Biohazard

by Tim Curran

  “In my dreams. We probably all have.”

  “Janie…”

  “Go to sleep, Rick.”

  “Stay with me,” I said. “Don’t leave me alone.”

  She shook her head. “It can’t be that way anymore and I think you know why, don’t you? Go to sleep. When you wake up you can tell yourself it was only a dream.”

  I never felt so alone before.

  13

  As we drove to Nebraska, Price and I spent a lot of time talking. He was a very intelligent man and there seemed to be little he did not know about. One night, sitting by a fire in a sheltered field off the highway, I told him about The Shape. He was part of it and I figured he needed to know.

  It was just the two of us.

  I was expecting him to laugh at the very idea. He was a scientist. An educated man. But he did not laugh…he looked very grim as I told him about The Shape. Afterwards, he went silent for a long time, lost in thought.

  Being Price, he had a few theories on my friend.

  He said that The Shape was the ultimate cosmic chaos, something born of nuclear fission and plutonium saturation from the very blast furnace of creation…something that was nothing until the radiation brought it into being, gave it body and mind and attitude, if you can dig that. A wraith essentially, a spook birthed from a thermonuclear womb, a supercharged flux of sentient radiation.

  A brand new devil for a brand new world.

  “The destruction of our old world, Nash, has given birth to a new one that is very frightening in all respects,” he said. “The biological mutations we’ve all seen are really minor in comparison to things like this Shape of yours and other things that may be coming to pass out there now. There’s nothing supernatural about any of it…but at the same time, it’s all so beyond our science and our meager simian powers of reasoning, that it seems almost godlike.”

  “You haven’t seen The Shape,” I told him. “But when you do…well, let’s just say it’s enough to put you to your knees.”

  “I believe it would be.”

  The Devil of the new world, as it were, Price believed to be a random series of particles that became organized and cohesive and organic, for lack of a better word, as a result of massive fallout. And let’s face it, as crazy as that sounds, this particular bogeyman had been waiting to be born a long time. All the raw materials were there in barrels of radioactive waste, the cores of atomic reactors, and stores of unstable isotopes. Just laying there waiting, waiting to be born. Much like the inorganic chemicals of Azoic earth had waited to become life.

  I had always wondered why The Shape only showed on nights of the full moon. Sometimes I could talk to him in my head on other nights, but only on the nights of the full moon would he show for his latest meal. I figured it was all impossibly esoteric and mystical, something supernatural that my poor little brain could never hope to understand.

  But Price had a theory on that, too.

  In fact, wasn’t much that guy didn’t have a theory on. From female orgasms to the mating cycles of katydids, Price had a very definitive opinion. He was one of those guys that were just too smart for their own good. I tried to argue with him about a few topics, but that was a mistake. He made me feel like a striped ape wallowing in my own shit. He was a professional debater and he took me off right at the knees, leaving me feeling stupid and annoyed and goddamn uneducated. Annoyed mainly, because he never seemed to see me as an equal, but as an object of amusement like a cute little puppy that had learned not to piss on the furniture, but hardly an intellectual equal.

  And you would think that I would have been offended by that, but I wasn’t. I admired people like him. I really did. Often in blue collar people like me you get a sort of reverse snobbery where anyone with money or higher education becomes an object of ridicule. And, yes, sometimes it was warranted, but very often not. In Price’s case, it was not. He was highly intelligent and intuitive and if I were to have dismissed him out of some Neanderthal bias, then the only fool would have been me.

  So I did not dismiss him.

  I listened; I learned.

  Price had a theory on the full moon bit, too, as I said.

