by Tim Curran
“Shiva?” Shawna said.
Harry chuckled. “Shiva. The Jewish mourning period.”
“So tell me,” Gabe said, slicing olives lengthwise, “who came up with the bit about Macing the cop? Surely not you, Shawna. You seem too level-headed for such theatrics. This has Harry Niles written all over it.” He shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give for some really good kippers. You know how hard it is to find good kippers?”
“Gabe is addressing our problem,” Harry said.
Gabe shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just hungry.”
“Enough,” Shawna said. “I don’t have time for this crap. Right now, somebody might be writing out a contract on my life.”
“This is true, if what you tell me is correct.” Gabe started cutting the bread in flawless rectangles. “If it’s not... who can say? All I know is that I’ll not let them take you on an empty stomach. Did I ever tell you, Harry, that my mother’s people—Kladovic was her maiden name—were Polish Jews? No?
“Well. Her mother and father, my grandparents, were deported from their farm to the Lodz ghetto. My mother, thank God, was not with them. She’d been hidden by relatives in Warsaw. Her parents both died later at Treblinka, God rest their souls. But my mother always said that when the Gestapo were rounding up Jews, there was little that could be done, so everyone would take a last meal together so as not to go away hungry. Sometimes the belly is more important than the life.”
Harry nodded. “Sure, great. But we’re in trouble, Gabe.”
“Yes, apparently. So, being in trouble, you came to me. You came to my house and now I, too, am in trouble. Does this bother me? No, I think not. Does it trouble me? Yes, oh yes it does.”
He made sandwiches for each of them and put potato salad on the side. Then he poured them coffee.
Harry and Shawna just sat there.
“Well? Eat. Fill your bellies while we sort this out. Then you can both rest. You’re safe here. Who would suspect me of harboring criminals?”
They both ate, surprised at how good it all tasted. The sandwiches were hearty and hot with peppers and mustard. The potato salad creamy and cool. The coffee flavored with a delicious dash of almond.
“See? You were hungry. Like my grandparents, it’s easier to face the unknown with a full belly.” He looked at his own plate. Shook his head. “If it weren’t for these ulcers, I’d eat, too. Ah, well.”
Shawna chewed slowly, watching Gabe. He was a round, pleasant man. Although he was bald on top, the sides of his head were bushy with gray hair like wild tufts of crabgrass that made her think of Larry from The Three Stooges. He looked very much like someone’s grandfather with those kind brown eyes and laugh lines around his mouth. And, she supposed, he probably was.
“Can you help us?” Shawna said, wanting to waste no more time.
“I’ll try, pretty girl,” he said, patting her hand. “And if I can’t, I’ll at least keep you safe. Those stormtroopers won’t get you here. If you’re not safe with a Jew, who are you safe with?”
“Goddammit, Gabe. Would you quit kibitizing us to death already,” Harry said.
“I’ll remind you, Harry, that I’m not only your host but your employer.” He turned back to Shawna. “Don’t you pay any attention to him, dear. He has a poor temperament and a lousy disposition. If they come for him, we’ll just throw up our hands and say, who knew? But we won’t let those fascists get you. Never you. Harry is expendable. Men named Harry are always expendable, am I right?”
“Shut up, Gabe.”
Gabe smiled, then frowned. “So, tell me one more time. Run it by me again.”
They did for the fourth time. With retelling it became easier. What had once been gangly and stuttering, lacking cohesion and synchronicity, devoid of narrative flow, now had become tight and direct through repetition.
Gabe chuckled low in this throat. “Imagine this, will you? For nearly thirty years I’ve been writing and editing a tabloid rag that concerns itself with the unusual, the bizarre, the paranormal, the impossible. And now, here I am, thrust into what surely seems like one of my own teasers: YOUNG WOMAN HUNTED BY FACELESS ASSASSINS. SHE INCURRED THE WRATH OF A SINISTER GOVERNMENT AGENCY. THE CONSPIRACY THAT KILLS. I like it, don’t you, Harry?” Harry did not answer. “No? Maybe you’re right. I don’t like it either. This is like…what? The Twilight Zone? Yes, and I am trapped in my own headlines. Is this Karma, Harry?”
