by DB Carpenter
He dropped down onto the bed. He still felt drowsy after the injection and he struggled to think straight. What to do? How to get out of here? His mind wandered as he fought sleep. He had read recently that the US had one of the highest child poverty rates in the developed world. Maybe their plan wasn't such a bad idea after all. Look at all of the unwanted children in the world born to parents who didn't understand the responsibilities of parenthood or that did understand and simply didn't care – byproducts of lust. The desire to reproduce is bred deeply into each and every human being.
What about those religious countries where women were not able to access contraception or where it was so expensive it was beyond their means? Christ, even here in the US you can't get access to birth control without a prescription which means it's unavailable to the poorest in our own society. Eons ago, the future of the human race was dependent on its ability to reproduce effectively but that time had long since passed.
Maybe Gen96 was the best thing, in the long term, for the planet. It would have been an interesting topic for debate club back in school. He could easily argue it either way but this wasn't debate club, this was reality. Chris knew that playing God was just wrong. Releasing a virus that could potentially mutate was not the way to go. What if it sterilized all men permanently? Where would we be?
There had to be a way to stop her. He just had to figure it out.
4:23 pm FBI Field Office Boston, Massachusetts
Arthur and his men had fully transformed the large conference room into their operations center. A TV tuned to WOTN droned on one side of the room. Based on the information from Pell, the Agents were hard at work trying to locate Sarah Burns' college friend, Camilla Haywood and Chris Foster, who had been missing since landing at LAX early yesterday morning. Why hadn't anyone heard from him? It seemed very strange and Arthur wondered if perhaps Chris Foster hadn't become another casualty in this confusing and rapidly unfolding investigation. He paced as he contemplated this particularly disconcerting fact.
"This doesn't look good," a thick-necked agent said as he turned up the TV which was tuned to WOTN.
Boston Now, an afternoon talk show was interrupted as the station cut to their news desk. The anchorman fidgeted with his lapel microphone for a minute before saying, "This breaking news is a WOTN exclusive. Our Action News Team has learned that the FBI are currently working an investigation right here in Boston that involves a, for lack of a better word, a cult who have developed a virus designed to sterilize men in order to reduce the population explosion. Sources tell us that the virus is potentially going to be released over the next few days. The FBI and the CIA have both refused to comment as has the World Health Organization. Our reporter, Josh King is in Washington at the offices of the WHO to tell us more. Josh what can you tell us and have you been able to speak to anyone at the World Health Organization at this point?" The camera cut to a young, eager looking reporter standing outside a non-descript office building somewhere in the nation's capital.
"Where is Irving?" Arthur said. "How come they're still on the air?"
They all stared silently at the screen.
"Shut that station down now!" Arthur screamed to the nearest agent. "I don't care what you have to do, but get them off the air."
The agent pointed to two other men, and the three of them started to run from the room. Before they made it to the door, the TV signal flickered, went to static, came back clearly for a moment and then went back to static for good.
"It's about fucking time," Arthur said. "Why were they able to broadcast anything? They were supposed to be shut down."
None of the men responded as Arthur turned from the television and back to the table. "Okay people. We've got a lot of ground to cover and not much time. I want ideas. Let's hear them."
The next few hours passed quickly as they officially launched the investigation – informing and coordinating agents across the country. If any good had come from 9/11 it was the vastly improved inter and intra agency communications. Within the span of three hours they would have just over seven hundred law enforcement officers from four federal agencies actively involved with the case. Arthur thought things were progressing nicely.
7:43 pm PDT Eureka, California
Sarah watched as Albert pulled the Politically Correct Express to a stop in front of the house. She and Seth stood next to the now empty tractor-trailer, talking. Sweat soaked their shirts and they were tired after unloading all the equipment. A long, hot shower was going to feel great.
Albert and his six passengers got out. He had rounded them up at the airport, four women and two men – two whites, two Asians, a black and a Latino. They looked like the adult cast of Zoom. Even though in this day and age people generally moved freely around the globe, they had decided it would be better to have Carriers who would be essentially invisible. They should just blend into the background. To that end, Seth had planned each one of their missions based on their ethnicity.
"Good to see you all again," Seth said as he walked over to the small group and shook hands. "I hope you had pleasant flights."
Two of them grumbled something about delays, but that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that they were all here now.
"This is Sarah Burns," Seth said as he turned to Sarah, who walked over and shook their hands.
All of them were from liberal academic enclaves, Wellesley, BU, Harvard, and they were wide-eyed and idealistic. That idealism had been a critical factor in their ultimate selection. During the three month world tour Seth had spent lots of individual time with each of them – gotten to know them very well and had told Sarah he was convinced that these six were the perfect recruits. That they were paying each of them five hundred thousand tax-free dollars certainly helped but fervent belief was an absolute requirement. Money couldn't buy loyalty and they weren't taking any chances – the importance of silence could not be emphasized enough.
