Bioterror

by Tim Curran

  (answer the fucking questions you whore you fucking whore or you’ll be sorry we’ll make you very fucking sorry)

  —she got no answers, only more rough treatment. She was tied to a table and now and again, the heavies that tormented her would be replaced by a couple nondescript, faceless—

  (were they really faceless?)

  —men in white lab coats who would examine her and mumble things to one another in some jumbled language she could not understand. She remembered being jabbed in the throat with needles and scalpels cutting into her head…or was that a dream? They seemed to believe that Harry and she were part of some greater conspiracy, some underground press movement aimed at bringing down those in power and exposing their dirty secrets.

  (whore you fucking whore we’ll fix you)

  Swimming in and out of consciousness, she forced her brain to concentrate and her eyes to focus. But it was simply no good. Everything was murky and dim. It was as if she was suspended underwater, trying to look through darkening waters. She was choking. She could not breathe. Her lungs would not draw air…then she thrashed herself awake, gasping, and she was tied to a chair.

  “Please,” she managed. “Please…”

  But then she pressed her lips shut. She would not beg or grovel or demean herself. Let me go oh please let me go I’ll do anything. Her eyes opened and she realized she was alone. But when she blinked, her two tormentors were there. They were dressed in black. The fabled Men in Black, how fitting. They were just watching her, chatting, but their words were garbled and thick like they were speaking through mouths filled with molasses. Dear God, that was just a comparison, a simile, but… yes, she could smell it. Like brown sugar. It was heavy in the air. She could actually taste it on her tongue.

  Now how could that be?

  The Men in Black watched her. Their words were still unintelligible but they were getting clearer by the second and Shawna was picking up bits and pieces.

  “…not too long…you…works…at first…”

  Were they both speaking or just one of them? Shawna blinked her eyes and there was only one of them in the room. She blinked them again and she was alone. She squeezed her eyes shut and the two men with the lab coats were in the room with her. Their voices were clear when they spoke.

  “She should be about ready.”

  “Let’s get this done with then.”

  Shawna was looking at them, but it couldn’t be real: their faces were gone again. It was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. She tried to focus…still, those faces were white blurs like somebody had erased their features. But it couldn’t be a dream. God, she could smell their cologne, hear them breathing.

  She licked her lips. “Where…where are your faces?”

  “Just relax, Miss Geddes. What you are experiencing is a post-hypnotic suggestion reinforced by psychotropics. You cannot see our faces because we told you that you cannot.”

  Don’t let them. Get. Away. With. It. It’s mind control. Just like the stories Harry writes in that weekly rag… remember that doozy about the Kennedy assassination? Psychotropic, mind-altering drugs were fed to the nation and the true memories of what happened on November 22nd, 1963 have been suppressed to this day. Only Harry could come up with something that unbelievably goddamn whacked-out. You laughed about it over chai tea. CIA BRAINWASHING BLITZKREIG. Harry did something similar with the Roswell/Area 51 thing. The soldiers were brainwashed. The guys who reported the crashed saucer and aliens later recanted because they were brainwashed, too. False memories were implanted. They believed it was bullshit because they were conditioned to believe it. That’s what they’re doing now. But it’s real. They’re trying to change you, strip away your personality, implant something else. Do not let them. DO. NOT. LET. THEMMM—

  “What? WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

  “No need to shout,” said Faceless Man #1. He turned to Faceless Man #2. “Common symptomology following Post-H and DS-7. Temporary.”

  “She’s resisting,” said Faceless Man #2.

  “Typical.”

  “Listen to my voice, dear. Listen very closely to what I say: Do you like Green Eggs and Ham?”

  Shawna screamed, but it was no good because resistance was futile like in an old movie. Her mind was not her own and she could feel it slipping away from her. She could actually see it: a shapeless white blob. She tried to hold it in her hands, but it oozed between her fingers like soft dough. Other hands had it now and they were molding it, pressing it into an alien shape. She was losing. She was losing her mind. It was theirs now. Oh dear God no, not that. Don’t let them take my mind. Don’t let them steal my memories. She kept fighting, resisting, and that caused white slivers of pain to bisect her brain like cold piercing needles.

