Then a troubled guest called Redbird tried to push past a soldier, who brought her stun club up to stop him. Redbird dodged to the side and the soldier’s lunge carried her into Cookie Monster—huge, hairy, gentle Cookie Monster.
Sister Ezekiel heard the stun club sizzle as it made contact with Cookie Monster’s chest. He roared in pain, drawing the attention of the other soldiers, who must have thought he initiated an attack. Several jabbed Cookie Monster with their stun clubs. Yet he didn’t fall. He flailed away at the clubs, knocking one out of a soldier’s hand. That’s when the other soldiers jumped him.
They beat him, poking him with their clubs, driving him to the floor as he tried to protect himself. Meanwhile most of the men in the lobby ran for the door. Sister Ezekiel searched for Cookie Monster’s near-constant companion, Rock Man, expecting the poor deaf-mute to be caught in the crush of bodies, but didn’t spot him. The men who reached the doorway ran into a wall of soldiers, who herded them back inside.
Even after Cookie Monster lay unmoving on the floor, one of the soldiers continued to prod him with his stun club. Sister Ezekiel ran forward, flanked by Henry and Doug.
“Stop it!” Sister Ezekiel ordered. “Can’t you see he’s unconscious?”
The soldier looked up, his hostile eyes slowly focusing on her face. Then he blinked, shrugged apologetically and backed away, staring down at the gigantic form of Cookie Monster. The rest of the soldiers formed a semi-circle around the entrance, stun clubs and Las-rifles in their hands.
Dr. Mary McCaffery emerged from her room at the back of the shelter and joined them. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Good question,” Sister Ezekiel said. She turned to the soldiers. “What are you doing here?”
“We got orders to secure this shelter,” a sergeant replied.
“Whose orders?”
“Colonel Truman, Sister.”
“And where is Colonel Truman?”
“He’ll be here shortly.”
Sister Ezekiel glared at the sergeant until he looked away. Together with Doug and Henry, she helped Dr. Mary lift Cookie Monster onto a gurney. Henry nearly dropped him, but the sergeant stepped forward and grabbed Cookie Monster’s shoulders, preventing Cookie Monster’s head from hitting the floor. The big man almost didn’t fit on the gurney. His feet came right up to the edge; his massive arms hung over the sides; his long black hair, containing the merest touch of blue, dangled from the end opposite his feet, seven feet away. His normally cheerful demeanor was hidden behind closed eyes and the cuts on his face and the bushy beard that disappeared into his hairy chest.
After they got Cookie Monster settled on the gurney, Dr. Mary tapped the shiny interface she wore on her left temple, patted her graying hair in place with a blotched pudgy hand and began treating his wounds. She slapped a QuikHeal bandage on a deep gash over his left eye, then wheeled Cookie Monster to the infirmary, adjacent to Sister Ezekiel’s office and visible through wall-windows that could be darkened for privacy.
Sister Ezekiel looked into the infirmary, where Doug and Henry were assisting the doctor. Doug, tall and thin, with a perpetual slouch and a flat face, his black curly hair cut almost to the scalp, held a saline bag in a large mahogany hand. Poor Doug. For some reason, he saw little to like about himself. On the other side of the gurney, the short plump albino, Henry—who saw the world in simple terms, good versus evil—cut the big man’s clothes away. Dr. Mary placed a thin sheet over Cookie Monster’s tree-trunk legs and waist, though he was not awake to be discomfited by his nakedness.
Glancing around the lobby, Sister Ezekiel assessed the damage to her shelter. Apart from the door, there was a broken window. Not only rain but insatiable mosquitoes entered the shelter through the openings. Strange how all the poisons and pollutants in the air didn’t kill off the mosquitoes. For some reason the Dear Lord found fit to let them survive. But now they were a problem—carrying all manner of diseases. Not only the deadly Susquehanna Virus but mutations of older maladies like malaria, Rift Valley and West Nile, which came now in greater potency than when she was a child. And the men who frequented the shelter were ill equipped to fight any illness at all, let alone the Susquehanna Virus.