Again, Harry did not answer.
Like Shawna, Gabe had never known him to be without a comeback, a one-liner, a salty bit of sarcasm. Harry always had an answer for everything and everyone. But right now he had nothing.
This was what deeply bothered Gabe.
“Later in the morning I’ll run down some sources and do some checking. Discreetly, of course. See if anything smells bad. Until then, the both of you need rest.”
There was no argument on that.
Gabe, who lived alone in this rambling Tudor house, gave them both rooms and showed them where they could both clean up. They both showered, but had nothing clean to wear, just the flowing terrycloth robes from Gabe’s own collection which were soft and luxurious, pure comfort.
“Do you think we’re going to make it, Harry?” Shawna asked, in the corridor outside their respective rooms. She looked tired, drawn, yet her eyes sparkled.
“We’ll get by. One way or another. Gabe’ll help us.”
“Do you really think he can?”
“He’ll try,” Harry said. “He really will.”
Shawna slumped against the wall. “I’ve been thinking. As much as this sucks, it is without a doubt the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.” She waited for him to interrupt, but he didn’t. “I keep thinking about how dangerous this is. I keep playing it over and over in my mind. But at the same time, I keep thinking that for us, as journalists—”
He laughed. “You’re the journalist, remember? All I care about are alien abductions and household pets that devour their owners. Did you ever read my series about the demonic cannibal kitties of Newark?”
“Shut up, Harry. I’m serious. You said it yourself: this is big. And you’re right. This entire thing could be colossal. It could be bigger than Watergate or Iran-Contra combined.” That gleam was in her eyes again, burning brighter than ever. Harry knew what it was now: opportunity.
“Yes. Yes, it very well could. This could be a Pulitzer or a shallow grave. Take your pick. Maybe both. Sometimes you have to skirt the second to get the first. This could very well be the sort of thing that could make your name very big.”
“Our names, Harry,” she reminded him.
“I’ve already had my run, dear. Give me sasquatch babies and kitchen appliances possessed by demons.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You’re telling me you’re not interested? Not curious?”
“Sure I am. There’s no one nosier than me. There’s no one who likes to be a thorn in the side of the fat cats more than Harry Niles. Hell, when I was in Washington, you know what I did? I wined and dined congressional pages, press agents, chauffeurs, cooks, domestics—anybody who might know anything dirty about the men they worked for.” The memory of it all filled his eyes, stayed there, finally faded, replaced by something like bitterness. “In Detroit, at the dear old Free Press, I did the same damn thing. But it was the auto execs I was after. In Atlantic City it was the mob, the casino owners. In LA, the entertainment moguls…and the mob. You see, I had a mantra: Rich and powerful men became rich and powerful by playing dirty games and I thought the public had a right to know just what those games were. I rattled so many skeletons out of so many dusty closets I had more old bones piled around me than the vaults of the Smithsonian.
“And where did it get me? I got fired in one place after another. Oh, the drinking helped, of course, and sometimes it was the cause. But that’s the price you pay. If you want answers, you can get them, but you won’t have a life in the process. Powerful men—and women—might get ruined by what you
do and what you print, darling, but they always have friends. Always. And those friends, they get you a little at a time. Trust me.”
“Are you afraid, Harry?”
He shrugged. “Yes. I don’t want my life ruined. This may be hard for you to understand, but I like my life. For the first time, I really do. I don’t want to lose any of this.”
“So what, Harry? Are you backing out of this?”
