by Ralph Gibbs
“Jesus,” Sten said.
“I think it’s worse than that. I think it’s something old, and I don’t think you’ll like my theory.”
“There’s already a lot I don’t like this morning; one more won’t send me over the edge.”
“Do you remember my doctorate thesis?”
Sten visibly paled. “Surely you’re not suggesting . . . You wrote that paper forty years ago,” he said as he removed his glasses again. “You know, I think of you as one of the smartest scientists on the planet, but generally speaking most researchers agree the Athenian Plague was probably epidemic typhus.”
“I’m not one of them,” she said, leaning forward. “I’ve always held the Athenian Plague was from the smallpox family of diseases. I don’t doubt that typhus was present, but I don’t think it was the main cause. I believe epidemic typhus was probably a secondary infection, similar to how pneumonia can become a secondary infection of the flu. I think that’s why the plague was so deadly. If the first one didn’t kill you—”
“The second one did,” he finished. “I remember your paper. I’m not sure I can sell that theory. If I put it forth, most people are going to think you're seeing what you want to see.”
“I don’t care. I’m too old, and my reputation too cemented for me to worry about something like that. If I’m wrong about the disease, and my reputation, I’ll retire. I kind of like the idea of retirement. Maybe I can finally find me a nice large warm woman to settle down with.” She sat back. “I don’t think I’m wrong. There are just too many similarities.”
“All right, let’s get a report out to the WHO and the usual list of disease prevention centers as quickly as we can,” Sten said. “Let’s get a recommendation out to close the airports to civilian traffic. And . . . Add the lab analysis along with your suspicions. I’ll back it up. If we’re wrong, we’ll both retire together. Hell, we started our careers together; I don’t have a problem ending them that way. What was the mortality rate of the Athenian Plague?”
“Roughly thirty-five percent of the population, but it’s been over twenty-five hundred years since we’ve seen this plague. Even with modern medicine, it’ll be much worse unless we can get ahead of it. That’s assuming we can get ahead of it.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Sten said.
CHAPTER 3
Andrew Pollard wiped mucus from his encrusted nose before opening the double reinforced steel door to the Oxford, Virginia Maximum Security Penitentiary Processing Center. Thirteen heavily shackled prisoners slowly hobbled off the light blue prison bus and shuffled inside, single file, their chains clanking in what seemed a deliberately slow rhythmic metallic beat, which was irritatingly in perfect timing with the pounding in his head. Any other day, the fact there were thirteen prisoners would have elicited a few bad jokes, but today all he wanted to do was finish his shift quickly so he could go home and have a few bowls of his wife’s chicken soup.
Yesterday, he woke up with a dull throb in the back of his skull, but this morning, it felt more like a rat was chewing its way out of his brain through his eye. He would’ve called in sick, but thanks to his mock suspension, he was out of sick leave.
“Welcome back Andy,” Tom Hawkins said from behind the processing cage, giving him a quick, half-hearted wave. “How was the vacation to Europe?”
Vacation was how everyone would describe his last thirty days, even though officially it was administrative leave while an investigation into his conduct was completed by a not-so-independent review board. The only catch was he had to use all his vacation time and sick leave to cover his absence. He was still kicking himself for putting the beat-down on that prisoner in view of a camera. The next time a prisoner threw shit on him, he would knock the man senseless where there were no security cameras. Warden Higgins hinted as much, telling him that a guard with twenty-five years of experience getting caught on camera was proof he needed a vacation.
If the warden were anyone other than Higgins, a former prison guard himself, he would be looking for another job and probably facing assault charges. However, Higgins understood and accepted the necessity of occasionally showing prisoners who was alpha. Luckily, the camera only caught part of the beating, so the warden could argue the prisoner started the fight off-camera and Andy was only defending himself. Many outside the community called the defense excessive, and lawyers for the prisoner were threatening a lawsuit. Even though Higgins went to bat for him, ironically, it was the threat of the lawsuit that saved him. Firing him or putting him on unpaid leave would have been too much like an admission of guilt.
