Plague

by H W Buzz Bernard

  A series of laboratories, according to identifiers on the doors, lined the left-hand side of the hallway. On the right, spaced evenly, were several intersecting corridors. He walked to the end of the main corridor where he encountered a small break room.

  He turned and retraced his steps. Now that he was in the blockhouse, he didn’t know what the hell he was looking for, what he’d expected to find. To him, the building looked like a run-of-the-mill research facility. But he was certain something off kilter was going on in here.

  He walked to where he’d entered the building and turned into the first connecting hallway. Offices lined both sides of the hall. The doors to the offices were solid with no windows, so it was impossible to tell if anyone was in them, working late. At the end of the hallway, he turned into a short connecting passageway that led to a parallel corridor identical to the one he’d just left. He moved along the hallway inspecting the names on the office doors. Dr. Donald Archway. Dr. Ruth Ires-Barnwell. Dr. Cegeon Yee. Mr. Rafael Cordova. Meaningless to him. He reached the main hallway again and paused, considering his next move. He decided the labs and offices needed to be checked individually, but knew that idea was equivalent to spitting into the wind. He hadn’t enough time. Besides, he’d noted the locks on the offices; not electronic ones, but old-fashioned pin-and-tumbler ones, the kind that required keys. And he didn’t have any. “Shit,” he said softly. He wasn’t qualified as a spy.

  The subdued sound of a door opening and closing came from behind him, from the hallway he’d just scouted. He spun around. A wraith of a woman, small and mousy with a disheveled tumble of brown hair, walked toward him. Head down, fumbling with her briefcase, she didn’t notice Richard until she was almost upon him.

  “Oh,” she said, jerking to a stop, her walking shoes making a sharp, rubbery squeal on the tile, like a basketball player in a gym.

  “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Richard said. He made a quick decision; he’d found a target of opportunity. “I’m Richard Wainwright.” He pulled out his ID. “I’m the CEO pro tem at BioDawn. I was supposed to meet Dr. Gonzales here this evening, but I’m afraid I don’t know where his office is.”

  The woman, with a pinched fox-like face, looked closely at the ID, then him. Apparently satisfied they matched, she set her briefcase on the floor and extended her hand. “I’m Dr. Rathke,” she said. “Cynthia Rathke. I heard we had a new boss, but I guess I don’t pay much attention to administrative goings-on. Buried in my work, I’m afraid.” She forced a smile without revealing her teeth. They shook hands, her grip, limp and irresolute.

  “What is your work, Ms. Rathke? I’d like to know more about the products and processes BioDawn is developing.”

  She shrugged. “Most of it’s classified. But in general terms, I do research in recombinant DNA. Hoping ultimately to develop more effective vaccines and antidotes for some really nasty bacteria and viruses.”

  “Such as?”

  “Smallpox, various forms of plague and viral encephalitis, tularemia, Ebola.”

  Pretty much the same stuff the bogus colonel had mentioned. Except for Ebola. He’d heard the name before and knew it was deadly, but didn’t know exactly what it was. “Anything specific?” he asked.

  “That’s about all I can tell you,” she answered.

  “I understand. Perhaps then you could direct me to Dr. Gonzales’ office.”

  “Well, I’m not sure he’s around. He seems to travel a lot, and even when he’s here, he’s pretty elusive. But, I guess if he told you to meet him here...” She cast an uncertain gaze up and down the hall, as if thinking Gonzales might materialize.

  “Do others work as late as you?” Richard asked, wanting to learn if he would be alone after she left.

  “Not normally. I’m usually the last one out.” She picked up her briefcase. “I’ll show you where Dr. Gonzales works.” She moved down the main corridor in the direction of the break room and stopped at one of hallways running perpendicularly to the right. She pointed down the hall. “Dr. Gonzales’ office is behind that door.” The hall was much shorter than the others and terminated at a door through which entry could be gained only with a key card. “It’s a restricted area,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have access to it.”

  That’s all right,” Richard said, “I’ll get in.” His hand rested casually on his coat pocket.

  “There’s a phone on the wall beside the door,” she said. “You can probably call his office, and he’ll let you in.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that. Good night.”

  He walked down the hall toward the door. She followed.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. How do I get rid of her?

  “I’ll just make sure you’re able to get in.”

  Great. Now she decides to be Miss Responsible. He reached for the phone’s handset, stood in front of the key pad to mask it from Rathke’s view and punched in his own extension. He let the phone ring several times, then began a monologue. “Ah, Dr. Gonzales! Richard Wainwright. I was worried you might not be in.” He paused, keeping the handset jammed hard against his ear so Rathke wouldn’t hear the continuing ring-backs.

  “No, no,” Richard said, pressing on with his charade. “No problem at all. Your colleague, Dr. Rathke, was kind enough to show me the way.” He paused again. “Yes, I understand. Tell you what, I’ll see Dr. Rathke out while you wrap up what you’re doing.” Another pause. “Great. I’ll meet you here in about five minutes.” He turned to Rathke and flashed a thumbs up. He replaced the handset on the phone, quickly between ring-backs.

