by Tim Curran
Shawna held her breath and she could almost feel the rest of the country doing the same.
“Who these people are is not important right now. They will be hunted down and destroyed. You have my word on that. What is important is that we must not let this evil attack of bioterrorism break our unity, our resolve, our national integrity. The entire country has been put on a state of emergency and all state and municipal agencies are currently being briefed and called to action with the full resources of the federal government behind them. And it is with regret that I announce that martial law will be enacted as of midnight tonight, nationwide. And beginning tomorrow, a curfew from midnight to dawn will be in effect excepting only those who must work in the night. The police and National Guard will have full authority to enforce this and so I must ask for your help. I ask you to cooperate freely. To help, aid, and assist law enforcement in the execution of their duties which will be immense in scope.”
“Holy shit,” Harry said. “We’ve just lost our civil rights.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Shawna said, knowing that she was speaking just to be heard, to reassure herself like whistling down a dark street and this street was certainly dark.
“It is that bad, Shawna. This is America for chrissake. Land of the so-called free. When you transform a Democracy into a police state overnight there’s going to be trouble. Big trouble. You can forget about civil liberties. Welcome to Nazi Germany.”
“But they can’t do that.”
“Yes, they can.”
The President went on, “The most important thing at this juncture is not to panic. The situation is containable. We will restore order and eradicate the threat amongst us. But until that time we must stand strong and resilient, we must remain on guard. Your local TV and radio stations will be issuing further instructions over the next forty-eight hours. Understand that the search for the individuals responsible is ongoing and we will not tire or hesitate in our mission. We are a people resolved to justice and peace and we will not waver in our commitments to each other and to our nation. So let our enemies be warned: we will and shall defeat them regardless of the cost as we have in the past. May God bless each and every one of us and all that we stand for and uphold. Thank you and good day.”
After that, Shawna and Harry just sat there, holding onto one another.
“A parasitic infection?” she said.
“Yes, nice and sterile and unbelievably vague.”
“That’s what I must have seen: some kind of containment operation in its earliest stages. Now it’s out of control and they have to admit to it,” she said. “And that’s why we’re being hunted down.”
“I imagine.”
“But we don’t know anything.”
“They must think we do.”
“I don’t suppose it would help to turn ourselves in?”
He laughed bitterly. “With martial law about to be enacted? Don’t be so naïve, dear. Our lives will be worth that much less.”
Shawna felt deflated. “Now what?” she said. “Now what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to hang on tight, that’s what.”
DETROIT: HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL,
DETOX WARD
1:47 P.M.
Johnny Kopok tried to keep down the swill they offered him, but without some good—or bad—booze to cement it in place, it all came rushing back in a foamy mess of bland scrambled eggs that tasted no worse coming up than it had going down. He set the bedpan aside and wiped his mouth. God, but his guts were in a state. One little taste was what he needed. His hands were shaking, his guts twisting up on themselves.
Oh boy, here comes trouble.
The nurse in the white plastic suit came through the door and looked at what he produced. “You’ll never get out of here if you don’t eat.
“Then get somebody in here that can cook for chrissake. Coffee tastes like it was strained through somebody’s bladder and green eggs and ham is supposed to be a fucking kid’s story not something you put on a plate.”
The nurse-cum-spaceman just stared at him like he was some new, potentially hostile life form.
“I can’t keep it down,” he told her.
“Are you trying?”
“Trying? Jesus H. Christ, of course I’m trying. I need a taste, you know? Just a taste to sort out my insides. When you’re a drunk like me it’s like glue: without booze, nothing sticks.”
“I’m afraid that’s against regulations.”
“Fuck regulations. Why don’t you let me out?” he asked her. “I watch the TV same as anyone else. Ain’t you Nazis got enough to worry about without babying an old drunk like me?”
“Regulations,” she said again.
Johnny had to hold himself back at that point. He wanted to jump up and snatch that mask off, get a good look at this one.
“Where the hell’s Jimbo?”
“I already told you, Mr. Kopok. He’s no longer at this location.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“What the fuck good are you?”
But the faceless nurse was very much used to Johnny’s outbursts by this time and she completely ignored him. As he insulted her, she took his vitals and by the time she was done he had calmed.
“Jimbo get the worms?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The parasites, you airhead. Like the President was saying.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Oh, you don’t? Then why are they moving people out of here? I can see it right out my window.”
“The hospital is being evacuated as part of a containment operation.”
“So evacuate me.”
“The most critical patients are being evacuated first.”
He started laughing and the laughing became a coughing fit. “Critical? I haven’t had booze in weeks.”
“You’ve only been here a few days.”
“Ah, you’re out of your cunting mind.”
“I don’t have time for this, Mr. Kopok.”
The nurse turned and left with the swish-swish of her HAZMAT suit. Then Johnny was alone with nothing but the goddamn TV for company, his guts complaining, his nerves shot, every inch of him begging for a taste. And all the medications in the world couldn’t touch it.