  And he gave it to me in the form of a lecture as always. He said that if you looked through the body of folklore and tradition concerning the moon-he had, of course-then you would see certain underlying principles that were intriguing. The moon, he said, had a history of inciting the human species. It drove men mad. It regulated the menstrual cycles of women. It was forever an object of religious importance. To many primitive societies, the moon was considered a goddess, the creator of time and space, the repository of human souls…those unborn and those awaiting reincarnation. This Moon-Goddess ruled the cycles of creation and fertility and death and this was why ancient calendars were very often based on lunar phases and the menstrual cycles of women which were very often identical in duration. The moon ruled not only the tides, but human and animal life, rebirth and procreation. That’s why Scottish girls at one time would only wed on a full moon and why certain crops could only be planted beneath its glowering eye. Witches were said to draw down the moon, to call up demons and familiars only on this blessed night.

  But much of that was superstition and yet, he told me, there was a germ of underlying truth to it all. For the geomagnetic pull of the moon had a decided impact on all living things and their individual electromagnetic fields and maybe it was at these times of greatest influence-the full moon phase-that certain doors were open that might be closed on other nights. Maybe witches really did call down demons and nameless monstrosities and maybe those things were much like The Shape in origin and composition. The same geomagnetic force that made crops and women fertile, might also create an ideal environment for something like The Shape to physically manifest itself, exploiting cosmic and lunar energies to give itself substance.

  Just a theory again, but I liked it.

  Price was a smart guy, like I said.

  I think he was dead right about not only the moon’s influence, but about the nature of The Shape itself. And I told him as much. Not that being right came as much of a surprise to him; he was usually right.

  “It wants us to go west,” I told him. “It’s been pushing me in that direction ever since Cleveland. I don’t know why. But there must be something out there. Something…”

  Price put his analytical mind on it and right away said, “Maybe it’s not pushing you towards something, but away from something.”

  God, the guy was good.

  There were other things I wanted to say to him. Things about my dreams, about The Medusa, but I wasn’t ready just yet. It was coming, though. I knew that much. Because The Medusa was out there, chewing its way through the ruined cities of men, picking the last meat off the last bones of humanity. And it was coming for us.

  Knowing this, feeling death and plague gathering behind us, I said, “You worked in a lab back east, right? Tell me what that was like. Tell me what happened at the end.”

  14

  “As I told you,” Price said, “I was a biohazard specialist. My area of expertise was Level 4 hot agents, highly infectious organisms capable of causing pandemics. At research facilities like Fort Detrick, there were four levels of biohazard, you see, Biohazard Level 4 being the most dangerous. This is where we manipulate and study infectious diseases for which there are no vaccines: hantaviruses, dengue fever, hemorrhagic fevers, the Marburg and Ebola viruses, other hot agents that have been weaponized or genetically altered to increase their virulence.”

  Price said that in order to gain access to a Biohazard Level 4 complex it was like going into outer space. You went through multiple airlocks in a self-contained Hazmat suit that looked very much like a space suit. So much that everyone called them this. You were decontaminated going in and out, subjected to chemical showers and ultraviolet lights, low-level radiation, scanned by mechanisms that could detect the presence of lethal bioorganisms. It was quite a process, apparently. Level 4 con
tainment zones are kept under negative air pressure, he told me, so that if there is a leak, the air will not flow out into the world, but be sucked back into the hot zone itself.

  After the bombs came down, there was one pandemic after another and everyone was scrambling to keep up with them. The team Price was part of-the Special Pathogens Branch-were interested in Ebola-X which had broken loose in Baltimore. They needed to study it before it was too late and this was no easy thing with the infrastructure of the country crumbling around them.

  “But we had priority and we were under military jurisdiction,” he said. “We were ordered to begin a massive biocontainment operation. So this is what we did. To begin with, we needed specimens to work with. So a Biocon SWAT team swept down in full Hazmat and secured us some thirty people from an apartment complex. They were taken to the Slammer, which is a biologically secure facility, half hospital and half working laboratory.

  “I was there during the op. Several of those we took-and we did take them, Nash, make no mistake on that, civil rights be damned-had already slipped into terminal comas. Many were bleeding out. The majority were obviously infected, but really just terrified.”

  And it was only the beginning of their terror.

