The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  As he sat up, feeling slightly dizzy, the glow globe brightened slowly.

  Doug’s clothes were neatly folded on a chair. Picking them up, he dressed clumsily, then staggered out into the hallway. Behind him the glow globe dimmed. As he moved along the hall, a hand against the wall to brace himself, the lights brightened at his approach, dimming again behind him. He hadn’t noticed that earlier, so focused had he been on Zeriphi.

  After finding a toilet and relieving himself, he headed out into the main cave. He wondered what time it was. It felt like night and, indeed, the lights in the main cave had been turned down. The trio of spotlights emitted small, weak beams of orange light. At the main table, under a globe of bright white, sat eight of his hosts, engaged in quiet discussion. Doug saw Quekri and Temala there but not Zeriphi.

  When they spotted Doug, their conversation stopped. Temala smiled at him again, an unnerving smile that seemed predatory. The Escala whose back was to Doug turned around. His face was immediately recognizable. It looked like it had been carved out of granite—roughly rectangular, with a slash for a mouth and a block nose. His eyes were black and narrow, his hair short and black; and his broad shoulders were nearly as wide as those of Cookie Monster.

  “You’re Zhong Wu,” Doug said. “You were gonna lead the Mars Project.”

  The man answered, “I’m called Zod now.”

  “Zod? That’s odd. Odd Zod.” Doug laughed nervously. “Sorry,” he added as he reached out for a chair, a sudden fit of dizziness overcoming him, “I don’t know why I find that so funny.”

  Zod leapt to his feet. For a second, Doug thought he saw anger smoldering in the big man’s eyes, but that quickly vanished. Zod guided Doug to the chair, then stood behind him with his hands on Doug’s shoulders.

  Quekri, after a glance at Zod, got to her feet and said to Doug, “Your friends are dead.”

  “What?” Doug stared from Quekri to the other Escala around the table. Though their expressions were largely impassive, he could sense sorrow coming from them, as if they had suffered a great loss. How could they know his friends? And how could his friends be dead? Had the Army found them? He finally managed to say, “How? And how do you know about them?”

  Zod said, “We didn’t see it—just the aftermath.”

  Quekri added, “We watched you visit them a while back.”

  Doug took shallow breaths. He knew he ought to feel sad at their deaths but all he felt at the moment was rising desire. He reached down and adjusted himself inside his pants.

  “Were they your prison friends?” Quekri asked.

  Doug nodded, his erection throbbing, painful. “I told ‘em about the abandoned houses. They had nowhere else to go.” He frowned. He tried to think, but his body wanted only one thing. He fought his desire even as he asked, “Where is Zeriphi?”

  “She’s with the doctor,” Quekri said.

  Doug tried to stand. Zod pushed him back down. Or perhaps it was just the weight of Zod’s large hands. “Is she all right?”

  “She’ll be fine. The impregnation process is difficult.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Zod said. “And I’m grateful for your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Zod and Zeriphi are companions,” Quekri said.

  Doug twisted around to stare up at Zod’s intense face. “She never told me.”

  “You did not need to know,” Quekri said. “I apologize for the way we used you but it was necessary.” When Doug did not respond to this, she said, “You feel an emotional attachment to Zeriphi?”

  Doug nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words to describe his feelings.

  “That is common. It will slowly fade. If it doesn’t, we can give you something to accelerate the process.”

  “I don’t want it to fade,” Doug said.

  “Of course you don’t,” Quekri said. “That’s natural. Just as it will be natural for you to become angry with us. And when you do, please remember that we only did what we had to do to survive.”

  “I ain’t angry,” Doug said, realizing even as he spoke that it was a lie. Anger surged inside him—at the Army, at the Escala, at the world. All he wanted now was to get the hell out of here. “When can I leave?”

  “You’re not fit,” Quekri said. “And we must make certain it’s safe.”

  “I don’t care if the Army gets me.”