How she longed to slip off to the chapel, where she could pray, meditate and even sleep. She knew the Dear Lord would forgive her naughtiness, for He understood fatigue. It seemed ages since Sister Ezekiel had experienced a good night’s sleep. Every day brought a different problem. But these soldiers, they were likely to be a much bigger problem than usual. The last time soldiers had busted in, looking for a political dissident, they’d stayed three days, disrupting the shelter’s routine and scaring off a good many unfortunates. She hoped that wouldn’t be the case this time.
She closed her eyes, imagined herself drifting off for a few precious minutes, then returned to the infirmary. Adjusting her glasses—the Church frowned on genetic surgery—she saw Dr. Mary dip her sponge in a salve and apply it to burns on Cookie Monster’s chest and shoulders.
“Are those from the stun clubs?” Sister Ezekiel asked.
Dr. Mary nodded as she applied more salve to a bruise on Cookie Monster’s arm. She then turned to a cut on the back of Cookie Monster’s right hand where a club had caught him, ripping the skin badly. Henry, acting as her assistant, handed her a QuikHeal bandage, which she applied to the cut.
“Wonderful things,” Dr. Mary said. “An anesthetic numbs the pain, an antibiotic deep-cleans the wound and a coagulant stops the bleeding. You don’t even need me. Just pop one of these on every patient who walks through the door.”
“Don’t even joke about that, Doctor,” Sister Ezekiel said. “I don’t know how we got along without you these past two months.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did fine. You just needed a better supply of these.”
“We were desperate for medical help before you came. You are a true miracle—an angel sent by God.”
Dr. Mary waved off the compliment. For some reason she seemed uncomfortable with gratitude. Every time Sister Ezekiel tried to thank her, she fidgeted or shrugged and changed the subject, as if undeserving of praise. That didn’t mean Sister Ezekiel was going to stop honoring her. Dr. Mary was a saint. She could have earned a lot more at a clinic or hospital.
Sister Ezekiel asked, “Is he going to be all right?”
“Hard to say. What we really need is a neuropsychologist to determine the level of damage. It looks like he took a dozen hits with a stun club. I don’t know how he managed to stay conscious long enough to absorb that many blows.”
“One of the soldiers struck him several times after he was down,” Sister Ezekiel said.
“What?”
Sister Ezekiel caught the fierce look in Dr. Mary’s eyes and felt a sudden fear. Henry must have seen something in the doctor’s face too, for he took a step backward. Dr. Mary often displayed a gruff exterior, using caustic comments to voice her displeasure with everything from the government’s incompetence and untrustworthiness to the senseless violence she witnessed weekly. On rare occasions, especially during the quiet moments after the men had gone to bed, Dr. Mary let her softer side show. But right now she looked as angry as Sister Ezekiel had ever seen her. Sister Ezekiel nodded and said, “I don’t understand why anyone would do such a thing.”
“Soldiers are stupid and brutal,” Dr. Mary said. “And when they get scared, they attack.”
“He didn’t even do anything. He simply got in the way.” Sister Ezekiel touched Cookie Monster’s warm hand. “Such a gentle creature.”
Dr. Mary sighed and her anger seemed to melt away. Sister Ezekiel marveled at how she could go from intense anger to casual acceptance to optimistic happiness almost instantaneously and without effort. It took a great deal of willpower for Sister Ezekiel to maintain her iron control throughout the day. She feared giving in to too much emotion.
Ruffling
Cookie Monster’s hair, Dr. Mary said, “We really should be treating him like a victim of a lightning strike. That’s probably how much electricity he absorbed. I expect he’ll experience short-term memory loss, personality change and have difficulty concentrating on more than one thing at a time—not to mention headaches, nausea, tinnitus and irritability.”
“I’d hate to see him angry,” Doug said.
Dr. Mary grinned, the wrinkled skin around her brown eyes tightening. Her perfectly aligned white teeth glinted in the overhead lights, an incongruous contrast to her leathery cheeks. “That would be quite a sight.”
