The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  Instead, he watched Jeremiah and Lendra take their places. Jeremiah sat beside the doctor, his back to the wall, and surveyed the room. Truman followed his lead and noticed that most of the people waited respectfully for Weiss to finish. A few shifted in their seats, however—eager to eat. The dozen soldiers sitting together kept their heads bowed but Truman heard them whispering to each other. He would have to talk to them after the meal. They weren’t as well behaved as many of the homeless men. “…help us to accept Your purpose, oh Lord. We humbly thank You for this meal. Amen.”

  Murmured Amens sounded throughout the room, immediately followed by the chatter of voices and the clinking of silverware on metal bowls. Weiss again took his seat next to Truman.

  Truman cleared his throat as he reached for a sandwich.

  “Yes?” Weiss asked.

  “Well…it’s about Jeremiah…you said earlier that you and he had a history?”

  Weiss nodded. “A few years ago someone kidnapped his son.”

  Truman tasted his soup—a watery broth with reconstituted vegetables that provided little in the way of flavor—while Weiss continued:

  “There was very little evidence at the scene. A bloody towel with the boy’s ID chip inside. But the towel was a common brand. No prints. No DNA apart from the boy’s. It didn’t lead the police anywhere.”

  Truman bit into the bread, a heavy wheat variety—no doubt healthy but lacking the buttery flavor of the bread in the officers’ mess. It tasted like the homemade bread Emily kept trying to get him to eat—no flavor enhancements. Sister Ezekiel, wandering between tables, putting a hand on the occasional homeless man, making comments too soft for him to hear, caught his eye and he held up the sandwich, smiling at her.

  “Jeremiah,” Weiss continued, “insisted on obtaining video feed from the security company that had the contract with the amusement park—Carlton Security.”

  Truman lifted his head. “The same Carlton Security that outfits the Elite Ops?”

  “Exactly. At least the President kept the funding for that program in place. That’s about the only thing she’s done well since she got into office.”

  “You don’t think the Elite Ops are a bit much?” Truman asked, feeling a slight chill.

  “They’re a necessary part of the modernization of the military. We have to keep getting more efficient. Overwhelming force with minimal numbers. You should appreciate that, Colonel, in light of the difficulties we’ve had recruiting good people the past few years.” Weiss took another sip. “And considering the problems we had fighting the pseudos off today.”

  Truman winced. “You think they’ll be back, sir?”

  Weiss pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “If we find Devereaux, yes. But I won’t call in more troopers unless it’s necessary. I’m sure the four troopers Richard Carlton has sent will arrive shortly. He’s done a tremendous job with the Elite Ops program so far. He developed all their hardware.”

  “I thought Devereaux created the Elite Ops.”

  “His work was mostly theoretical but you’re right—his research became the foundation upon which Richard’s scientists built.”

  “And didn’t Carlton work with you in the CIA?”

  “You’ve done your homework on me, Colonel.”

  Truman smiled. “It pays to learn as much as possible about your boss.” He studied the homeless men. Most of them ate deliberately, keeping an eye on Sister Ezekiel, but a few crammed their food into their mouths without looking up. Truman took a larger bite, getting processed meat and cheese with the bread. Not awful but not as tasty as Army rations. After swallowing he said, “So what happened with the video feed?”

  “Carlton Security claimed that the feed was damaged, that it couldn’t be accessed. Jeremiah sought an injunction allowing him to examine Carlton Security’s database and files, and for national security reasons I refused to grant that request.” Weiss paused for a moment. “Then, earlier this year, Jeremiah’s wife killed herself.”

  “Wow,” Truman said as he studied Jeremiah, sitting between Dr. Mary and Lendra. All three ate quietly, barely looking at each other. “What happened to the boy?”

  “As far as I know, he’s never been found. Anyway, Jeremiah blamed me for refusing him access to Carlton Security’s system. He claimed that a Carlton Security employee must have been involved in the kidnapping, but of course there was never any proof of that.”

  “So he then kidnapped a member of the Elite Ops?” Truman said, whistling softly. “That’s pretty impressive. Shouldn’t you arrest him?”