  Fight! Fight! Fight!

  Make yourself see their faces. Yes, yes, yes, that was how it had to be done. It was a simple mental exercise and she was good with things like that. She simply had to focus her mental energy and force it out of her head, drag it out of the locked trunk they had shut it in. Just…concentrate—

  (a face a face a face yes she could see a face like a TV screen in her mind a face in a storm of sawdust… grainy… obscure… indistinct… a round kind face with sad blue eyes the color of a late summer sky, bulbous nose, salt-and-pepper clocksprings of hair sticking out to either side of the head—that’s Albert Einstein no it’s Gabe Hebberman but why am I seeing his face why why?????)

  “You need to hear my voice, Miss Geddes. You need to listen to my words because they are the most important words you will ever hear. Remember: I told you you must obey and to not obey will be agony. Hear my words.”

  Shawna tried to fight against it but to deny it was agony. Each time she tried, there was less of her. It drained her. Emptied her mind. She had to listen because those words meant no pain and she did not want pain. So the voice spoke and she listened but the words were against everything she believed in. She would not listen, she would fight FIGHT FIGHT—

  (you better listen you fucking whore you better listen)

  (but it’s awful I don’t want to be like that a monster nothing but a mindless monster)

  “…you’ll be told. You will be told. You will be given a photograph and a name and a place. You will go to that place and seek that face and that name. When you find them, when you make positive identification, then you will do what is necessary for the guilty must be punished…”

  “I WON’T! I WON’T DO THESE THINGS!”

  “Yes, Miss Geddes. You will.”

  (no no no no no nooooooo I will not won’t not cannot I will not do these things Sam-I-Am, I will not eat Green eggs-and-ham Sam-I-Ammmm)

  “Would you, could you in the rain? Would you, could you on a train?” said Faceless Man #1.

  Shawna’s head was a radio receiver and it did not matter if she refused to listen, because it was inside her mind, those transmissions were coming in LOOOOOUUUUUD and clear and whenever she tried to think her own thoughts there was not pain, but a squelching buzzing static that swallowed everything up and her head became an empty drum of white noise. It was better to tune in and listen because that white noise would drive you crazy—

  (absolutely caaaaaa-rayzeeeee, I saaayyy)

  (PUNISH the guilty PUNISH the guilty)

  (yessss yessss I will do it in the rain I will do it on a train I will kill them in the dark I will kill them in a park)

  —so she was listening and what she was hearing, loud and oh-so clear, were not the voices of the Faceless Men but her own voice and it sounded very nice, very soft, very in control and that’s how she knew she had bested them: “…I will find them here, there, and everywhere, said the girl in the chair. I’ll find the guilty and fry ‘em in a pan, this I’ll do but only for you, Sam-I-Am…”

  WASHINGTON, D.C:

  WHITE HOUSE, OVAL OFFICE

  3:46 P.M.

  Robert Pershing was not a man who liked to be maneuvered into a corner, but that’s what he was getting today. He�
��d expected this meeting, but he did not expect such a brash display of bravado from the President and his inner circle. The commander-in-chief was known for his calm and civility, but that was giving way now. The stress was getting to him. He was beginning to crack.

  Well, this is going even better than I could have hoped for, Pershing thought, inwardly grinning ear to ear.

  As he was watched, he watched, and as he was studied, he studied. The President stood behind his desk, FDR’s desk actually, glaring down at the CIA Director, Maddie Hughes and Adam Tiggman seated nearby. Everyone was tense, expectant. And why not? The country was falling.

  On the desk was a transcript of his discussion with Admiral Paulus of ONI concerning the coup. There were some other documents there as well, but nothing concrete. They knew it. Pershing knew it. They were trying to make him sweat, but they were hopelessly out of their league.