He laid there, feeling the need like needles in his belly. What goddamn right did they have to hold him? With everything else going on, you would have thought they’d boot him right out the door. Just another drunk. God, he was going to go out of his mind like this. On the TV, the mayor was being assailed by reporters and she was doing her usual shuffle trying to keep ahead of them. They wanted answers. In fact, they were demanding them. They wanted to know exactly what sort of parasitic infection was plaguing the country.
“Tell ‘em,” Johnny grumbled. “Worms, goddamned worms.”
There were shots of the National Guard rolling through the streets voiced over by a proclamation from the mayor’s office that looters and rioters would be put down by deadly force as per federal mandates. Then there were shots of some kids running up the streets with stolen TVs and DVD players and one shot of a kid eluding police with a shiny brass tuba of all things.
Damn, Johnny thought, now that’s where the action is.
He turned from the TV because suddenly there was action in the hospital. He could hear people shouting, screaming, running feet, then the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Full-auto, too, by the sound of it. Some explosions. More gunfire.
Johnny got out of bed and dug his clothes out of the closet.
Hospital was under goddamn attack. It was like the Battle for Hue City during the Tet of ’68 all over again. Jesus Christ. Fighting house-to-house through the rubble. Kick in the doors, toss a few grenades, some frags and WPs, spray down anything that was left with your Sixteen. Where was the rest of his unit? He’d lost his weapon, his pack. He heard more gunfire and figured the gooks were closing in, try
ing to constrict the platoon. Lieutenant Guiterrez was shouting out, “Goddamn slopes are trying to flank us! Get some CS out there! Now! Now!” Damn straight. Johnny grabbed a canister of CS tear gas and tossed it with the rest of the boys. Let Uncle Ho’s shiteaters have a taste of that. Goddamn zipperheads.
Johnny moved forward.
He opened the door, then kicked it and dove out into the hallway. Goddamn, where was his weapon? Platoon leader was going to chew his ass over that. A Marine without a weapon? In goddamn Hue during the Tet? Lot of commotion. Oh Jesus, Gutierrez was down. Filthy gooks stitched him with an AK.
“MEDIC!” Johnny cried out. “WE NEED A FUCKING MEDIC! LIEUTENANT’S DOWN!”
That was about the time that Johnny realized he wasn’t in the ‘Nam. Hue was fifty years before. Gutierrez was dead. He’d died in Johnny’s arms, his guts hanging out, blood rushing out of him. No, no, no. This wasn’t Hue. This was the detox ward and there was shit going down and worms and crazy people in spacesuits that claimed to be doctors and nurses. And, oh, just one good taste of the Sweet Lucy was what he needed to get his act together.
But oh my Christ, would you look at that.
Bodies.
Bodies all over the place. Bullet holes in the walls. No, this wasn’t Hue but it sure looked like Hue. It was enough to make you sick. But… listen. Footsteps coming. Running steps. Johnny was caught out in the open so he played dead. He laid down by the other ones and troopers came in with those white plastic suits on. Except these guys had guns.
“All clear,” one of them said. “Let’s get ‘em down to the morgue. They’re all going into the incinerator.”
“Check,” somebody said.
Johnny just laid there. They came and grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him off. He was going down to the morgue and he was okay with that. Nobody would suspect a corpse of trying to escape so he acted like a corpse.
FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA:
CIA COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER
2:12 P.M.
Just as he’d suspected, the country was going to shit and that made DCI Pershing smile as he sat there behind his desk at the CTC because it was all playing out the way he wanted. Now with the press screaming about an “unknown parasite”, the specter of martial law looming and the suspension of civil liberties that it would entail, the natives were growing restless. They were taking to the streets. There was looting and riots, clashes between police and protestors, politicians howling from atop their soap boxes and ministers prophesying the end of civilization as we knew it. Good and good. It was working out perfectly.
Let chaos run rampant.
Let the blood run in the streets.
Let civil rights be violated.
Let the natives get desperate, oh so very desperate.
Because when they do, Pershing knew, when all seemed hopeless and there was darkness at every quarter and despair knocking at the door, they would seek a messiah, a savior that could lead them into the future and out of the eternal night. They would seek a candle burning bright and Robert Pershing would be that candle.
“I will lead them,” he said.
“Sir?”
DCI Pershing looked up and Matt Connelly was standing there. Connelly was the DD/CIA, the Deputy Director of the CIA and the number two man within the Company.
“Sorry, Matt,” Pershing said, recovering from delusions of grandeur quite quickly, “I was gathering wool.”
Connelly, ever the good little politico, did not comment upon it. “Sir, our field operators in Chicago’s Chinatown are about ninety-percent certain that they’re closing in on Harry Niles and Shawna Geddes. They’re obviously hiding out there somewhere.”
Connelly explained what happened with the stakeout of Niles’ Chevy Tahoe on South China Place. How Niles had sent that street kid in and he had been grabbed and interrogated. The man who paid him to move the SUV was Harry Niles without a doubt.
DCI Pershing chuckled. “Our friend Mr. Niles hasn’t lost his talent for subterfuge, I see.”
“With any luck, we might have him and the girl by tomorrow,” Connelly said. “Our Asian assets are making some discreet inquiries in Chinatown and we’re fairly certain they’ll bear fruit.”
