The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  The old police chief shook his head. “Well, sir, I don’t have any men ‘cept myself. Once in a while, Ernie Olsen over at the grocery store helps me out. But if anything serious crops up, why, I either call the BCA—that’s the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension—‘course you probably already knew that—or the state highway patrol and they usually call the National Guard. You want me to call ‘em?”

  “No,” Weiss said. “You go see if you can help the people on the bus.”

  The old chief saluted crisply, then turned and shuffled away. Jeremiah suspected the salute was not done without a certain amount of irony. As he followed the chief’s progress, he saw Sister Ezekiel emerge from the bus, looking tired and pale, as if she’d aged five years since he’d seen her last. She must have climbed onto the bus with Lendra. Now she slowly made her way over to them.

  “This is terrible,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Two little boys wounded. And what about the shelter? How many inside are hurt or dead? What about Dr. Mary and Ahmad?”

  Colonel Truman answered her: “Only Major Sims took serious injuries. Dr. Mary is with her. My medics are treating the kids and the minor burn victims now.”

  Jeremiah glanced toward the shelter, saw that the front door and a good chunk of the front wall were gone. The windows were all broken. Black smoke drifted up from the gaping hole in the center. The pungent odor of burning plastic overrode every other smell. He said, “I’m afraid your shelter’s in need of some major repairs as well, Sister.”

  Sister Ezekiel sighed. “As long as no one was killed. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”

  Weiss nodded, then said, “Now, Jeremiah, I suppose I should be thanking you for helping us out. I appreciate what you did for us.”

  “Just happy to be doing God’s work,” Jeremiah replied.

  “But that cannon you’re carrying is illegal,” Weiss said. “So is that shield. I’m going to have to confiscate them. Colonel?”

  Colonel Truman stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

  Jeremiah said, “I’ve got valid permits for them.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “They’re up to date. You got a problem with the permits, take it up with the courts. But I’m not handing the cannon or the shield over.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Sister Ezekiel threw out her arms, her steel-gray eyes gleaming intensely. “Two little boys have been shot. Only by the grace of God are they still alive. Major Sims is badly injured. And you two are arguing over who gets to carry the biggest gun?”

  “I’m sorry, Sister,” Weiss said, “but we need to secure the safety of this place.”

  “With more weapons?” Sister Ezekiel yelled, her face flushing with anger. “The innocent always suffer for the ambitions of men. That’s the way the world has always worked. Well, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of all you men with your guns and your political agendas and your indifference to human suffering.”

  Jeremiah stared at the ground, feeling chastened. He noticed that all conversation had stopped in the face of the nun’s outburst. With his peripheral vision he saw Colonel Truman glance at Weiss, who shook his head briefly. The colonel stepped back.

  “I know the President sent you here, Jeremiah,” Weiss said. “But while you’re within the confines of our perimeter, you’ll follow my orders.”

  “I don’t think so, Gray,” Jeremiah answered. “She never said anything about that to me.”

  “Look, Jeremiah, I don’t want to have you arrested, especially after you saved our bacon. But I’ll do it if I have to. I can always charge you with kidnapping Jack Marschenko. Now, are you going to give me the cannon?”

  Jeremiah looked at Lendra, who shrugged and said, “I’ll put a call in to Eli—see what he says.”

  Sister Ezekiel interrupted, “We have to take care of the wounded, not to mention the men who need food and a place to sleep, men who haven’t got anywhere else to go. Who were those people who attacked my shelter? And are they going to come back?”

  Weiss turned to the nun. “They’re Devereauxnians, Sister. And pseudos—fugitives from the Mars Project.”

  Jeremiah said, “Those are the Escala? Impressive. First time I’ve seen them in action. They move like soldiers, not astronauts.”

  Weiss said, “They’re dangerous criminals. They just wounded thirteen people. Not to mention destroying the DS-9000. That whole Mars Project was a terrible mistake. Altering their DNA to increase their survivability on Mars was a crime against nature. Their sterility was God’s way of punishing them for trying to become something other than human. And their uncontrollable aggression makes them a threat to humanity. They need to be stopped. At least we’ve passed the DNA Integrity Act to make transgenic alteration illegal, so these monstrosities will eventually die out.”