  “There are worse things out there than the Army,” Zod said. He grabbed a portable monitor from the table and held it up in front of Doug’s face. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  On the monitor, a clip of a man in a basement played itself over and over, a few seconds repeating themselves, showing the man in profile and face on. He smiled and waved at the camera, but his face was covered with dark paint and his body looked fuzzy, out of focus. Or was Doug having trouble focusing because of the drugs? He shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “We don’t know,” Quekri said. “We assume he’s here looking for Devereaux.”

  “What about Devereaux?” Doug said. “Where is he? Is he safe? Why ain’t he contacted me?”

  “All will be explained in time,” Quekri said, her voice sounding faint. “You should return to bed.” She nodded to Zod. “Get some rest.”

  Doug’s eyelids kept drooping. As Zod effortlessly picked him up, Quekri seated herself at the table and bowed her head, folding her hands in front of her. The other Escala did the same. They almost looked to be in prayer. Doug closed his eyes and let Zod carry him away.

  Chapter Twenty

  Colonel Truman wondered why he hadn’t retired last year when he reached his thirty years. This search for Devereaux, already a mess, had the makings of a true disaster. He studied the monitors by the ruined front doorway, tracking his soldiers as they searched the woods. Then he scanned the black sky, wishing the rain would fall harder, driving the mosquitoes to ground. All his soldiers had been bitten already. So had he. And there was no vaccine against the Susquehanna Virus.

  He wondered too about the doctor. Was she involved with Boyd? Or had her use of the word “gander” been a mere coincidence? It wasn’t a common a word; he hadn’t heard it in years. But Boyd reacted to it. And Truman knew Weiss intended to question Boyd hard. The Attorney General had no bend in him, no softness. There’d even been rumors during his confirmation hearings that he’d tortured people while in the CIA. How far would a man like Weiss go to extract information? Boyd was just a soldier, like Truman—wise enough to have retired, stupid enough to get back in the game—and Truman rather liked him.

  Finally Truman worried about the Elite Ops. A full unit was scheduled to arrive in a few hours. Logically, Truman had no reason to fear the Elite Ops. They were on his side. But they brought a brutality that bordered on sadism. Truman found it impossible to trust or even respect them.

  “They’ll push the timetable,” Weiss had told him with a satisfied smile, “force everybody to act more quickly. Devereaux will be anxious to get out of here. Jeremiah will speed up his efforts to find Devereaux. Those pseudos will realize we’re going to be hunting them down. And when the Elite Ops get here, they’ll go after the pseudos. In the meantime we question Raddock Boyd. Bring him to Sister Ezekiel’s office.”

  When Boyd was brought from the newly repaired porta-cell and secured to a chair, Truman double-checked that the bonds were tight. Boyd was unnaturally strong. Sergeant Corbin, one of the company medics, then took up position inside the door while Weiss darkened the wall-windows and leaned in close to speak to Truman quietly.

  “Get a truth kit, Colonel,” he said. “We need answers quickly.”

  Boyd leaned forward and said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Truman ignored the prisoner. “I’m a little concerned about giving him the truth drugs with that chip implanted in his head. Also, he’s in a pretty weakened state.”

 
Boyd spoke louder: “I’m not invisible.”

  Weiss adjusted his tie and looked at the prisoner before turning back to Truman. “It’s perfectly safe,” he said. “I’ve conducted a number of these types of interrogations. Never had a problem before. And we need to know what he knows about Devereaux.”

  Boyd said, “You could at least remove the chip. This one’s gotta be defective. My heart’s racing.”

  “Sergeant,” Truman said, “set up a medical monitor on this man, then get me a truth kit.”

  “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with my chip,” Boyd said.

  “Shut up,” Sergeant Corbin commanded as he attached electrodes to Boyd.

  “We can’t remove the chip,” Truman explained to Boyd. “One wrong move and the poison would be activated. I’m sure the doctor could do it safely.”