  They were brought to the Slammer and each was sealed in biocontainment cells. Within hours, even the healthier individuals were beginning to crash. This new enhanced Ebola moved very swiftly, Price and the others soon learned. It was a pathetic sight to see human beings being destroyed in such a way, he said. Their eyes were staring out, glassy and brilliantly red, blood running from their noses, their faces transformed into rubber fright masks from massive destruction of facial connective tissue and the fact that their brains were degrading into a pudding of gray matter.

  There was no time to lose.

  Although blood and other tissues had been collected, they needed liver tissue collected at the moment of death. This was called an agonal biopsy. A biopsy syringe was inserted into the liver which, like the other organs, had begun to liquefy. And it is here, at the point of death, that the cadaver undergoes spontaneous liquefaction as necrotic organs and tissues literally melt and fluids drain free in copious amounts, the blood black as tar, all of it cooking hot with virus.

  Within forty-eight hours, all the subjects were dead.

  Price said it was interesting to note that Ebola-X-while mimicking ordinary Ebola or Marburg in that it attacks the skin, soft tissues, organs, etc. like some ferocious viral wolf-also mimics radiation sickness. They ran into a lot of that at Detrick. Subjects whose faces were splitting open from sores, whose hair and teeth had fallen out. It looked like exposure to toxic levels of radiation. But it was just the virus. He said all of the subjects became delusional as their brains were eaten away and more than a few became psychotic. And all of that-from the sores to the baldness and the rage-made me think of the Scabs. Maybe there was no connection.

  Price went on, “We performed a series of autopsies and found exactly what we knew we’d find,” he said, his face sculpted by shadows. “The liver was yellow and liquefied, kidneys ruptured, intestines filled with blood and decayed. It was the same with all organs and connective tissue. They had gone necrotic and dissolved. Each cadaver was the same…biological waste as the result of extreme viral amplification.

  “The next stage was to cultivate the organism,” Price said. “We put organ tissues from the dead into flasks with living cells from the liver we had biopsied. We did a series of these with blood, mucus, various discharges and mashed organs. Then we put them into an incubator which mimics the temperature of the human body. Within two days we had a thriving culture of virus. We got our first look at our monster.”

  Price was silent for a few moments. I had the feeling that what he was telling me were things that he maybe hoped would die with him. Though he could be clinical to the point of cruelty at times, when he was telling me these things he was filled with pain.

  “The virus?” I said finally.

  “Yes. We put it in the beam…that is, under the eye of the electron microscope. We were looking at a filovirus very similar to Ebola or Marburg.”

  Filoviruses, or “thread viruses,” are quite unique in the world of virology. While many viruses look like balls or plugs, the filoviruses are quite alien in appearance and resemble braided rope or coiling worms. Many think they look much like spaghetti. Price said that even to a microbiologist there is something invidious and evil about them and no one who has studied them has not felt it.

  “What we had was Ebola, no doubt of it, but mutated from its ordinary state. A new strain, unspeakably deadly.”

  Under the microscope was a sort of elongated viral body with dozens of slender threads looping from it. Like white worms or tentacles, he told me. They watched Ebola-X invade healthy cells with savage abandon, an unstoppable army of killer microbes. They would send out their thread-like tendrils, grab a cell, overwhelm it, on and on. Once they had infested a cell, they pretty much gutted it of nutrients and genetic material, forming inclusion bodies-crystalline blocks of pure virus-which were replicated viral broods getting ready to hatch and infest. The cell itself would be grotesquely swollen by this point, literally pregnant with virus. Each inclusion body moved outwards toward the cell wall, touched it, and exploded into hundreds of new viruses. These viruses then penetrated the cell walls, causing the cell itself to distort and bulge and finally burst…releasing newborn viruses to find more host cells where they drain them, multiply, and burst free again. The process begins again. An absolutely alarming geometric progression.