  “I’ve only got Richard Carlton’s word for that. No physical evidence whatsoever. I need probable cause.” Weiss finished off his schnapps and slid the cup over to the colonel. Cautiously looking around, Truman downed his too, then unscrewed the top of his flask and emptied half into each cup. Weiss pulled his cup back and took a sip. “Ahh,” he said, “at least part of this dinner is satisfactory.”

  Truman remembered something he’d heard a while back and said, “Didn’t Richard Carlton push to have you appointed Attorney General?”

  “Yes. He’s a good friend.” Weiss looked at Truman and nodded slowly. “You probably heard the rumors that he and I exerted illegal or undue influence, or that we somehow blackmailed the President into appointing me to this position. Let me assure you that those rumors are completely false.”

  Truman took a long sip of brandy and said, “I didn’t mean to imply there was any impropriety in your appointment. I have nothing but respect for you.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Weiss said.

  A noise at the doorway drew Truman’s attention. Four homeless men stood there for a moment, then stepped hesitantly into the dining room. They looked around nervously. Behind them, encouraging them along, Henry wore a strained smile. “It’s okay, guys. The soldiers are just here for our protection. Ain’t that right?”

  “Come in and have a seat,” Weiss said, gesturing to the open bench across the table. The men cautiously made their way across the floor. All four looked old and thin, worn down. Three had dirty beards. One wore a long overcoat, frayed at the sleeves. As they moved toward the table, Sister Ezekiel stepped forward to direct them.

  “Sit here, Rock Man.” Sister Ezekiel said, signing to the old man in the overcoat as she indicated the bench directly across the table from Weiss. “I’ll bring you a tray.” Rock Man settled himself on the bench but the other three men looked warily at Truman and headed for the next table, where they sat by Flyer. “Rock Man is a deaf-mute,” Sister Ezekiel said softly. “He reads lips a little.” As she turned away, Rock Man stared at Weiss. Something about the directness of his gaze made Truman feel uncomfortable even though the man wasn’t looking at him. He finally realized it was the fact that Rock Man hadn’t blinked for long seconds—as if he were engaged in a staring contest with Weiss. Truman glanced over at Weiss, who smiled at Rock Man, nodding gently. Finally Sister Ezekiel returned, placing a bowl of soup and a sandwich in front of Rock Man. He signed his thanks, then began eating slowly, using his napkin between bites.

  As Truman watched Rock Man eat, he noticed that Rock Man didn’t smell as bad as the other homeless men. His face looked cleaner. And his hands, though the fingernails were somewhat ragged, were not the hands of someone who’d been doing hard labor all his life. While Truman studied Rock Man, the room became very quiet in one of those coincidental moments where all conversation momentarily stopped. As Truman looked up to see what caused the silence, voices rose again. Sister Ezekiel moved to Rock Man’s side, touching his shoulder.

  “These men are here looking for Walt Devereaux,” she said to Rock Man, signing as she did so.

  Rock Man signed something to Sister Ezekiel.

  “I’ll ask,” Sister Ezekiel answered. Turning to Weiss, she said, “Did you ever meet Devereaux?”

  Truman looked out at the room and noticed p
eople beginning to look their way, conversations quickly ending.

  Weiss spoke in a calm, measured voice that carried throughout the room:

  “I never had the pleasure. And it would have been a pleasure. I don’t despise him as a person, just his philosophy. He’s done some amazing things. And no one is arguing that all society’s ills are Devereaux’s fault. There were obviously problems even before he came out with his ladder. But those problems could have been fixed with a little old-fashioned faith. He tried to take our faith away from us.”

  As Sister Ezekiel translated, Rock Man twisted on the bench to get a good look at her hands. Then Ahmad Rashidi interjected, “He’s an infidel. And he’ll burn in eternal Hellfire. But he didn’t do anything illegal.”

  Dr. Mary added, “Surely it wasn’t a crime to say what he believed?”