  Colonel Truman touched his hand to his earpiece for a moment, then interrupted, “Excuse me, sir, but that Cookie Monster fellow was sprung. So was the escaped prisoner who was working at the shelter.”

  “Cookie Monster?” Jeremiah said.

  “A pseudo,” Weiss replied.

  “So maybe they were just trying to break him out, as well as destroy your scanner.”

  Weiss turned to Colonel Truman. “How did they free the prisoners?”

  “Multi-phase chem-lasers,” Colonel Truman answered. “Probably Las-knives. The Porta-cell was sliced open. The prisoners’ ID chips were cut out of their necks and left on the cell floor, so we have no chance to track them down. They did it quickly and expertly.” Truman paused for a moment, listened to his earpiece again and added, “Jet-copters will be here in three minutes.”

  Jeremiah heard them approaching. He turned to the north and as they came into view he suppressed a shiver. The two jet-copters looked awkward in the air: large bulbous vessels, rather like bumblebees, but with rigid wings. Jet engines at the sides and back of each copter worked in tandem, making the copters as maneuverable as helicopters but much faster. Intellectually Jeremiah knew they were safe. He’d flown on jet-copters before. But each experience had been terrifying, not to mention nausea inducing. He’d sworn never again to go up in one.

  Sister Ezekiel touched Jeremiah’s wrist briefly. “Thank you for saving my shelter. But I want both you and Mr. Weiss to leave as soon as possible.” She glared at the two men, her voice clipped, her anger obvious. “You’re destroying much more than just property.” Compressing her lips tightly together, she headed across the parking lot, weaving her way around burning transport vehicles toward the damaged front door.

  Weiss looked at Jeremiah and grimaced, then shrugged. After a moment he headed for the shelter. Jeremiah and Lendra fell in behind, Lendra gripping Jeremiah’s arm tightly. Still talking into his comm unit, Colonel Truman trailed them.

  Just inside the doorway, a twisted hunk of metal and plastic—the DS-9000—beeped sporadically. It looked beyond saving. Sister Ezekiel stood in the center of the lobby, hands on her hips, looking down at a heavyset woman who was crouched over a black soldier in a neck brace: Major Sims, Jeremiah realized.

  The heavyset woman—Dr. Mary, no doubt—looked up at Jeremiah briefly before turning her back on him and bending over Major Sims to carefully inflate a pair of leg casts. She stuck her hefty rump up in the air and wiggled her bottom as she reached across the major. Jeremiah found his eyes drawn to her ample rear.

  “Sister!” An albino rushed forward from a hallway where a group of men were gathered and threw his arms around the nun.

  “It’s okay, Henry,” Sister Ezekiel said, her body tense. She pushed him away to arm’s length, then leveled her gaze at him and said firmly, “We’re fine. How are things here?”

  “Several men were injured when that thing blew up,” Henry said. “They’re in the infirmary with the medics. Dr. Mary’s so brave. She made us stay low, kept Redbird and Iggy from running out into the street. We’re lucky most of the
men cleared out after the scans.”

  “All right,” Sister Ezekiel said. “Here’s what I need you to do. Go back to the kitchen and see how bad it is. I need to know if we can get it cleaned up in time for the evening meal. Find Jackson and Tremaine. Our cooks,” she explained to Jeremiah and Lendra as Henry departed.

  Colonel Truman knelt before Major Sims. “How you doing, Bettany?”

  Sims opened her mouth in a wide grin, her eyelids fluttering as if she could barely stay awake. “Dez,” she said. “How you doin’, Dez?”

  “I’m fine, Major. You’re obviously feeling no pain.”

  “No pain,” Sims agreed. Then she glanced over at the ruined scanner. “Couldn’t save it, though. The shield just…boom!”

  “That’s okay,” Truman said. “You did a fine job. How do you feel?”

  “I could use a kiss,” Sims said. “Hey, how ‘bout you, pretty girl?” She looked up at Lendra. “You want to give me a kiss?”