Sister Ezekiel said, “Henry, can you and Douglas put some plastic up over the door and window? We’re getting bugs and water in the lobby. I assume you don’t need any more help at the moment, Doctor?”
“He’ll be asleep for a while,” Dr. Mary said. She took the saline bag from Doug and hung it from the post at the side of the gurney.
The buzz of conversation from the lobby quieted down. When Sister Ezekiel glanced out through the wall-window, she saw the soldiers standing at attention before a tall, black, rather young-looking soldier at the entryway, who was addressing the sergeant. Sister Ezekiel darkened the wall-window leading to the lobby, then followed Henry and Doug out the door.
“Colonel Truman, I presume,” she said as she approached him. She noticed now that he wasn’t a young man. A few white hairs scattered through his short curly hair gave him a distinguished look. His bearing was ramrod straight, his eyes a piercing brown.
“That’s right, Sister. Forgive me for not shaking hands but you’ve got blood on yours. Are you all right?”
Looking down, she noticed that she not only had blood on her hands but on her habit as well.
“It’s not mine,” she said. But she immediately retreated to the infirmary and wiped her hands on a disinfectant towel. When she returned to the lobby she said to the colonel, “Do you mind telling me the meaning of all this?”
“I’m sorry, Sister. The sergeant got a little carried away.”
“A little carried away? They ripped down my front door, broke a window, attacked my guests.”
“We’ll get someone to fix the door and window,” Colonel Truman said.
“What’s so almighty important that you have to break in here in the middle of the night?”
“We’re looking for someone, Sister.”
“Of course. You’re always looking for someone. Who is it this time?”
“You should appreciate this, Sister. We’re looking for Devereaux.”
“Walt Devereaux?”
“The one and only.”
“And you think he’s here?”
“Anything’s possible. We have orders to check every man in the shelter.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Walt Devereaux is a very wealthy man. This is a sanctuary for the homeless.”
“We know all about this place,” Colonel Truman said. “Just like we know Morgan Tessamae was an anarchist.”
The hair on the back of Sister Ezekiel’s neck rose. “Morgan Tessamae was a saint. She escaped an alcoholic, abusive father and a husband who was an addict. Her Tessamae Foundation deeded us four hundred acres, bought this old store for our use and gave us the means to maintain it for at least twenty years. Because of her we’ve been able to help men addicted to drugs and alcohol, as well as those who suffer from mental and emotional impairments.”
“She wanted a haven for addicts and political dissidents. She hated the government, criticized it constantly.”
Sister Ezekiel’s face suffused with anger. She folded her arms. “Are you one of those people who believes it’s treasonous to criticize the government, Colonel?”
Colonel Truman put his hands up and smiled. “No, Sister. I’m no fanatic. And I’m not here to discuss anarchy or politics. I’m just looking for Devereaux. I’ve been instructed to install a DS-9000 at your shelter. And I have the documents confirming said installation. Major?” He turned to his left, where a thin, black female soldier a head shorter than Colonel Truman stepped forward, opened her briefcase and handed the colonel a tablet. Colonel Truman glanced at it before holding it out to Sister Ezekiel. The screen held a picture of the colonel with some text below it.
Sister Ezekiel took the proffered tablet. “I don’t understand. What is a DS-9000 anyway?”
“A DNA scanner.”
“And you think it’s going to help you find Devereaux,” Sister Ezekiel said. Pushing up her glasses, she began scrolling through the documents on the tablet. Filled with legalese, they looked impossible to decipher. Even her attorney would be hard pressed to digest all this information in less than a day.
“If you look at the top document, Sister,” Colonel Truman said, “right under my picture you’ll see that this installation has been ordered by a United States federal district judge. If you have any questions, you may contact the Attorney General’s office during regular business hours.”
“And this is regular business hours?” Sister Ezekiel asked. “The middle of the night?”
“I understand your concerns,” the colonel said. “Do you have a lawyer? You probably ought to call him or her now. My orders are to begin installation immediately. I can give you five minutes if you’d like to make the call first.”
