Just a Couple of Days

by Tony Vigorito

  After convincing myself thus and neutralizing any moral willies, I decided to learn what I could about the Pied Piper virus. My colleagues and family, none of whom I was particularly close to, had been informed that I had taken a research sabbatical. I was thereby free to spend the next week reviewing volumes of existing data and research on the virus. I found myself an eager, if not drooling, pupil once I got started. It was far too captivating to stop, and any moments of guilt were immediately overwhelmed by the allure of seeing more. This was forbidden information, after all, and I felt like I was peeping through a keyhole while voluptuous secrets unveiled themselves, engorging me with uninhibited curiosity.

  This is what I learned. The Pied Piper virus was so named because of its origin. A fossilized specimen of a previously unknown virus was extracted from corpses found in an anthropological dig covertly sponsored by the CPC in Hamelin, Germany (the alleged location of the Pied Piper’s legendary parade in 1284). This provided the raw genetic material from which the Pied Piper virus was eventually engineered.

  Finding the DNA fossil was not mere good fortune. Rather, it was precisely the goal of the excavation. Medical historians have argued that the Pied Piper myth has some basis in fact and may reflect an outbreak of an enigmatic medieval malady known as the Dancing Plague, or Saint Vitus’ Dance. Apparently, the Dancing Plague swept through human populations in epidemic proportions with some regularity from the eleventh through the sixteenth centuries, especially in Germany. Its symptoms were widespread mania, furious dancing and raving, convulsive chorea, and irresistible hilarity. Hallucinations were also common, and in some cases dancers claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary or, less frequently, God. If this was the case, neither vision was particularly puritanical, as hordes of tranced-out dancers often overtook entire cities, sometimes engaging in orgiastic revelry of bacchanalian proportions. Indeed, in Cologne in 1374, more than one thousand women reportedly became pregnant as a result of the Dancing Plague.

  These hysterical processions of elemental humanity frequently continued for days, lasting until the afflicted finally collapsed in stark exhaustion or died as a result of their unrestrained recklessness. In one instance in Utrecht in 1278, over two hundred people perished when a mob of dancers tapped, twisted, hopped, and stomped on a bridge until it collapsed under the sheer force of their collective energy. When people survived these plagues of dance and debauchery, however, they awoke from their footsore slumber perfectly normal. Although doctors and priests of the day argued that the Dancing Plague was a form of demonic possession resulting from invalid baptisms performed by corrupt clergy, many survivors nevertheless claimed catharsis, and that they were healed of other ailments.

  This healing aspect introduces some confusion between Saint Vitus’ Dance and Saint John’s Dance. Saint John’s Dance was a healing dance performed on each solstice, with origins in European paganism. The Church designated Saint John’s Day to coincide with the solstice as an effective method of assimilating the nature worshippers’ beliefs into the pantheon of Christian saints. The mass insanity associated with the Dancing Plague was mistaken for epilepsy, and Saint John the Baptist was thus dubbed the protector of epileptics. This was all very fascinating to me, but the most astounding aspect was that the Saint John’s Dance processions were led by (and I shudder to utter such a coincidence) a piper.

  The two events I mentioned above, in Utrecht and Cologne, occurred around Saint John’s Day. This has led some religious scholars to suggest that the dance was actually a manifestation of reactionary paganism in a time of oppressive Christianity. In other words, newly immoral pagan rites could only exist legitimately under the guise of disease. There were, however, cases of the Dancing Plague that did not coincide with the solstice. In Zabera in 1418, a swarm of the dancing helpless were supposedly cured when they rushed into a chapel and fell down before an image of Saint Vitus sitting in a cauldron (it is rumored that he survived being boiled in molten lead). Thus did protection from the Dancing Plague become Saint Vitus’ responsibility. In addition to this considerable task, good Saint Vitus is also the patron saint of Bohemia, as well as of actors and dancers, and is invoked to protect from dog attacks, snakebites, and oversleeping.