  “The doctor!” Weiss scoffed. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, she’s involved in all this. Did you see Boyd’s reaction when she used the word ‘gander’?”

  Boyd jerked his head up. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  Sergeant Corbin, studying his monitor, shook his head. “Heartrate, one-forty-six. Blood pressure, two-ten over ninety-four. Just nerves. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “Get the truth kit,” Weiss said to the medic.

  When Sergeant Corbin left the room, Truman said, “I noticed his reaction, sir. But I watched the doctor very carefully and she did nothing suspicious. I think she may have just been using an archaic term.”

  “It’s possible,” Weiss conceded. “But we’re going to find out. Aren’t we, Raddock?”

  Boyd pushed hard against his restraints. “Those drugs’ll kill me. If you want information, just ask. I’ll talk. I don’t know very much, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Very well,” Weiss said. “Is the doctor involved in all this?”

  Boyd shrugged. “I don’t know. She used the code word, but she never said or did anything after that to let me know she’s my contact.”

  “Can you blame her?” Weiss leaned forward. “You practically jumped out of your skin when you heard the word.”

  “I wasn’t expecting it,” Boyd said. “I thought…”

  Weiss interrupted him: “Why are you here?”

  “To protect Devereaux.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Atheists for a Free America. We’re an organization of—”

  “I know who you are,” Weiss interrupted him again. “Who’s your contact?”

  “I work through blind drops and web postings,” Boyd said. “Safer that way.”

  “You must know somebody.”

  Boyd shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  “Where is Devereaux?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he here?”

  “That’s the rumor. I don’t know.”

  Weiss looked at Truman and rolled his eyes before turning back to Boyd. “What does Devereaux look like now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how were you going to protect him?”

  “Someone was supposed to contact me. The doc used the code word, so I thought it was her. But now I don’t know.”

  Weiss threw up his hands. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Which is nothing. Where’s that truth serum?”

  “Help!” Boyd yelled. “Sister, help!”

  “Shut up,” Weiss said.

  “Somebody,” Boyd yelled. “Help me!”

  Several soldiers moved toward the office door. Truman waved them away. “Find the doctor,” he said as Sister Ezekiel and her lawyer worked themselves into the office.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “They’re gonna give me truth serum,” Boyd shouted.

  “Truth serum?” Ahmad Rashidi said. He turned to the Attorney General. “Has he consented to that procedure?”

  “Need I remind you that I’ve declared a civil emergency?” Weiss said.

  “Those drugs’ll kill me,” Boyd said to the nun, who put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Weiss,” Sister Ezekiel said. “I object to this most strenuously.”

  “Your objection is noted, Sister. Now I’m going to have to ask you and your attorney to leave.”

  Sister Ezekiel stood with her hands on her hips as Sergeant Corbin returned to the office and handed the truth kit to Truman. She settled her glare on Truman, who looked from her to the kit to Boyd, wondering how he’d gotten himself into such a mess. He was a simple soldier, not some ruthless National Intelligence interrogator.

  “Don’t do it,” Boyd yelled. “You’ll be a murderer. You’ll regret it. All of you. Murderers.”

  “Can’t you do anything, Ahmad?” Sister Ezekiel asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Sister. They’ve got the guns on their side. And he does have the power to declare a civil emergency. Whether it’s right or not, that’s the law. We can call Judge Moline, see if she’ll impose a temporary stay but we won’t be able to do it in time. Besides, these truth drugs aren’t dangerous. He’ll be fine.”

  “I will not be fine,” Boyd bellowed. “I’ll be dead.”

  “He’s exaggerating,” Weiss said to Sister Ezekiel. “Now, please leave.”

  “What if this procedure is more dangerous than you realize?” Sister Ezekiel asked.

  Sergeant Corbin ripped open the two packets—one containing the truth serum cocktail; the other, the brainwave-veracity or BV monitor.