In a more poignant reminder to be careful, Andrew discovered upon return he’d been assigned to prisoner processing, one of the worst jobs a guard could pull. It entailed plenty of boredom, fingers in butts and lots of counting. You counted the prisoners as they entered the bus, exited the bus, entered processing, left processing, entered medical, left medical, entered the holding yard, exited the holding yard and finally just before handing them off to housing.
“Not bad,” Andrew said, walking over to shake Tom’s hand through the small opening in the cage. Andrew slid the stack of prisoner case files across the counter to Tom. “I would’ve preferred watching naked women with big tits on the beaches of Belize, but you know Doreen. She wanted to see something historical and what Doreen wants Doreen gets.”
“Sounds like you need to show her who’s boss,” a prisoner said. “Bring her to me; I’ll teach her how a woman should act with a man.” Andrew turned to stare incredulously at the man who was easily the thinnest he’d ever seen. He looked as if he’d made a habit of eating one meal a week and then going into the bathroom to throw it up. The scarecrow-like fellow sported a snakehead tattoo on his neck. After years of experience as a corrections officer, Andrew determined that nothing good ever came from a neck tattoo.
“Prisoners, turn toward me and put your toes on the yellow line,” Andrew ordered. Once they complied, Andrew casually walked up to the scarecrow and kneed him in the groin. The prisoner doubled over in pain, taking the chained men on either side half down with him.
“Andrew,” Tom hissed. “You buckin’ for another vacation. Wait until he’s in the hall. Have you forgotten everything you’ve learned in the last month?”
“Sorry, Tom. I . . . I lost myself for a moment. It’s this damn headache. It’s making me crazy.” Andrew knelt next to the scarecrow. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Copperhead,” the man said through clenched teeth. Andrew rolled his eyes. Scarecrow was a better fit.
“Tell me, Mr. Snake Man, Are you a retard?”
“Hey, that’s not a nice word,” one of the other prisoners yelled. Andrew quickly moved to confront the new challenge.
“What did you say?” Andrew said with an icy tone, inches from the new challenger’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir, but my sister is mentally challenged. She cries whenever someone calls her retarded.”
Andrew’s voice softened. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan Richards, sir.”
“What are you in for Ryan?”
“Three to five for possession with intent to sell.”
“Is your sister older or younger?”
“Younger.”
“You and her close?”
“Haven’t always been, but we are now.”
“I ought to take you in the hall and beat the shit out of you for depriving your sister of her big brother,” Andrew said. “Is she going to visit you?”
“She doesn’t do well on long drives,” he said, never looking directly at Andrew.
“You have my sincerest apology,” Andrew said. “I volunteer every year for Special Olympics, and I know it can’t be easy.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You let me know if they change their mind. If you don’t give me or the other guards any problems during your stay here, my wife and I will make sure they’re taken care of if they come to visit.”
“He probably wants
a threesome,” Copperhead said, while still doubled over on the floor and holding his sore crotch.
Camera or no camera, Andrew would take care of this dumbass once and for all. Maybe he’d get to see big tits on the beaches of Belize after all. Before he took a step, the prisoner chained next to Copperhead, the one he mentally nicknamed Grumpy, stepped on Copperhead’s fingers. Andrew thought he heard bones crack over the scream.
“Sorry,” Grumpy said as he yanked Copperhead to his feet. “I have a bad back, and that bending over was aggravating it. I stumbled.”
Andrew instinctively backed away and let Grumpy help Copperhead to his feet. From the moment he laid eyes on Grumpy, Andrew marked the man as dangerous. Despite the man’s five-and-a-half-foot frame, there was an air of confidence exuding from him that held an underlying promise. A promise that said “if you fuck with me I will hurt you . . . badly.” Andrew took the promise seriously.
Tom, still at his desk, looked through the folders. “Says here, smart boy’s name is Wendell Helms . . . The . . . Third.”
“Really? His name is Wendell?” Andrew said incredulously.