  “Thank you so much,” he said to her. “Dr. Gonzales will be out shortly. I certainly appreciate your help.” He swept his arm toward the main hallway. “I’ll walk with you to the door.” Rathke hesitated, then smiled wanly and began walking, Richard at her side.

  After making certain she’d left the building, Richard returned to the entrance of the restricted area. He hadn’t the slightest idea which of the key cards, if any, would allow him entry. He had no choice but to try them all. He thumbed through the cards, checking to see if any had markings that suggested it would open the door. None did. One by one, he slipped them into the reader. The red light indicator was relentless in its response. Richard’s hope waned. He had only three cards left when the light blinked green, and the electronic lock clicked.

  He pushed on the door, a heavy steel barrier, and it groaned open. He stepped into a nearly-dark alcove. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the artificial dusk. There appeared to be an office or laboratory to his right. But it was what lay straight ahead that sent a chill whispering across his neck and shoulders. Another steel door, broader than the one he’d just opened, blocked his way. Subdued, deep blue light streamed out through a thick window in the door. But it wasn’t the door or the light that drew his attention, it was what was on the door: a symbol—four intersecting red rings; and lettering—BIOHAZARD. Underneath that was printed:

  AIR-LOCK/DECON. PROTECTIVE SUIT/BREATHING APPARATUS REQUIRED.

  Richard’s stomach did a half gainer, and his breathing quickened. Biohazard? He stepped to the window and peered in. Several, what looked like space suits, hung suspended in a tiny room suffused with ultraviolet light. Switches and digital readouts filled the right wall of the room. In the back wall, another door sported a tiny red “4.” The vague odor of disinfectant, diluted but potent, filled his nostrils. He retreated from the window and drew a deep breath. He looked to the side of the door. A keypad indicated that knowing the proper numeric code was the only way in. Not that that made any difference. He had no intention of going any farther. But he knew he’d stumbled onto something that shouldn’t be here. Something dangerous. Something deadly.

  He took another step back, then felt cold metal against his neck.

  “Nine millimeter. Don’t turn around,” a voice said.
>
  At North Georgia Regional Hospital, Dr. Willand, bathed in sweat and doubled over, his arms clenched around his midsection, sat on a chair in an otherwise empty patient room. The vomiting and diarrhea he so desperately feared had finally begun, flushing away the self-deception he’d clung to for the last two days. He wasn’t over-tired. He didn’t have a tension headache. He knew all too well the symptoms of Ebola. He was dying.

  The virus was already at work, billions upon billions of them, swimming through his bloodstream like swarms of rapacious moray eels. He pictured it. The virus exploding in his body, replicating itself over and over the only way it could, by latching onto living cells and taking over their reproductive machinery.

  There was no malevolence in this “intent” he understood, the virus was merely doing what it was designed to do: make copies of itself to ensure its survival. In the process, it destroys its hosts, growing crystalloids or “bricks” of virus within the cells. The bricks continue to expand until they touch the walls of the cells. Then they explode into hundreds of individual viruses, or virions. They burst through the cell walls and sprout from their surfaces like Medusa’s hair, microscopic snakes ready to slither into the bloodstream in search of their next host. It’s a process that multiplies with frightening rapidity, exponentially. A single Ebola virion reproduces itself in about eight hours. As few as half a dozen Ebola virions can infect a human; the incubation period is as little as two days.

  Ebola attacks platelets and endothelial cells in blood vessels with particular ferocity. Platelets allow blood to clot; endothelial cells keep it and other fluids from leaking out. With Ebola in full cry, blood ceases to clot, and capillaries can no longer contain it. Pinpoint hemorrhages and oozing plasma blossom on the surface of major organs as their tissue begins to rot and die. The functions of the kidney, liver and spleen begin to fail. The initial symptoms of crushing fatigue, searing pain and burning fever hammer the victim with frightening suddenness.

  The attack within the body intensifies. Fragile blood vessels around the gums and along the soft mucosal surfaces of the gastrointestinal tract begin to rupture with the slightest provocation. The conjunctiva, the membrane covering the cornea of the eye and the inner surface of the eyelid, may bleed profusely, making the eyeball appear infused with blood. Red spots, petechiae, appear on the skin; underneath are tiny hemorrhages. The lining of the throat becomes a mush of destroyed tissue with the consistency of raw hamburger. A pus-like substance drains from the tonsils. The throat becomes swollen and acutely painful. The victim cannot even swallow his or her own saliva.

  The destruction of the gastrointestinal tissues accelerates. Severe cramping lances through the victim’s abdomen. Watery diarrhea and non-stop vomiting set in. The vomiting becomes excruciating as the lining at the back of the throat begins to peel away.

  The microvascular bleeding intensifies. The intestinal lining sloughs off and is defecated, along with copious amounts of tarry blood, in ripping bouts of diarrhea. Explosions of vomit infused with blood and dead tissue shoot from the victim. The emesis has the appearance of liquified coffee grounds.