  “His words encourage terrorism,” Weiss answered, “even if he doesn’t intend those consequences. Look at those attacks today. A lot of people could have been killed. Indirectly, all that carnage can be traced to Devereaux. Sometimes acts can be legal in the strictest technical sense and yet cause harm far worse than more heinous and proscribed actions. Not to mention that under the Harris-Bock Patriotism Amendment—”

  Ahmad Rashidi jumped to his feet, his face red with anger. “That is an ex post facto law and it’s unconstitutional. Not only that, it implies that Christianity is the official religion of the United States.”

  “Let’s leave the interpretation of the law to the courts,” Weiss answered calmly.

  No one replied to that. Instead, quiet conversations broke out, men leaning over to whisper in their neighbors’ ears, all the while staring at Weiss. Truman grew uneasy and for a second contemplated calling in a squad to calm things down. But Sister Ezekiel, having finished translating for Rock Man, remained standing next to their table—a pure white figure of authority, running her gaze over the room—and now the men grudgingly returned to their meals. Rock Man, who had followed Sister Ezekiel’s movements intently, took up his sandwich again. Weiss slowly pushed the rest of his bread over to the mute, who signed his thanks.

  “That was very nice of you, Mr. Weiss,” Sister Ezekiel said.

  As Weiss waved the compliment off, Henry’s voice came from the lobby, “Hey, Doc, we need your help out here.”

  A note of panic in the voice made Truman spring to his feet and run for the door. He heard Weiss moving behind him. From the other side of the room, Jeremiah was already almost to the lobby. The doctor, Lendra and the lawyer followed more slowly. Half the room seemed ready to join the rush while the other half—the shelter regulars—reached out for abandoned sandwiches.

  In the center of the lobby, framed by two sentries with their Las-rifles pointed at the floor, Henry supported a big man with short gray hair. The man had one arm wrapped around Henry’s small shoulders. A Semper Fi tattoo decorated his other arm, which was now pressed against his stomach. Dried blood painted the front of the man’s clothes. When he saw Jeremiah, he tensed.

  “You still following me?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I wasn’t following you,” the man said.

  “You know him?” Weiss asked Jeremiah.

  “Hey, you’re the Attorney General,” Boyd said as he glared at Weiss. “You aren’t getting Devereaux.”

  “I’m not?” Weiss asked.

  “We’ll stop you. We’ll do whatever it takes. You can’t persecute an innocent man.”

  Dr. Mary waved him to silence. “What happened?” she asked.

  “I cut myself shaving,” the man replied.

  Dr. Mary laughed. “There’s a lot of that going around,” she said. “We’d better get you back to the infirmary.”

  “I’m fine,” the man said. “I just need another QuikHeal bandage.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood. It looks like you’ve been stabbed.”

  The man said nothing, simply glowering at Weiss.

  “You’ll have internal bleeding,” Dr. Mary said. “Maybe some serious cuts to your intestines, spleen and liver. You really should let me take a look at that.”

  “So you’re a Devereauxnian,” Weiss said.

  “That’s not a crime,” Sister Ezekiel said. “And as long as he needs our help, we’ll provide it.” She touched the man’s elbow. “There’s no charge for our services.”

  “You really should let me take a gander at that for you,” Dr. Mary said.

  The man jerked his head up. “A gander?” he said softly. He stared at the doctor for a second, then looked away. “Okay…thanks.”

  Something about the way he reacted made Truman uneasy. As if the word gander had been some kind of code. There was nothing in Dr. Mary’s demeanor to suggest she had delivered a secret signal and she betrayed no sign of nervousness but Truman decided to keep a careful eye on her just the same.

  Dr. Mary assisted the man to the infirmary. Truman followed. Behind him, Jeremiah and Lendra, Sister Ezekiel, Ahmad Rashidi and Weiss all crowded in too, taking up positions inside the door. Dr. Mary lowered the man to a seat.

  “How do you two know each other?” Weiss asked Jeremiah.

  “He tried to kill us,” Lendra said.

  “A misunderstanding,” the man said.

  “An unfortunate accident,” Jeremiah agreed.