  “Such a process is horrible when you think about it,” Price said. “Viruses making viruses ad infinitum, blocks forming, blocks exploding with hundreds of hatchlings, the host cell bursting, the viruses turned loose, traveling through the bloodstream and clinging to any available cell in a relentless amplification of the original virus.”

  It was horrible, all right.

  It was downright scary, in fact. I was starting to get ideas that left me cold and it all tied in with what I saw in my dreams and what Price was describing to me:

  “I’ll never forget my first view of the thing,” he told me. “It was an absolute obscenity. I was always fascinated by the deadly beautiful horror of Ebola, but this mutated variety literally terrified me looking at it. You would have to see it, Nash, to appreciate what I say. That elongated body with dozens of serpentine white worms coming from it…like snakes, undulant vipers. I thought…yes…that first glimpse of it…I thought I was looking at the face of Medusa.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “I had the strangest feeling that nightmare was aware that I was watching it. That it was looking at me and knowing it was my master. It was pure evil and I knew it. I…dear God, just looking at it made me want to slit my wrists.”

  Medusa.

  I sat there for some time, just smoking my stale cigarettes, staring into the fire and contemplating the end of my own species. Because it was coming and there was no denying it now. The war had thinned the human population considerably, weakening what was left…and Ebola-X would now kick the race’s legs out from under it. It would exterminate us. And not as some mindless germ, but as a mutated, hideously evolved germ that knew exactly what it was doing and took grisly pleasure in the same.

  Before I could stop myself, I blabbered it all out to Price. My dreams. The Medusa. What it looked like and what I thought it to be and how it was sweeping east to west and leaving well-picked graveyards in its wake.

  “It’s unbelievable,” was all he could say. “And you think The Shape is leading you away from it…to some unknown destiny?”

  “Yes. It wants us to get to Nebraska. It wants that very badly.” I shook my head. “Why Nebraska? Why not South Dakota or Wyoming or Montana? I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Well, there could be one reason,” he said. “The Creek.”

  “The Creek?”

  “Yes, Bitter Creek. At Detrick we called it ‘The Creek.’ The Creek is a Level 4 Bio
containment facility in Bitter Creek Nebraska,” he told me. “It was a research complex and storage facility. I’ve never been there, but I knew of it. We all whispered about it.”

  I felt a chill up my spine. “And what…what is stored there?”

  “Bioweapons,” he said. “Every nasty germ we’ve been genetically engineering is stored there. That’s the rumor. In the worlds of virology and microbiology, it’s like Area 51. It carries the same mystique.”

  Bitter Creek.

  I could feel The Shape warming to the idea of it. This was it then. The end was in sight. That’s where we were going. I would lead and the others would follow. Straight into the heart of darkness, straight into the valley of the shadow of death.

  Straight into Hell.

  BITTER CREEK, NEBRASKA

  1

  A storm hit us when we crossed the Nebraska state line. It started with rain and hail and fierce winds that tried to strip the Jeep right off the highway. Pretty soon it wasn’t just rain hitting us or chunks of hail the size of golf balls, but all manner of debris. The winds picked up anything and everything, creating a lashing, wet whirlwind of flak that made the Jeep shake and jerk like it was pushing through an artillery barrage.

  If that was our welcome to the Cornhusker State, it wasn’t a very friendly one. I suppose my old pal Specs would have called it a bad omen.

  Carl got us off I-80, cut through some farmland and pulled before a huge barn that seemed to be about as long as a football field. Covering our heads, we ducked inside. We were glad for the shelter.

  There were cattle stalls up both sides with lots of hay and a concrete drive down the center. At one time, they must have had quite a few head of cattle in there.

  Carl and Mickey and I watched the storm through the doorway.

  It was really something. The rain was still coming down along with occasional barrages of hail. The sky was flat black, seamed with brilliant scarlet and indigo bands that seemed to flicker and expand like Northern lights. We could see bolts of lightening sweeping the countryside in the distance, just flashing and arcing like airstrikes. The thunder made the barn shake.