for the mutated organisms that are killing them.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.” Bud remembered his neighbor Mrs. Kleindiest and her one way trip by ambulance to the healing center.

  “It is too great of a risk that what they carry will spread. We learned a lot from the Plague of 2047 and the Flu Pandemic of 2066. Containment is the only proven effective way to keep the super strains of diseases from spreading worldwide. It’s happened before and can happen again.”