  “So, let me understand this, Mr. President,” he said, studying the bottle of wine he had brought. It was uncorked on the desk, waiting. “You tasked Adam with investigating me? Am I understanding this?”

  “You are.”

  Pershing nodded. “And, in the process, my car was bugged?”

  Tiggman shook his head. “No, no, we did not authorize any wiretapping. We received this recording anonymously. The source is uncertain.”

  Pershing did his very best to appear grave, even though there was absolutely nothing they were going to say that he didn’t already know about… courtesy of his own illegal wiretapping of the offices of Adam Tiggman and Maddie Hughes.

  “That is you on the recording,” the President said. “You’re not going to sit here and deny that, are you?”

  “Of course not. The conversation is between myself and Admiral Paulus, just as you already know. It was a privileged conversation not intended for scrutiny by untrained minds and careless ears.”

  It was a dig, but it bounced right off Tiggman. As an attorney, he was impervious to insults. Which was fine, because it wasn’t directed at him but at Maddie. She had a temper and Pershing was an old hand at manipulating people like her.

  True to form, she was incensed. Her dark eyes were narrowed, her lower lip trembling.

  Excellent, Pershing thought.

  “Would you like to tell us what you and Admiral Paulus were discussing, or should we tell you?”

  He smiled thinly. “Mr. President, at this point I would like to file a formal complaint that I am not comfortable discussing the particulars of this matter with the DHS Secretary. I have nothing but great respect for Ms. Hughes, but I believe her knowledge of the inside workings of the international scene is lacking.”

  “Cut the shit,” Maddie said, her cheeks reddening.

  “Yes, Bob, let’s do cut the shit.”

  All eyes were on him now. Pershing licked his lips and sighed. “What Admiral Paulus and I were discussing was a proposed—and I must emphasize proposed—political operation against the Islamic Republic of Mauritania. I’m sure the Admiral will gladly bear me out on this.”

  “Oh, come on,” Maddie said. “You’re flat-out lying.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “No, as usual, Bob, you’re not missing a thing,” she said. “The members of this cabinet are being systematically removed by someone who is taking advantage of the BioGen outbreak. That someone is you.”

  Pershing glared at her. “I’m offended by such an accusation.”

  “It’s not an accusation, it’s a fact.”

  “Then produce your evidence.”

  Maddie rolled her eyes. Tiggman just watched. And the President lost it. “Goddammit, Bob! Are you saying that you’ve had nothing whatsoever to do with what’s been happening in this country? That you are not willingly plotting to overthrow this administration with a circle of confederates that include Admiral Paulus and General Mason of the JCS?”

  “I categorically deny it, Mr. President.”

  “And do you deny the existence of a group known as The Collective?”

  This one stopped Pershing cold. Where the hell was this coming from? But then he knew: Maddie Hughes. It was exactly the sort of conspiratorial thinking she was known for. “Sir, the existence of this so-called Collective has been debunked time and again. It’s not worth bringing to the table.”

  “So, you’re saying they do not exist?” Tiggman said.

  “I am.”

  “Dammit, you’re lying to us!” the President snapped. “I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth and if you don’t, swear to God, I will demand your resignation!”

  Pershing’s demeanor did not change. He was cool, calm, and most assuredly collected. “Mr. President,” he said after a lengthy silence. “Are you well?”

  “I’m in complete command of my faculties, damn you!”

  Tiggman tried to intercede. “Sir, please, if we could just—”

  “Bullshit!” the President said, slamming his fist down on his desk. “This is no time for politically correct fuckwongling! Bob, you are treading on very thin ice and at a time when this country needs a unified front!”

  Maddie was practically in love.

  Pershing stood up. “If you are questioning my loyalty, then you, sir, with all due respect, are certainly not well. How dare you infer that I am a traitor. How dare you call me anything but a patriot. I have shed blood and tears for this country. I have suffered. I have put my needs last and unlike others in this room, the needs of this great nation have always come before those of lobbyists and political puppet masters.”