Of course they will, Pershing knew. Because greed was the language of the streets and those without always wanted their share and they would sell anyone or anything if the price was right.
“When you find him, I want no contact with him.”
“No contact, sir?”
“None. Not yet. I want him followed. I want to know everywhere he goes and everyone he sees. Mr. Niles will prove indispensable if he’s played the right way.”
“I’m not following you, sir.”
“And for right now, you don’t need to. When the time comes I’ll fill you in completely. Just find him. Watch him.”
“Yes, sir.” Connelly hesitated. “One more thing. We’re fairly certain that the Old Man is trying to track down Niles, too. He’s using S5 assets if what I’m hearing is correct.”
Which meant he was using XI/Blackpool mercenaries to do his dirty work. No surprise there. They always performed S5’s heavy lifting. And therein lie the problem with the Old Man—as head of Section 5, his business was strictly R&D, but through the years he had become so powerful that he was something of an entity unto himself. Now he was acting like the Blackpool heavies were his own private army. That was not good and Pershing knew that, sooner rather later, the Old Man would have to be put out of business.
“Let’s try and get to Niles before S5 does.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep your ears open. If S5 gets him, I want to know about it yesterday.”
As Connelly left the office, Pershing contemplated the sacking of the world’s most powerful democracy. And as he contemplated this, he knew that his people needed to get to Niles first. It was paramount. If the Old Man and S5 got their hands on him he’d end up getting a complete personality reassignment and Pershing couldn’t have that. He needed Niles’ mind intact. Niles was to be his own personal propaganda tool and he didn’t want anything interfering with that.
DETROIT: EAST DEARBORN
2:29 P.M.
On the floor….
Creeping…
Creeping like a slug…
She could no longer remember her name and wondered if she really ever had one. When she tried to think, tried to remember, what was inside her showed her the price of defiance: agony. Unbelievable red-hot agony like cutting blades and slicing razors opening her from the inside out. When she stopped trying to think and cause trouble, she was rewarded with a sweet chemical transmission of endorphins.
She lay there on the floor, no longer creeping, staring at her hands. At the blood that bubbled from her pores. Each bubble popped as it exited her skin. Webbed with blood and fouled with slime and piss and excreta, she began to creep along the floor again in imitation of that which lived inside her, growing fat and bursting with eggs.
The idea of standing no longer appealed to her.
It was better to creep.
To crawl.
To wriggle along the floor.
Breathing hard and coughing out tangles of bile and clotted curds of tissue, memories paraded through her brain. She was seeing a man. He held a worm… a tiny writhing white worm… with forceps and as she cried out nonsensical entreaties to a God who had turned his back upon her, the worm went down her throat.
And then a name: Sheikh Sa’ad. It was Sheikh Sa’ad who did this to you.
And then… sweet merciful Allah, the pain came. It flooded through her in burning white waves that were blades that scraped her nerves raw and needles that worried her organs and a million-billion separate pinpoint agonies that made her shudder and convulse and heave out snotty ribbons of bile… and worms. Immature worms, eight and ten inches in length, that hung twisting from her mouth.
Gagging, she pulled the worms from her throat and threw them to the floor where she pounded them to pulp with
her fists and the mature worm within her, the mother worm, flooded her with endorphins for what she did was good and right. They are infidels and I am God, the mother worm told her without actually telling her. Seek only me and have audience only with me, for I am good and I am great, I am deliverance and purity; know only me.
The woman laid there, wiping bile from her lips with shaking fingers. She looked around with eyes that were no longer the translucent green of an Egyptian twilight, but a dull inflamed red. They cried tears of serous fluid.
I have been hijacked.
This body is no longer mine.
The worm is not good it is the great Satan. It is the destroyer and unmaker, not the finger of God but the claw of the Evil One—
More agony that was intense and blinding, a thermonuclear destruction laying waste to her insides and making her vomit and convulse upon the floor, pounding her head until it faded.
She started creeping again.
She crept into the bathroom.
She did not think of what she was doing so the worm could not punish her. She could feel it sliding through her, feel it swelling and thickening, gestating with millions of juicy ova that existed only to drain the world dry and she would no longer be host to them.
Long before she had agreed to be a vessel for Sheikh Sa’ad’s worm, she had made arrangements of her own. Though it was forbidden by her religion, she had procured a release if things became unmanageable: a syringe of strychnine. Simple. Effective. A horrible death, all things considered, but minor in comparison to parasitization.
Do it.
Take your life.
Now the mother worm knew. The mother worm would not tolerate such defiance or the idea of the host animal destroying itself. It sent out waves of pain that were bright/hot/crackling and the woman screamed as she pulled herself up by gripping the sink. The worm was attacking her. Having mastered her neurochemistry, it now used all the weapons in its arsenal, doing everything short of permanent damage to bring the host under control. The woman stood uneasily as her nerves fired and her eardrums popped, as her teeth chattered and her brain was bisected by white-hot knives, as bile gushed up her throat and a hot flow of diseased menstrual sewage flooded between her legs. Her left arm went numb, her right leg shook with spasms.