  “There are very few risks,” Weiss said. “These drugs have been safely tested on numerous subjects. And he hasn’t given us any answers.”

  “That’s because I don’t know anything,” Boyd shouted.

  “Calm down, Raddock,” Weiss said. “We’re going to find out exactly what you know very soon.”

  He nodded to Truman, who took a step toward Sister Ezekiel and Ahmad Rashidi. Truman said, “I’m sorry, Sister, but you’ll have to leave.”

  The nun glowered at him for what seemed a long time before marching out the door, Rashidi right behind her. After Sergeant Corbin removed Boyd’s bandage and tapped a vein, Truman initiated the flow of drugs into the bloodstream. He adjusted the levels of each, adding more narcotic than usual, hoping Weiss wouldn’t notice. Truman suspected Boyd’s condition was precarious. He watched Boyd’s face, seeing for the first time a small, brown mole just below Boyd’s left eye. Truman found it odd that he hadn’t noticed the mole before. Now it darkened slightly with the increased blood flow to the head.

  “Well, Raddock,” Weiss said, “No more games. No more lies. You’re going to tell the truth now.”

  “I’m not lying,” Boyd said, his voice now into the normal range—an indicator that his anxiety level was already dropping.

  “Keep an eye on his vitals,” Truman said to Sergeant Corbin.

  Truman opened the second packet containing the BV monitor and placed four electrodes on Boyd’s head—one at each temple, one behind each ear. Turning on the unit, he watched as Boyd’s system absorbed the serum. Across the top of the flat pad, he saw the six drugs being injected. In the middle of the screen, a line appeared on a chart. It slowly traveled up and to the right, indicating the increasing passivity and obedience of the subject. When the level looked right, he began with a few base questions.

  “What is your name?” Truman asked.

  “Raddock Boyd.”

  “Have you been genetically enhanced?”

  Boyd fidgeted in his chair, his mouth opening and closing several times. Then he said, “Only for strength and endurance.”

  Truman made a minor adjustment to the flow of drugs and then said, “Why are you here?”

  “To protect Walt Devereaux.”

  After checking the BV moni
tor, Truman asked, “Where is Devereaux?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Boyd’s eyes fluttered open and shut, settling at half-closed. The line on the graph remained in the area of maximum passivity and objectivity, showing he was telling the truth. The mole on his face looked black now, the rest of his face suffused with blood.

  “Is Devereaux at this shelter?” Truman asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has Devereaux been here in the past?”

  “I think so,” Boyd said.

  A small amount of drool emerged from the corner of Boyd’s lips. Truman noticed a spike in the pain reading, but Boyd’s passivity and objectivity remained high. Truman hoped to God he wasn’t killing the man. He glanced at Weiss before slightly increasing the flow of narcotic. Then he continued: “What does Devereaux look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the doctor your contact?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Weiss cut in: “Are you here with the pseudos?”

  “Escala,” Boyd said. “They call themselves Escala.” He slowly shook his head. “I’m not with them.”

  “Who’s your contact?”

  “I told you,” Boyd said, lifting his head, “We work off web postings and blind drops to protect everyone’s identities. The government persecutes atheists, treats us like garbage.”

  “That’s because you are garbage,” Weiss said, spittle flying from his lips.

  Truman opened his mouth to protest that Weiss had gone too far. But one glance told Truman that Weiss was beyond reasoning. The Attorney General’s face pulsed a dark red, his lips quivering, his eyes narrow. So Truman said nothing.

  “You’re wrong,” Boyd said. “We’re on the ladder. We’ve evolved past you.” He grimaced as tears rolled down his cheeks. Oddly, the pain reading jumped again. Weiss stepped around to the front of the chair. With his left hand, he grabbed Boyd’s short hair and pulled the ex-Marine’s head up. Then he slapped Boyd hard, the sound echoing in Truman’s ears, which began to burn with shame.

  “Who is Devereaux?” Weiss yelled, slapping Boyd again and again.