  Internally, the destruction mounts. The kidneys, deprived of oxygen and nutrients by ceaseless hemorrhaging, stop functioning, and the blood becomes toxic with waste normally excreted in urine. The virus goes after the heart and brain. The underlayers of the skin grow pulpy; white blisters intermingle with the petechiae producing a maculopapular rash. The skin of the victim becomes so flushed and sensitive that even the touch of a bed sheet triggers agony. But the victim perhaps no longer cares. He or she is probably comatose or delirious now, or maybe thrashing violently as grand mal seizures wrack the body. The virus has invaded the brain, clogging it with dead blood cells, squeezing off its blood supply.

  Even the heart fights a losing battle, leaking blood, hemorrhaging into the ventricles and atria. Finally, the victim’s blood pressure tumbles precipitously. The skin blanches and turns clammy. The victim slips into shock from loss of blood and fluid into surrounding tissues. If there are attending physicians, they become desperate. They attempt transfusions and force IV fluids into their patient, but the devastated vessels are like sieves. They merely leak the fluids back into the tissues and sometimes the lungs. Mercifully, death is imminent. Ebola has won. Its conquest has taken a little as eight days.

  Dr. Willand wished with all his soul he were home, in his bedroom, next to his closet and the Smith & Wesson .38 in the lockbox. He breathed heavily in and out for a few moments, calculating whether he could make it back to his subdivision. No, he decided. Besides, what he contemplated would be the act of a coward, a man thinking only of himself. It was about other people, too; people who would have to attend to him, or whatever was left of him: his wife, EMTs, firemen and policemen who wouldn’t realize the blood splattered throughout the bedroom would be more deadly than anything they’d ever encountered.

  No, he wouldn’t do that. Besides, maybe there’s still a chance...

  A wave a nausea surged through his esophagus, and acidic vomit slashed at the back of his throat. He raced for the restroom across the hall. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet and leaned his head over the bowl.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NORTH METRO ATLANTA

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  A heavy-smoker’s breath tinged with garlic whispered into Richard’s ear. “Why didn’t you just take her to bed, Mr. Wainwright? She’d be alive, you’d be alive, everything would be fine.”

  “I am alive.”

  “Not for long.”

  The trip-hammer thud of Richard’s heart reverberated through his head, the pounding so deafening he could scarcely make out the words of the man behind him. He drew a deep breath, then another, willing himself to quash the panic welling up within him. Willing himself to think. He understood that for the next few moments, time would be his most valuable ally. With time he could analyze, plan, act. Talk, ask questions, stall. Buy time.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  There was no response, only a slow, world-weary expulsion of sour breath.

  “Dr. Gonzales? Dr. Alano Gonzales?”

  “Walk toward the door. Please.”

  Richard detected a hint of an accent, but couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Hispanic.

  The gun prodded him toward the steel door labeled BIOHAZARD.

  “Stop. Extend your arms and lean forward on the door. Spread your legs.”

  He followed the commands of his captor. Then nodded at the door. “What goes on in there? Why the biohazard warnings?” Keep talking. He needed every second he could get.

  “You’re much too inquisitive. Much too hands-on, Mr. Wainwright. Why couldn’t you have just sat on your Armani-trousered ass and counted your money like most other CEOs? All you had to do was babysit this operation for a few months. Shake hands. Slap backs. Not go sniffing around like some goddamn coon dog trying to root out a wild boar.”

  “Did I?”

  “Did you what?”

  “Root out a wild boar?”

  “Faah!” the man snorted, almost as if offended.

  “Are you Dr. Gonzales? If I don’t have long to live, why not tell me?”

  The notion of his death unsettled Richard. His mind dug at his suppressed terror, attempting to unearth it, grab it, run in hysterical circles through the fields of his imagination.

  “Dr. Gonzales doesn’t exist.”

  The words yanked Richard’s focus back to the man holding the 9mm on his neck. “No?” he said. “Then who are you?”

  Silence.

  “Better I should know my executioner than not.”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “I am Sami Alnour Barashi. Iraqi, but a naturalized U.S. citizen.”

  “But not a doctor?”

  “Oh, yes, my friend. I studied in Saud
i, Russia and America. Right here in Atlanta, at Emory University, as a matter of fact.”

  He was loosening up, talking. Keep buying time.

  “A learned man, then?”

  “Some would say.”

  “What is your area of expertise?”

  Barashi chuckled, but it ended in a hacking cough. “America will know soon enough.”

  An icicle of terror rammed itself into Richard’s gut. “Know what?”

  “Too many questions, Mr. Wainwright. You never know when to stop.”

  “Not much point in stopping now, is there?”

  Richard closed his eyes, scrolling back through Barashi’s words. What was it he had first said? Why didn’t you just take her to bed? Delayed, the impact of the words slammed into him. Barashi knew! He knew about Anneliese. He knew what went on, what almost went on, in her apartment. Had he...? “Did you kill her?” Richard half turned his head. The gun bored into his neck with even more force.

  “Who?”

  “Anneliese.”

  “You know, Mr. Wainwright, you’re a maddening man. If you’d been less diligent about your job, displayed less integrity, walked on the same feet of clay as so many other executives, we wouldn’t be standing here tonight. You about to die. Me with yet another complication.”

  “A complication? Is that what Anneliese was?”

  A long sigh. “No. You were the complication. From the moment you arrived. Too much interest in what went on behind these doors. Too eager to meet with distraught widows—”