  Dr. Mary peeled the bandage off the man’s stomach and pressed a scanner against his skin. Truman edged a little closer but she did nothing suspicious, merely checked the scanner, adjusted the readings, then set it aside and said, “You’ve got some internal bleeding. I’m going to have to put in a few sutures. Help me get him up on the gurney.”

  “Hold on a second,” Weiss said to her. He stepped up close to the man. Truman moved forward to be in position in case the man tried something. “Who are you?” Weiss asked.

  “Raddock Boyd. I’m here to protect Devereaux.”

  “Well, Raddock Boyd,” Weiss said, “you’ll be staying here tonight.”

  “You can’t arrest me.”

  “You want to be careful,” Weiss said with a smile, “when telling me what I can and can’t do. But for the record, I’m not arresting you. I’m detaining you while we check your identification, make certain there are no warrants out on you. We’ll decide what to do with you in the morning. If Miss Riley here wants to press assault charges against you, we’ll turn you over to the local police. Colonel, after the doctor finishes with him, see that he gets an ID chip implanted—one that can’t be cut out without poisoning him.”

  Boyd struggled to his feet and said, “Those are illegal.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. Weiss,” Ahmad Rashidi said. “After the disaster of ’32, when a hundred and fifty-seven people died—”

  “I have the power to order them,” Weiss interrupted, “in times of civil emergency. And what happened today looks like a civil emergency to me. I’ve already lost two prisoners today. I don’t intend to lose any more. Don’t worry,” he said to Boyd as he poked the big man in the chest. Boyd sat back down heavily. “They’re perfectly safe as long as they’re not tampered with.” Weiss nodded to Truman, who hesitated only a moment before calling a medic to insert the chip.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jeremiah walked to his van under a setting sun that decorated the clouds with pinks and golds, bronzes and purples, courtesy of the vast quantity of particulate matter in the air—an amount that was being added to by the smoke emanating from the Army’s vehicles. He tried not to look at the sky. Sunsets reminded him of Catherine. Amid the melted, twisted wreckage, several dozen recently arrived reporters filmed footage of the shelter and Weiss’ famous mobile command center. Unbelievable. Here Weiss was trying to establish a secure perimeter and he was letting reporters in. A few took pictures of the soldiers patrolling the street. One young man with a huge orange Afro and a scruffy beard stood off to the side pretending not to be a reporter.
Jeremiah figured he had a hidden camera in his fake hair—a multi-lens digital unit with 3D capability.

  So far the Army had kept the press from entering the shelter, but Jeremiah knew Weiss would issue a statement shortly. He’d been honing his delivery at dinner, rehearsing his lines before a live audience.

  In the lingering light, townspeople mingled, reminiscing about the fight to reporters and each other. The media invasion, Jeremiah realized, further complicated matters. The chances of getting Devereaux out of the area quietly were becoming more and more unlikely.

  The challenge sent a tingle through Jeremiah. He felt himself coiling in anticipation as he bounced along on the balls of his feet, watching everyone who passed, everyone who looked at him, everyone who dared peek out a window. He yearned for a fight.

  Unlocking the van’s security system, he slipped inside and stuffed the particle beam cannon’s converter into his overnight bag. His fingers lingered over his Ultimate Camos. But Jeremiah decided against taking them. He doubted he’d need them tonight. Instead, he sprayed Insta-Clean on the bloody arm of the camos he’d worn earlier. He let the chemicals work for a few minutes to remove the dried blood from the sensors.

  While waiting, he contemplated his options. Lendra had so far found no useful Intel on where the Escala might be hiding. Nevertheless, Jeremiah felt confident he could turn something up by morning. Nighttime was ideal for hunting. He’d concentrate his efforts on locating the Escala who had attacked the shelter earlier. They would have left some trace of their passage. He knew they’d be formidable because of their animal DNA, but he felt like his enhancements could compete with theirs. Could he actually be like them? Could Eli have lied to him, given him animal DNA, then faked the test results so Jeremiah would believe he was still completely human? Just asking the question told Jeremiah the likely answer. He wanted to test himself against the Escala, discover the truth. Downloading a satellite image of the area, he studied it, looking for good hiding spots in the ruins of the overgrown housing development.