  Jeremiah smiled as Lendra clasped his arm a little tighter.

  “Love the drugs,” Sims continued. “Feels like…lemon.” She closed her eyes and began to hum softly.

  “Are you going to stay open, Sister?” Weiss said.

  She turned on him, her eyes narrow with fury. “Have you ever gone to bed hungry, Mr. Weiss? Do you know what it’s like to have no one care whether you live or die? I wonder if you even see these men as people.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, Sister,” Weiss said. “And yes, I’ve gone to bed hungry.”

  For a moment, the two stared at each other, challenge in their faces. Then Sister Ezekiel sighed and said, “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I have nothing against you personally, Mr. Weiss. You have the guns and the law, so do what you must. Find Walt Devereaux. Then leave. I have a shelter to run. And if all we can provide is soup, then that’s what we’ll serve. But we’re not going to let these men go to sleep with nothing in their stomachs.” She nodded toward Weiss’ shoulder. “Dr. Mary can have a look at that when she finishes with Major Sims.”

  “Treat the soldiers first,” Weiss said. “I can wait.” He stepped over to the scanner.

  Jeremiah looked at it more closely. The light on its power cell flickered weakly.

  Weiss said, “I suppose it’s ruined.”

  “It might make an interesting sculpture,” Jeremiah said.

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

  “No,” Jeremiah said. “It looks good. You could put it on display along with your mobile command center over by ‘Emerging Man.’ Even charge admission. I admit they don’t have the same depth or artistic importance as the statue, but still—three pieces for the price of one. You could probably recoup your costs in a hundred years.”

  Weiss laughed, a harsh bark, then glanced around the lobby. Finally he directed his attention to the weapon in Jeremiah’s hand. He said, “All right, Jeremiah. Pursuant to the Patriot Amendment, I’m co-opting you for the remainder of your stay in this area. You’re now under my authority.”

  “Shouldn’t you check with the President first?” Jeremiah said, handing over his Identi-card.

  Weiss grabbed the card. “I will,” he said. “Oh, and I want that particle beam cannon.”

  “I told you, I’ve got a valid permit—”

  “Your permit is discretionary. And I’m revoking it. As the Attorney General of the United States, I am hereby ordering the seizure of that weapon. Colonel?”

  The soldiers in the room turned to Jeremiah. As the colonel stepped forward, his hand outstretched, Jeremiah glanced at Lendra. She tapped her interface and shook her head. “Eli says he has no authority to prevent Mr. Weiss from taking the weapon.”

  Weiss said, “Don’t force me to arrest you, Jones.”

  Jeremiah stood still for a few seconds, delaying, hoping a solution might show itself. He finally said, “Let me just make sure it’s locked in the safe position. You people have probably never seen one of these before. Don’t want anybody getting hurt.” He swung the cannon up, pressed the eject button and removed the converter. Then he handed the useless weapon to the colonel.

  “Hey!” Colonel Truman said.

  Weiss said, “Jeremiah, hand over that piece.”

  “This is a dangerous weapon as you just admitted. I’ve been certified to fire it. The Army doesn’t even own one. Only the Elite Ops carry them. You guys might accidentally blow up this town if I gave you a working particle beam cannon. No, I’ll let you take the outer shell but not the converter.”

  Dr. Mary now got to her feet. She brushed up against Jeremiah, the beginnings of a grin forming on her lips. “Love your cannon,” she whispered as she passed.

  Jeremiah froze. No, it couldn’t be Julianna. He stared at the doctor, studying her puffy face, looking for anything familiar, finding nothing reminiscent of his old partner.

  Dr. Mary quickly turned to Colonel Truman. “Major Sims is stable for the moment. I want to keep an eye on her for a little longer. Then you can medevac her out.” The doctor’s voice, rich and vibrant, contained some indefinable familiarity to the cadence or tone. But how could Julianna be here?

  “Dr. Mary McCaffery,” Sister Ezekiel said, formally introducing Lendra and Jeremiah.