  By whomever’s appellation the saintly prance goes by, the purported causes were all incomplete. In addition to the already-mentioned explanations, the Dancing Plague is sometimes attributed to mass hysteria. This is tautological nonsense, and is akin to saying darkness causes night. A more intriguing explanation is that it was a reaction of the collective unconscious against the miserable realities of pestilence, crop failures, and famines, as well as the horror of the Black Death, a contemporary of the Dancing Plague known to have killed half the population of Europe and Asia. In such grim circumstances, as the theory goes, spontaneous outbursts of wild celebration would take hold of the population and sweep across the countryside as a sort of emotional release. This sounds plausible, and was probably involved at some level for some people, but there was also an organic cause.

  Since the symptoms of the Dancing Plague seemed promising for incapacitation purposes, potential organic causes were exhaustively researched by the CPC. In Italy and Arabia, where the phenomenon was called tarantism (after the town of Taranto in southern Italy), it was attributed to the bite of the Ly-cosa tarantula, which was thriving due to the deforestation of the Apulian region of Italy and its consequent hot and dry climate. This explanation, however, does not account for the massive scale the Dancing Plague sometimes achieved. Other theories argued that the widespread mental illness was due to ergot poisoning. Ergot is a fungus that grows on some grains, prevalent when the spring is especially wet. When consumed, it causes hallucinations and bizarre muscle spasms, induces abortions, and in those who are vitamin A deficient, makes their fingers and toes turn gangrenous and fall off. The ergot theory has also been invoked to explain the Salem witch trials. Both theories have some intrinsic validity. Compounds have been derived both from spider venom and a variety of fungi that can elicit muscle spasms and extreme mental confusion. As already mentioned, however, all of these compounds were eventually dismissed in the search for the ideal incapacitant.

  The ideal incapacitant, of course, is the Pied Piper virus. As it turns out, the spider-bite theory was probably partially correct, insofar as the spider was the vector that introduced the virus into the human population. In any case, the virus that caused the Dancing Plague has undergone extensive renovation since the Middle Ages. In its unaltered form, it was not terribly infectious or chronic, and transmission was most likely blood borne. Hence, assuming an individual was exposed via a spider bite, the virus still required a further vector to reach epidemic dimensions. This most likely occurred through the local food or water supply. Consequently, dancing plagues in the Middle Ages tended to have a limited range, sweeping across villages rather than across nations or continents. The largest estimate of those afflicted at one time was eleven hundred. Thus, while impressive in its incapacitating capabilities, from a military standpoint its contagion was inadequate.

  Enter influenza, a virus whose virulence scoffs at all attempts to shield oneself. In terms of its sheer speed of transmission and the spine-sapping power of its grip, it is the superlative pestilential presence on our planet. Contagious by breath-borne droplets and via animals such as birds, the tiny influenza myxovirus is behind one of our planet’s most horrific and awe-inspiring phenomena. Influenza epidemics trot the globe annually, and a few times a century a pandemic emerges that infects most, if not all, of the world’s population at once. These blitzkriegs are possible because of the virus’s characteristic genetic instability. Proteins on its shell undergo slow but constant genetic change, rendering any acquired immunity obsolete. Essentially, it becomes unrecognizable by our immune systems as soon as it puts on a new outfit, or even changes a single accessory.

  Influenza was named by eighteenth-century Italians who blamed it on the influence of heavenly bodies. And indeed, there is a
curious correlation between influenza pandemics and sunspot activity. Possibly, increased solar radiation from solar flares triggers mutations that rapidly transform the surface of the virus into something our immune systems haven’t experienced. Thus, we get the flu again and again, immunological virgins every time.

  Influenza is not to be trusted. By changing its face, it seduces its way past our defenses, a vengeful Svengali with an infectious charisma. In 1918–1919, the virus swept the globe in three successive waves, killing millions, many of them young adults. It asserted itself with such a presence that World War I was nearly canceled due to the difficulty of waging war with everyone sick. In the United States alone, flu casualties outnumbered battle casualties by ten to one. The most modest estimates state that it killed 21.6 million people worldwide, more than twice as many as were killed in all of World War I. Coincidentally or not, the disease faded soon after the signing of the armistice that ended the war.