Sarah was still amazed at how easily Seth had managed to get fanatical devotion from them. No wonder the military loved young, smart people – properly indoctrinate them and you got a no-questions-asked group. According to the FBI, the average age of a suicide bomber was twenty one and this group standing in front of her proved out the demographics of fanaticism.
The first stars flickered to life in the rapidly darkening sky as Sarah said, "Everything's ready. The test was an overwhelming success and we're just waiting for you. You should all be very proud of what you're about do. This is a defining moment in the history of mankind."
The Carriers looked at her as if in a trance – servants awaiting their commands. Several exhibited different nervous ticks – a jittery leg, hyper-blinking and one who continuously rubbed his hands together and for the first time Sarah wondered if maybe going young was a mistake. They were idealists – dedicated, loyal but they were still kids with limited life experience.
"I'm the only one who knows your names, and they're safe with me," Seth said as he stepped forward and handed each of them a small blue bankbook. "I've created numbered Swiss accounts for each of you."
Several of the Carriers squealed with excitement as they opened up the official booklets that confirmed the deposit of the promised money. A half million dollars was something to squeal about.
Seth let them enjoy the moment briefly before saying, "We want to start the process tonight. You'll be leaving tomorrow. I'll give you a full briefing later."
Sarah knew each of their life stories. Two of them were from rich families – both with fortunes in excess of four hundred million dollars. The other four were from poor to very poor families – both sides of the spectrum. The rich could afford their idealism and the poor had seen the cycle of poverty and hopelessness that unwanted children caused first-hand. Some of them were those children. These kids were each motivated for their own personal reasons.
"Do you have any questions?"
They stood silently. Their mission was simple – a chance to help humanity, see the world, and make some
easy cash – any college student's dream.
"All right then," Seth said. "Follow Sarah. She'll show you to your rooms."
Sarah led the way and the Carriers followed. Things finally appeared to be moving smoothly again.
Chris' arm throbbed constantly now. If he kept it pressed against his side, the knee-shaking spikes of pain diminished but he felt feverish and light headed – getting sicker by the hour. A foul odor seeped from the soiled bandage. He paced the room. Being cooped up like this was making him crazy. He needed to make something happen and in order to do that he had to get out of this room. And, he needed medical attention, badly.
As he paced, he heard the faint squeak of a floorboard in the hallway and a small folded piece of paper slid under the door.
He stared at the square of white paper on the floor, picked it up and read the single sentence. 'You are not alone'.
What the hell was this? He had never felt more alone. Was someone sympathetic to his personal plight? Was there someone else locked up here or hiding? Maybe it was a trick. Possibilities raced through his mind and as he contemplated this development, he heard the muffled thuds of people ascending the stairs. This time the door swung open, and Sarah and Seth walked in. Chris slid the note into his pocket.
"How're you feeling?" Sarah asked.
"Not good," Chris replied. "What are you going to do with me?"
Seth and Sarah exchanged quick glances before he said, "Nothing – for now. You're staying right here."
Sarah stood next to Chris, and before he could react, she plunged a needle into his shoulder.
"What's that," he exclaimed, recoiling.
"A sedative."
He turned to Seth who slowly unrolled a medical kit on the bed. The shiny tools wrapped inside the cloth bundle glistened maniacally as the light in the room glinted off them.
The sedative was already kicking in. "What are you doing?" Chris slurred.
"Setting your arm," Sarah replied. "If we let it go much longer, you'll get gangrene and we'd end up having to amputate it. That wouldn't be good."
Seth pushed him down onto the bed. His colorless lips pressed tightly together, making his mouth look like an old scar on his angular face. Chris felt like he was in a coma – alert but incapable of communicating.
They unwrapped the gauze from his arm. Sarah grimaced as she looked at the wound.
"We're going to have to open it up," Seth said as he pulled out a scalpel.
As the blade touched his arm, Chris wanted to scream but he was paralyzed. He watched in horror as they slit his forearm open and blood streamed from the cut. The antiseptic shininess of the scalpel, its obvious weight, the effortless way it parted his skin made it seem alive, as if it were far more than just a simple cutting tool.
The procedure only took twenty minutes, but to Chris it was a lifetime. They clearly weren't doctors, but they got the job done. They sutured him up, wrapped his arm with fresh bandages, gave him another shot and left the room.
"How'd it go?" Camilla asked as they walked into the kitchen.
"Good, I guess," Sarah replied. "Now I remember why I didn't go to med. school."
Mike handed her a glass of wine.
The four of them sat around the table in silence for a few minutes until Sarah said, "I think we need to talk about a contingency plan."
"What makes you say that?" Mike asked as he abruptly stopped the overly full glass from meeting his lips, spilling some wine in his lap. "Surely we should carry on with the plan as it is. Making last minute changes now sounds risky."
Sarah noticed the nervousness in Mike's voice. Why was he so worried about creating a contingency plan? She still didn't trust him and vowed again to keep a very close eye on him. "It's best to be prepared," Sarah replied.