  The doctor offered Jeremiah her hand. As he grasped it, he felt a tingling in his stomach. Her dark brown eyes offered no sign of recognition. And she wore a perfume he’d never smelled before but his nose twitched anyway, as if on some subconscious level he remembered her aroma. She gave his hand a firm shake.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Call me Dr. Mary.” Then she turned to Weiss and said, “The medics seem to be handling your soldiers. Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

  Jeremiah moved halfway across the room and caught Lendra’s eye. He beckoned her over.

  “What do you think of Dr. Mary?” he asked quietly.

  Lendra studied the doctor, who was helping the Attorney General remove his coat and shirt. “Strange,” she replied, “I was just thinking there’s something off there. The way she carries herself—very confidently, very strongly.”

  “I think that’s Julianna.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “I don’t—not for sure.” Jeremiah put his arm on Lendra’s shoulder and turned her toward the ruined doorway. “But I want you to check out Dr. Mary McCaffery. Quietly.”

  “How can that be Julianna? Even if she had genetic surgery, she’s way too heavy and too old.”

  “Let me know as soon as you get an answer.”

  “Right. I’ll call Eli again too. Update him on our progress.”

  “By the way,” Jeremiah said. “You kept calm out there very well when the shooting went down. Good work. Tell Eli you deserve a raise.”

  “I was scared to death.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t panic. And you didn’t take neo-dopamine, either.”

  As she walked outside, Jeremiah turned toward Weiss and the doctor. Weiss sat in the middle of the lobby on a charred but functional chair while Dr. Mary cleaned his shoulder wound. Due to the cauterizing effect of the laser, the skin around the wound bubbled, looking red and raw. Jeremiah had felt the sting of a laser before, so he knew that this was about the time the pain kicked in—right after the shock wore off. Weiss took the pain with only a grimace. He was tough: no question about that. When Dr. Mary finished cleaning the area, she applied a QuikHeal bandage and adjusted the flow of anesthetics and antibiotics. Immediately, Weiss’ face lost its pinched look. Then she manipulated Weiss’ arm, lifting it to various positions while examining a monitor that displayed the damage to muscle and nerve.

  Once, while stretching Weiss’ arm, she glanced at Jeremiah briefly. She looked nothing like the woman he’d known. Her smell, her voice, the way she moved: all different. Especially her eyes. He was so used to the arctic blue of her eyes. And this p
lump, middle-aged woman looked nothing like the athlete he remembered. But he somehow knew that Dr. Mary was Julianna.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doug awoke.

  One moment, oblivion; the next, woozy consciousness. He opened his eyes and lifted his throbbing head—discovered that he was on a huge, firm bed in a cave. Light emanated from a small globe hovering above his head. He reached toward it and the globe moved farther away. Amazing. This had to be a glow globe, filled with helium and powered by bacteria that produced light-emitting chemical reactions. He’d seen vids of them but had always suspected trick photography. When he pulled his hand back the globe repositioned itself over his head. He couldn’t help but laugh. That lasted only a second as a sharp jolt pierced his head. Slowly, carefully, trying to keep the pain to a minimum, Doug moved to the end of the bed. How did he get here?

  He remembered—

  —Cookie Monster reaching out with a spray can, saying, “Sorry,” and squirting him in the face. This had to be Cookie Monster’s room, hidden underground. Doug recalled running through the woods surrounded by giants, Cookie Monster at his side. No one told him where they were going. In fact, no one spoke to him at all as they made their escape.

  He eased himself to a sitting position, smelled the dampness of the rock mingling with a musty animal odor and traces of some unidentifiable food. Off in the distance through the open doorway, from a direction he could not place, he heard what he thought were voices. Closer in he picked up a humming from the glow globe.

  Despite a foggy grayness to his thoughts, he recognized the drug-induced oblivion he had emerged from as a sort of death: the kind of death he’d visited often in his hazy and violent youth. Nothingness. That’s what Devereaux said death was. Just nothingness. It wasn’t so bad: not something to be afraid of. And if Devereaux was right, if death was oblivion, then the fear of it made no sense, for in death we would never feel or know anything again. We would simply cease to be. If we could just stop hoping for it to be something other than what it was, we could accept it and move beyond it.