  “Enough,” the President said. “I want your resignation by morning. Not a moment longer. I do not ask for it, sir, I demand it!”

  Pershing looked to each set of eyes in the room. “Then you are making a horrendous mistake, Mr. President. You are putting conspiracy theories before facts and national security.” He stepped towards the door, then stopped. “But, yes, you can certainly seek my resignation, but I categorically state that you will not get it under any circumstances.”

  The door closed.

  “That sonofabitch,” Maddie said under her breath.

  The President slowly sat down. “If I don’t have it by morning, Adam, I’ll have no choice but to have Bob Pershing forcibly removed.”

  “Go easy, sir,” Tiggman said. “This is politically volatile stuff.”

  “You should have fired him and thrown his ass into the street… Mr. President,” Maddie said. From the look on her face she would have relished the very idea. “I say we drink a toast to getting rid of him.”

  The President, still visibly shaken, took a deep breath and appraised the bottle of wine that Pershing had brought as a gift. He always brought an expensive bottle and today was no exception. “A Chateau-Lafite Rothschild 1982… hell, we can’t let this go to waste. Had Bob known what he was in for, he would have never brought this.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Maddie said.

  Glasses were poured and wine was sipped and enjoyed. Tiggman finished his glass and stepped over to the windows. He looked pensive.

  “Is something bothering you, Adam?” the President finally asked.

  “Maybe.” Tiggman shrugged. “I have a very bad feeling, sir. I can’t get past the notion that Bob did know what he was in for. Which begs the question—just what exactly are we in for?”

  CHICAGO, CHINATOWN:

  PING TOM MEMORIAL PARK

  5:15 P.M.

  Harry had spent all day being shuffled from one location to the other by his tour guides, Jerry and Frank. Apparently, whoever he was scheduled to meet was more than a little cautious and kept changing his or her mind as to where that should be. Finally, they took a water taxi to the park and Harry was left at the pagoda.

  “This is where we say goodbye,” Jerry told him. “You won’t see us again.”

  “But—”

  But they were already gone and he sat there, thinking, smoking, and worrying. There were more choppers in the air than usual and three times now in the past hour h
e had heard gunshots coming from across the river. Martial law. Things were getting worse all the time. The worms were infesting and the country was crumbling. It was a mess and he honestly didn’t see what could possibly lift the nation from this horrendous onslaught and restore order.

  He thought about Shawna.

  He wondered if he’d ever see her again. He felt guilty about it all and mainly because he had slept with her. Had she really wanted that, or had he manipulated her into it? A typical middle-aged man desiring a younger, sexy, pretty woman? He wasn’t sure. He really wasn’t sure. He was so mixed-up. Some of it was the drugs, yes, and much of it was the whirlwind of events in the past days, but more than a little of it was his own conflicted emotions. He desired her. He cared for her. But at the same time, he felt very protective and fatherly about her. The sex thing had felt perfectly right at the time and now it just felt wrong in every way. She was confused, naïve, and the last thing she needed was another swinging dick in her life.

  But it was consensual, wasn’t it? She didn’t do it just to appease me… did she?

  Oh hell, he hoped not. The idea made him feel dirty like he’d used her. But as he thought that, he reminded himself that he was not talking about some virginal prom queen here. Shawna, God bless her, was a gold digger who routinely used sex as leverage in her relationships with wealthy men, many of whom were married.

  You used each other and that’s what it all boils down to. Don’t worry about it. Your relationship with her has always been more than a little odd.

  That made him feel marginally better, but only until he began to wonder where she was and what sort of awful things might have been done to her, if she was even alive. Because there was a good chance that—

  “Don’t turn around,” a voice said.

  Harry froze there on the bench, a breath wedged in his throat, his heart racing. There was a hand on his shoulder. It was not menacing exactly, but more to keep him sitting and facing forward.

  “If you’re going to put a couple in my head,” he said, “go ahead. I won’t make a fuss. I’m too tired.”