  Influenza and the Dancing Plague, linking and merging, intertwining and recombining. The sum of this union came to be known as the Pied Piper virus, and it was something altogether different from either of its ancestors. It was “a humane weapon capable of contagious incapacitation,” or so said the mission statement. It was a hybrid pattern spliced and tweaked to be chronic, more infectious, and more maddening than either of its predecessors. Its acute symptoms, relapses of gut-yanking hilarity and a mild pulmonary edema, serve to launch billions of copies of the virus into the local atmosphere. What is more, the virus could last up to two days outside of an organism before disintegrating, an impressive achievement given that most viruses dehydrate and break down within hours.

  Genetically speaking, the Pied Piper virus was a work of art, though more in the sense of a Jackson Pollock than a Rembrandt. That is, the artist did not want anyone figuring out what it was, though he certainly wanted to leave one hell of an impression. Designed to fool the immune system, it is a Trojan horse virus, hidden within the shifting disguises of influenza. Indeed, the shell of the Pied Piper virus is just as mutative as the influenza virus, virtually guaranteeing it a perpetual presence after an outbreak and rendering any sort of vaccine all but impossible.

  Once in the body, it is nothing more than a very mild chest cold, except in the brain, where it binds with proteins specific to the cell membranes of the neocortex, and in particular Broca’s area, the region devoted to the control of symbol and language processing. Via this treacherous manipulation of endocytosis, the Pied Piper virus shoves its way inside and takes over, reproducing itself and rewriting the neurochemical functions of its host cell. Within hours, affected individuals demonstrate a marked linguistic confusion, ultimately resulting in a complete loss of language-processing skills. Acute symptoms persist with decreasing frequency for up to a year or longer, but the electrochemical activities of the neocortex remain permanently altered.

  Thus we have the Pied Piper virus, a smart-assed scamp with the wit and the wherewithal to yank communication out from under a society, and yet a pattern of ribonucleic acid so puny that fifty million of its clones could slam-dance on the head of a single pin.

  52 While I spent my days swimming invigorating laps in the balmy ether of cerebral abstraction, another part of me grew increasingly impatient with my eggheaded shenanigans and highbrow justifications. It was not an unfamiliar facet of my self, a surly-churly, no-bullshit, hands-on worker who stops in to belittle my intellect from time to time. It was a necessary balance, it seems, between mind and body, for while my mind was free to roam, my body was thoroughly discontent with its imprisonment, cozy though it may have been. As for my soul, well, it barely ever says a word, taking over only when the body and the mind can’t work things out for themselves. Mostly it lets them get their kicks while they can.

  While my mind was getting off on the venereal delights of its task, a stubborn guilt kept creeping around me, a wounded cretin whose trail of blood, sweat, and tears made for an increasingly slick foundation on which to stand. In retrospect, this must not have gone unnoticed by my soul. Guilt, especially when suppressed, is a destructive presence in one’s consciousness, leading very quickly to despair and self-hate.

  For a time, however, life was halcyon. There were inconveniences and irritations, to be sure, but they were mild, even amusing. For example, a few days after being incarcerated in the country mansion, I met Miss Sophia Loren. She was a forty-something tobacco heiress and a major benefactor of the CPC. Her given name, she told me, was Mary, but her adoptive parents had it legally changed. Her adoptive father, it seemed, was an avid admirer of the popular Hollywood actress, so he renamed his new daughter after her. Although she wished to be called Miss Sophia, in this narrative I shall refer to her only by her given name, Miss Mary Loren, or Miss Mary, in order to avoid any confusion between her and Blip’s wife, as well as the Hollywood actress.

  Miss Mary had an evil little dog, whom she called “Tippy,” but whom I called “Ratdog” when Miss Mary wasn’t around. Since I have already taken liberties with Miss Mary’s appellation, henceforth I shall refer to her dog as “Ratdog” rather than “Tippy.” Ratdog was a miniature pinscher, a diminutive breed that nevertheless acts as if they are full-sized Dobermans. Ratdog reminded me of Tynee. My dog Meeko, by the way, was inexplicably fond of Ratdog.

  Once, while walking Meeko along the grounds of the estate, Ratdog came zipping toward us from around a curve in the path, yipping viciously. Meeko scrambled to meet her, and they set upon sniffing each other immediately.