"We should be safe here," Mike said. "I don't see any reason to move from here or change plans at this stage."
"I know that, and we probably will be safe, but let's talk about it just in case."
Day 7 – Saturday, July 4
12:06 am Massachusetts General Boston, Massachusetts
Pell had no idea what the time was – the floor was dark and quiet. He had been staring at the ceiling for a length of time that he couldn't begin to define. The dim lights of his monitoring equipment flickering on the suspended ceiling tiles and the steady sounds of the equipment put him into a trance – as if he were sleeping with his eyes open. The sedatives most certainly played a role in this feeling.
A hand clamped over his mouth.
He stared into his assailant's pale blue eyes, inches from his own – Carl Moscovitz. A black ski mask covered his face, but it was that bastard, no doubt about it. His pointy nose poked through the woven fabric.
"Hi, Pell," he said in a whispered nasally whine. "Surprised to see me?"
Pell stared back at him – defenseless.
"How did you find out about me?" Carl spat.
When he didn't respond, Carl shook his head violently.
"Was it one of my men? Shake your head or nod you son of a bitch. Was it OIA?"
Pell refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
"I always knew you were worthless," Carl said as he pulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket. He removed the protective tip and brought his face down next to Pell's. "This is for Allen Jenkins," he whispered into Pell's ear. "And me."
The needle pierced his skin next to an IV line so that the puncture hole would look like a first unsuccessful attempt on the IV. Carl knew all the tricks. Pell struggled briefly, but his body soon felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Carl released him and stood up. Pell gasped. Central nervous system paralysis had set in.
He watched Carl blow him a kiss before leaving the room. His senses left him almost all at the same time. The last one to go was his sight. He could see the frantic nurses running into his room but that too was soon gone. Agent Paul Pelletier would never get to enjoy his new-found sobriety or an early retirement; he died at nine minutes past twelve.
12:15 am PDT Eureka, California
Chris woke up expecting the pain in his arm to be much worse than before, but to his surprise it actually felt better. It still hurt, but it was a good pain, as if his body understood that it could now heal properly. As he sat up in his bed, he realized that he wasn't alone.
He could hear the light breathing of someone standing just inside the shadowy doorway. It was too dark to see who until the form moved closer and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"What..." Chris started to say, but a hand quickly covered his mouth.
"You are not alone," Albert said.
"You gave me the note?" Chris said through Albert's hand.
"Are you going to be quiet?" He asked in his crisp speech.
Chris nodded and Albert removed his hand.
"Good," he continued. "We don't have much time so I want you to listen to me carefully."
Again Chris nodded and Albert continued, "I knew you followed me up from Malibu, Chris. I let you do it."
"You knew? Why?"
"I thought you were with the FBI."
Chris contemplated this for a moment. "So you wanted the FBI to come here? I don't understand."
"It was a spur of the moment thing. I don't know what I was thinking. That's why I lost you there at the end. On the drive up here I considered what I was doing and bringing in the Feds at that point was definitely the wrong thing to do."
"I'm not following you," Chris said.
"Look, I don't want Gen96 to succeed. I understand where they're coming from and I appreciate their reasoning. I really do but I can't accept the method. It's too..." he paused for a second, letting his gaze fall on Chris' freshly bandaged wound and said, "..unnatural."
"So why don't you call the cops?"
"I could never hurt Camilla. I worked for her parents when they were alive and I have been here for her since she was born. I basically raised her. She's like my own flesh and blood. I promised her parents I would always look after her and
, to that end, I would never be, could never be, a part of her incarceration."
Chris nodded as he considered the implications of what Albert was saying.
"At first I figured this was all just an idealistic project. Camilla can be very intense and focused when she wants to be and, besides, I assumed the premise was impossible. Creating a virus to control the population? Come on, it sounds unbelievable and, frankly, I figured Sarah was taking their money in some kind of long play scam. But the past few years, as it has become apparent that it could actually happen, that they could succeed, I've been trying to convince Camilla to drop this. To get out before it was too late but I couldn't get through to her. She was committed, more than ever, and there was no way I was going to change her mind. So, instead, I've made it my job to protect her from whatever the consequences of this terrible plan are. Right now, I'm getting a very bad feeling about all of this and all the outcomes I can envision involve lawyers, jail or worse."
"Tell me about it," Chris said. "I'm so done with this whole thing. I want out of it all. Look at me. I've been beaten, shot, tortured, drugged. Jesus, I'm lucky to be alive! I was just fishing and now I'm here with you and all this." He held up his bandaged arm and pointed to the wound on his head.
Albert swiped his hand across his bald scalp. "Whatever happens, I can't let Camilla suffer the consequences. I have to protect her."
"Look, Albert, I'm still woozy from those drugs and my brain isn't firing on all cylinders. Just come out with it. Say what you are trying to say."
"I'm saying we've got to stop this madness but not at the expense of Camilla's freedom."