“Really, ducky. If I wanted to back out I think I might have done it before I assaulted a Metro police officer. There’s no backing out so I might as well make a crusade of it,” he told her. “It might cost me my way of life, my freedom, and maybe even my life itself, but I’ll do it. I’ll probably think differently next month when I’m in the Cook County slammer in the arms of my outlaw biker lover, but I won’t let this go. I’ll hound those bastards until the truth comes out. I’ll do it for you. And I’ll do it for your landlady and all the other innocents they kill. And—” he said pointedly, planting an index finger to her chest which was still wet from her shower “—I’ll also do it for myself. When we find out—if we find out—you write it. It’s your baby, your ticket. I’ll help you and I’ll even take a cut, but I don’t want a byline. I don’t care about that shit anymore. The thrill for me is in the hunt, in the kill, not in the aftermath, not in the warm amber glow of success.”
“You just want to take them down, don’t you?”
“You’re goddamn right I do.”
She smiled, beaming. “I didn’t know you had such a big heart.”
“Oh no? Is that why you always come to me when you’re in trouble?”
“I guess it is.”
Her robe came open a bit and Harry caught a glimpse of one high, jutting breast. He did not look away and she did not cover it up.
She stared at him for a long time, then leaned up against the wall covering her chest with folded arms. “You’re really something, Harry. You really are. Beneath all the cynicism and sexism, you honestly believe good must triumph over evil. And you’re willing to take up any cause—even one as crazy as mine—just to see that it does. Harry the white knight. Who would have thought?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Now are we gonna stand here jawing all day or are you gonna come into my room and do me?”
She licked her lips. “It’s under consideration.”
Then she shut the door in his face.
CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:
THE WAREHOUSE, 10:02 A.M.
The Old Man contemplated the end of the world.
It hadn’t been the first time he’d wondered about the end (of human civilization really, because the actual world would not end with the extinction of the human race). He’d thought about it many times, in many places. And always, always, he’d wondered and not needlessly if he’d have a hand in it.
In the BSL-4 containment area where only those with the highest possible security clearance were allowed, he thought about these things. He watched the scientists and technicians mull about in their rubberized hot suits. They all did their jobs efficiently, professionally. All of them were either Section 5 employees or on loan from CBT.
Watching them, the Old Man wondered if they blamed him.
He could not know their thoughts or what they spoke of to each other in private. Cave had suggested that the entire warehouse be threaded with listening devices.
But the Old Man refused.
He already knew what they thought of him, at least some of them. They thought he was forged from iron, sculpted from ice. A dutiful mannequin, emotionless, inhuman. An alien entity who thought only of national security.
And it was true, but not entirely.
I’m not so one-dimensional, he thought, the words echoing through his skull like pennies dropped in a metal drum. Don’t you think I’m scared, too? I have children out there. Grandchildren. Friends. And all of them are at grave risk. What I do to contain this…this horror, I do for them. I do it for all the mothers and fathers out there.
Of course, they would never believe that. Very few of them knew that he was deeply involved in the CBT team that had bio-engineered the parasites and the others wouldn’t have been surprised if that knowledge was leaked to them. It was what they would expect. As far as they were concerned, he was a mad scientist who looked at people no differently than he looked at lab rats.
What they didn’t know, was that he was afraid of the outbreak and what it might mean for the human race if it continued unchecked.
Computer models predicted that even with swift and decisive action, only about sixty percent of those infected could be tracked down and disposed of in time. Another thirty percent would already have infected others before they were found. And ten percent would never be located at all. Given this in combination with the behavioral patterns of the parasites and their newly acquired mutative reproductive capabilities, 53% of the Earth’s population would be infected within one week of first contact. Within a month, 86.5%.
The computer freely admitted error of plus or minus five percent.
Project BioGenesis.
It had been a major breakthrough in transgenics and molecular biology. Science had finally achieved the point where it could not only alter living organisms but create entirely new species. It only followed, of course, that eventually this revolutionary and highly coveted biotechnology would be applied as a weapons system. Bioweapons were all the rage. Entire enemy populations could be decimated without the loss of a single soldier.
What more could be asked for?
Biological warfare had finally reached its full potential.