  “Tippy!” Miss Mary’s raspy, upper Manhattan, nicotine voice sounded from up ahead. She had just rounded the bend and was greeted by the sight of Meeko gracelessly attempting to mount her hoity-toity pinscher, a hilarious sight given their relative sizes. Be that as it may, both parties seemed agreeable to the situation. Miss Mary, however, was mortified.

  “Tippy!” Miss Mary screeched again, then addressed me in haughty disdain. “Don’t just stand there! Take your mutt off my Tippy!”

  Despite the fact that I didn’t approve of my dog’s taste in bitches, I found the carnality entertaining. I thus failed to react immediately, and so Miss Mary took it upon herself to separate the copulating canines by hurling her handbag at them. It was ineffective. A falling tree could not have captured their attention. I finally stepped forward, grabbed Meeko’s collar, and pulled him off Ratdog. Miss Mary rushed forward and frantically snatched her up. Both dogs were panting heavily.

  “How could you let this happen?” Miss Mary wailed. “Dear God, what if she has puppies, what then? Oh my lord, how uncivilized!” She started back along the path, but paused to scold me some more. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Doctor. Ashamed!” She turned to go once again. “I’ve never seen anything so horribly unnatural.”

  53 On my twenty-eighth day at Valhalla Acres, I was awakened at 5:00 a.m. by Agent Orange, who was leaning over my bed like a malevolent mother, telling me to get dressed immediately. It had been arranged, I was informed, for me to observe the CPC’s human subjects. While I was dressing, Tynee poked his head in and asked me if I would mind if he walked Meeko this morning. I agreed groggily. I suspected Tynee just wanted to have an excuse to hang around Miss Mary, so I neglected to tell him that she did not approve of my dog.

  My ride to the observation site, along with everyone else at Valhalla Acres, was a forty-foot soundproof security limousine. It was rated for presidential protection, which meant that it could withstand the blast of a grenade. Volt the Waiter and Chef was also Volt the Chauffeur, but whereas before he spoke with a thick French accent, he now greeted me with a southern Italian accent. I questioned General Kiljoy about this as the two of us sat in individual recliners in the far back of the limo, waiting for the others.

  “Volt? He’s training for a field mission. He’ll be working at some of Europe’s finest restaurants, where elites are known to frequent.”

  “Oh.” I looked out the window, which really wasn’t a window at all, but an opaque piece of b
lack, high-density, bulletproof polycarbonate. From the outside, it looked like a dark-tinted window. But when the wall to the front seat was up, the interior of the vehicle was hermetically sealed from any exterior light or sound.

  This being the case, I gave a start when one of the front doors suddenly opened and the bright morning light poured in, along with the flirtatious noises of Ratdog and Meeko, not to mention Tynee and Miss Mary, who were engaged in a mating ritual of their own.

  “Allow me, Miss Mary.” Tynee took the squirming Ratdog from her arms as she stepped into the limousine.

  “Thank you, Tibor,” she gushed like an oil spill. “You’re such a gentleman.” Her seat was at the front, about thirty feet away from General Kiljoy and myself. Tynee followed her with Ratdog, who was kicking at him, and of course Meeko followed Ratdog.

  “Are we all settled then?” General Kiljoy asked our assembled group.

  Tynee gave a thumbs-up, and Miss Mary, who was fumbling with the plush leather cushions on her recliner, squawked, “I suppose we’ll have to be.”

  General Kiljoy pointed a remote control toward the front end of the cabin. At the push of a button, the soundproof and lightproof screen separating us from the driver’s seat slid open, revealing Volt the Chauffeur, with Agent Orange riding shotgun.

  General Kiljoy gave the command for us to be on our way, then hit the button again and the wall slid shut, leaving us ostensibly important people once again in womblike comfort. Within minutes we were humming along at a steady pace, strains of unidentifiable classical music filling the cabin from unseen speakers. The motion was barely perceptible in our ergonomically designed orthopedic leather recliners, save for a gentle vibration that eventually lulled the lot of us to sleep like infants in car seats.