“I prefer Copperhead,” Wendell said, regaining his composure and a bit of his arrogance.
“I don’t blame you,” Andrew said.
“Looks like another one of those Bonnie Blue boys,” Tom said, still reading the folder.
“What’s he in for?” Andrew asked.
“The usual; drugs and guns. Same as the others.”
“A drug runner named Wendell?” Andrew said almost laughing. “What are gangs coming to these days? I suppose you know that the snake on your neck isn’t a copperhead. It’s a rattlesnake.”
“It’s a symbol,” Wendell said.
“A symbol? A symbol for what?” Andrew asked.
“It means don’t tread on me,” Wendell said. Andrew didn’t point out he’d just been tread on by Grumpy.
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You bastards shame the memory of the real Bonnie Blue. You think the boys flying the Bonnie Blue during the civil war attacked Fort Sumter because they wanted to run guns and drugs? Do you Wendell . . . The . . . Third?”
“I said I prefer—”
“They’ll be calling you Windy, you keep talking,” Andrew said, inching closer. Wendell wisely said nothing else. Andrew considered it a win and decided it was time to get down to business.
“Prisoners, this is how things are going to go,” Andrew said, pulling a pair of blue rubber gloves from a box on the counter. He made a show of putting them on. “When your names called, you will step forward. When I remove your shackles, you will strip off your clothes and place them in the white trash bag I hand you. You will strip down to your birthday suit, after which, you’ll move to the gray line behind you and face the wall. In case any of you guys get the bright idea to try and overpower me, just remember I’ve been at this a long time. But if that doesn’t deter you . . .” There was the distinct sound of a shotgun round being chambered. The prisoners looked over to see Tom holding a shotgun. Andrew wiped his nose again. “. . . Officer Hawkins has a shotgun, and he’s not afraid to use it. Besides, it’s not like you’ll go anywhere. The doors lock from the outside, and unless you have sticks of dynamite up your ass, which I will know shortly, there’s only one way out, and that’s through the prison yard; two ways if you count dead. You’re here for the long haul, gentlemen. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.
“Once lined up, I’ will run my fingers through your hair, fondle your ears, move your tongue and stick a finger up your ass. You will not thank me later. However, if you are so inclined, orchids are my favorite flower.” Andrew sighed. They were not a jolly bunch. He usually got at least one laugh at that line. “After the exam, you’ll move to the processing counter where you will receive and put on your yellow prison jumpers. You’ll get the rest of your draw–sheets, soap, toothbrush, and assorted toiletries–after your medical briefing. Once I put your cuffs back on, you’ll sit on the bench in front of the red door at the back of the room. And, I think we’ll start with Wendell . . . The . . . Third.”
Half an hour later, five prisoners were wearing their yellow prison uniforms and sitting on the bench, the newly incarcerated looking terrified, the old hats bored. Tom opened the folder of the next prisoner.
“Damn, Andrew,” Tom said. “You think Wendell’s name was bad. Take a gander at this one.”
Andrew walked over, and Tom slid the folder to him. Andrew chuckled. “That’s some name,” Andrew agreed as he pushed the folder back. Tom stepped back, fanning his hand in front of his face.
“Damn, Andrew, your breath smells like rotten meat,” Tom said. “You forget to brush.”
“It must be this cold I’m coming down with.” Andrew smacked his mouth together several times. “My mouth feels dry, and it tastes like I bit into an ass sandwich.”
“Smells like it too,” Tom said.
“I’ll grab a bottle of mouthwash from the draw when I get there.”
“I was watching the news last night, and they said there’s this foreign flu going around,” Tom said with some concern. “Lots of people over there have died. A few here too. I think they said one person in Colorado and another in North Carolina. Said some countries have already closed their borders and others are talking about closing their airports.”
“Who gives a shit what the news is reporting?” Andrew said with some heat. “Just more fake news to drum up their ratings. Besides, it’s been over two weeks since Doreen, and I got back from Greece. It’s probably just a summer thing we picked up.”