And it had... except that the problems with GMOs was that they did not respect borders or boundaries. They did not differentiate between friendly and hostile forces. It had always been the problem with bioweapons. BioGen had been tested originally on Iraqi forces in Badiyat ash Sham, the great western desert which made up much of western Iraq and eastern Jordan, bordering Syria. Near a small village called Nkudbkah there was a small Republican Guard mechanized infantry unit. Sat intel had confirmed their position, their relation to the village. How both were not within fifty miles of any real population center. An Army Special Forces recon team had watched them for a week; they were staying put.
It was the perfect target.
A desolate area. Easily containable.
It was begging for a feasibility study. S5 got the go ahead and the parasite eggs were disseminated via aerosol from low-flying Blackhawk helicopters at night. The entire area was sprayed. Especially high concentrations were dusted on irrigation ditches and water holes from which the small goat and cattle herds drank. This was how the parasites worked: livestock were contaminated first and the eggs passed to the human population through flesh or milk. Within a week, the recon team reported that the majority of the village and soldiers were ill.
Ten days later, there was no activity whatsoever.
The recon team was exfiltrated immediately.
Within hours, a containment team was brought in. Most of the population, they reported, was either dead or dying. Both human and animal were infested. The team, using the greatest precautions, performed hasty autopsies on the dead. Everything had worked as they’d planned.
And then something went terribly wrong.
The team, out there in the stifling desert heat in their biosuits, made a mistake. The suits were sometimes called hot suits because although they carried a self-contained oxygen supply, there was no provision to cool the wearer. Several men passed out. Others, driven hysterical by the heat, removed their helmets to cool themselves.
No one was certain what happened then.
The team were infected by the parasites. While they called for medical evacuation for their heat-prostrated comrades, the infected villagers and soldiers attacked them. The team managed to kill them, but not before the parasites had infected their ranks. Once this had happened, there was no choice; the entire area was blanketed with napalm and phosphorus. American, Iraqi, anything that lived, was
burned to ash in the resulting inferno. The Air Force pilots, thinking they were hitting an enemy target, poured it on for hours.
Nkudbkah no longer existed.
And it should’ve ended there.
The parasite eggs were only designed to remain active for seventy-two hours without a host. And although each segment of the parasites contained hundreds of eggs, as did the parasitic flatworms they were developed from, all the eggs were incapable of independent fertilization via radiation saturation.
After the Nkudbkah episode, the entire Project BioGen scenario was scrapped, tucked away in the vaults of the DoD.
And now, some six years after the controlled experiment at Nkudbkah, the parasites had returned, this time just over the border in Syria at El Badji. No one knew how or why. But environmental factors had long made biological dispersion less than an exact science. They had designed the creatures to survive, to be extremely aggressive, but not to go dormant for years and years, then mutate and begin to reproduce on their own.
Yet, that was exactly what had happened.
Somehow, some way, a few of the eggs must’ve survived in the desert. Survived and mutated into an even more hideous, virulent form.
Unless…unless there were things he did not know. There was always the possibility that the parasites had been engineered with this ability at a different facility. It wasn’t impossible…not when you were dealing with S5 and CBT and the multiple layers of subterfuge they hid behind.
Anything was possible.
Liz Toma would know, he thought. She’s an expert at hiding deception within deception within deception. Who can say what she’s capable of?
The Old Man didn’t want to think about it or the possibility that what was happening had been made to happen, part of some larger, shadowy agenda, some sickening power play.
The parasites were developed from the parasitic flatworm known as Cestoda, the tapeworm. It was known that Cestoda, in its earliest prehistoric incarnation, was a free-living predatory marine worm that developed parasitism via a variety of factors. And it was this proto-worm—still locked up in the tapeworms genes—that was the template for the parasite. Once the worm’s genome sequence was mapped, cutting edge biotechnology came into play. By using DNA sequencing, a sort of molecular biology cut-and-paste, the worm was reverse engineered to its primal form. Using transgenics, attributes of the parasitic modern form were introduced into the genome along with certain desirable characteristics of hookworms and roundworms as well as a few other exotic transplanted genes. After much trial and error, what was eventually brought forth was the parasite itself: a hideous flatworm with an almost inconceivable survival instinct.