Sister Ezekiel scrolled through the screens again without really seeing anything, just buying time. She wondered if her lawyer, Ahmad Rashidi, could help. In the past, when soldiers or the police came to the shelter looking for someone, they never gave her the opportunity to call him. By the time she was able to do so they’d already found who they wanted or realized that the person they were seeking wasn’t at the shelter. But Ahmad had told her she had the right not to allow entry without a warrant.
“Is this a warrant to search the premises?” she asked.
“It’s a writ of mandate,” Colonel Truman said. “And before you protest that a writ of mandate does not serve as a warrant, you should know that national security issues establish exigent circumstances to support the writ.”
“Very well, Colonel,” Sister Ezekiel said. “You may set up your DS-9000. I still plan to call my lawyer at a decent hour.”
“A wise move, Sister. I’m sure your lawyer will verify that everything we’re doing is perfectly legal. And I apologize again for the zeal of my people.” Colonel Truman lowered his voice. “It’s so difficult to get good personnel in the Army these days. May we talk in private, Sister?”
“Certainly. This way.” Sister Ezekiel pointed to her office.
Colonel Truman led the way. After she followed him inside, he closed the glass door, then pointed through the wall-window to the infirmary, where Dr. Mary continued to monitor Cookie Monster.
“Who are they?” he asked.
“Dr. Mary McCaffery,” Sister Ezekiel replied, “and Cookie Monster. We don’t know his real name. Everybody here uses nicknames.”
“We’re aware of that,” Colonel Truman said. “That’s one of the problems. We have no way to identify these men—determine who they really are. They’ve fallen through the cracks in more ways than one. Not only that, do you have any idea how easy it is to hide these days? How easy it is to acquire a disguise? Facial transplants, black market genetic surgery, fictitious e-histories, false identities—it’s becoming a real problem. So we’ll be scanning all your people, building a database and…wait a minute!”
He moved over to the wall-window and stared through it at Cookie Monster, whose head was now the only part of him not covered by a sheet. Pointing at Cookie Monster, Colonel Truman said, “Is that a pseudo?”
“A pseudo?”
“A genetic mutant—a person who has altered his DNA with animal coding.”
“You mean, like the Mars astronauts?”
“Yes.” Colonel Truman strode to the door. “Come with me, Siste
r.” He opened the door to the infirmary and led the way to Cookie Monster’s gurney. Dr. Mary looked up when they approached, her eyebrows raised in a question. Sister Ezekiel shrugged.
Bending to peer at Cookie Monster’s face, Colonel Truman inhaled slowly, then nodded. “The texture of his hair, his size and obvious muscular development, his slight animalistic odor. I think he’s a pseudo. What do you think, Doctor?”
“I think you’re in my infirmary without my permission. Why are you here?”
“We’re looking for Walt Devereaux.”
Dr. Mary waddled forward and inserted herself between Cookie Monster and the colonel. “I can assure you that this man is not him.”
Colonel Truman backed up a step. “He is a pseudo, though. Is he not?”
“I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t care.”
“They’re very dangerous. Killers.”
“The Mars Project gone awry?” Dr. Mary laughed. “More government propaganda. There’s nothing in animal DNA that can turn people into killers.”
“Are you an expert on DNA manipulation, Doctor?”
“I dare say I know more about it than you, Major.” Dr. Mary winked at Sister Ezekiel.
“It’s Colonel. Colonel Truman. What can you tell me about this man’s background, Sister?”
Sister Ezekiel fought to control her anger. “He’s a regular at the shelter, though I couldn’t tell you how long he’s been coming here. I imagine he got his name from his appearance, as well as the blue fur coat he often wears. With his shaggy beard and unkempt hair he bears a decent resemblance to the character on the Sesame Street vids. Don’t you think so?”
Colonel Truman nodded. “My wife loves those shows. They remind her of a more innocent age.”
“A lot of people love them for that reason,” Dr. Mary said. “Everybody’s nostalgic for the old days, even though those old days weren’t really all that sweet or innocent.”
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 5