“Doreen has it too?” Tom asked, surprised.
“She was throwing up this morning. She tried to hide it, but I heard her.”
“You should’ve stayed home,” Tom said, sounding worried. “Now, I’m probably going to get it.”
Andrew chuckled. “You know what they say, the quickest cure for the flu is to give it to someone else.”
“Ha. Ha,” Tom said, but he was clearly nervous.
“I don’t really feel that bad. Except for the headache and being a little tired, I feel fine. Let’s finish up. I’ll go home once we finish processing. I want to check on Doreen, anyway. I tried to call her a few times on the ride over, but she wouldn’t answer.”
“Wait, you said she was throwing up?” Tom asked.
“I did.”
“Morning sickness,” Tom said, smiling at the chance to tease Andrew. “Maybe she’s pregnant. Maybe you’re going to be a daddy.”
“Just read the damn name,” Andrew said horrified at the thought.
“Franklin Turnipseed,” Tom read. There were a few laughs from the more seasoned prisoners.
“With a name like Turnipseed, I’m guessing you had a rough life,” Andrew said, walking over to him.
“Occasionally, boss,” Franklin said.
“Boss?” Andrew said, sounding amused.
“Sounds like they showed Cool Hand Luke over at the courthouse again,” Tom said as he continued to read Franklin’s file. “Those jokers. They tell you it was a documentary?” Tom suddenly straightened.
“Andy, be careful with this one.” Andrew stopped removing the chains and turned to Tom. Tom pointed to Franklin’s folder. “It says here ol’ Turnipseed used to be Special Forces.”
“I knew there was something about him that worried me,” Andrew said. He turned to Franklin. “You were a Navy SEAL? You still look wet behind the ears.”
“I was in the army not the navy, so my ears stayed dry,” Franklin said.
“I mean no disrespect here but aren’t you a little short to be Special Forces?” Tom asked.
“They waved the height requirements for Special Forces because I was–in their words–scrappy.”
“I bet,” Andrew said. “What are you in for?”
“Manslaughter,” Franklin answered.
“Three counts of first-degree manslaughter, to be exact,” Tom said. “Looks to be a life sentence plus ni
nety-nine years.”
“Really?” Andrew said, puzzled. “Since when is manslaughter life without parole?”
“Since they classified it a hate crime,” Tom said. “The officer was white and had friends in high places. They also tacked on about twenty other charges. Drunk driving, operating a vehicle without a license, drug possession with intent to sell. The usual.”
Andrew doubted the drug possession as Franklin didn’t seem the type. Most likely, they planted the drugs. However, any lawyer worth his salt should have gotten everything dropped except the manslaughter charges. That was how the system worked. Prosecutors charge a person with every crime they could get away with and then scared the shit out of them by threatening to send them to prison for life if they didn’t plead.
“Oh, I see,” Tom said. “He plead guilty to everything. Didn’t even try to bargain.”
“Is that a fact?” Andrew asked Franklin. “You punishing yourself, Turnipseed?” Franklin said nothing. He just continued to look ahead. “You planning on committing suicide? You going to take your shoelaces and hang yourself?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, because shoes here don’t have laces after the last guy that hung himself.” Andrew coughed into his elbow and wiped his nose. “But I guess if you’re determined, you’ll find a way. They always do. Do I need to put you on suicide watch?”
“No, sir,” Franklin said again.
“How come you didn’t plead?” Andrew asked. “You could be sitting in a more comfortable minimum-security state prison. Get a nice lounge with a television. Maybe get to watch some crime dramas.” Franklin said nothing. “I’ll give you five years before you’re screaming for a lawyer and a new trial.” Franklin continued to say nothing. “You’re a quiet one; I’ll give you that.” Andrew reached for Franklin’s cuffs and then pulled back. “You seem like a nice enough fellow. I’m not going to have any trouble from you, am I?”
“No failure to communicate here . . . boss.” Andrew looked up to see a small tick of a smile from Franklin and smiled back.
