by Paul Seiple
Forty-Five
1994
Manhattan, New York
Norman Wallace hadn't left his penthouse in Manhattan for two weeks. He’d used the last few years to become another memory. Reid Hoffman had gotten a little too close. Norman's past was no longer a secret. That made Reid more dangerous. There needed to be a cooling off period. So, Norman spent his days on a computer, rummaging through posts on ANONnet, an online bulletin board community. He was looking for soldiers to fight in what he deemed the final battle for Babylon — his granddaughter.
He never reached out to Reid. After the "deaths" of Michael, Rebecca, and Michelle, Norman wanted to send Reid a letter damning the amateur move and to give him a few choice words about insulting his intelligence. Norman knew his son was still alive. He didn’t care. From the beginning of this story Michael died. The bad guy wins and the good guy dies. Norman wanted his granddaughter. Now she would be thirteen. Just about the time when the feelings of hatred started ruling Norman’s thoughts. He saw the streak of violence when Michelle tore the knots from the bandana. The hatred was there. He just needed to groom it.
The sound of a bell interrupted his thoughts. He received an email. Norman had an account, but never really used it. In the future, email would be a good tool to use for recruiting. He questioned opening the email. It was all too new to him. No one knew his email address. This could be a trick. Reid had a computer genius on his team. Someone had to help him fake the deaths and give the Callahans new identities after Yemana committed suicide. This person was good. Much better than Yemana. Whoever was behind the new identities hid Michelle well. But the time had come for Norman to find her.
Opening the email was risky. It could give Reid a direct line to him. There was another bell. Another email. Curiosity got the best of Norman and he viewed the first email. It was sent from 'pale_horse' and was one line quoted from Revelations — “Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed close behind.”
The second email was also from 'pale_horse' and read, “Turn on the television.”
There was a Breaking News report on CNN about a mysterious illness which had hospitalized 10 people in Charlotte. The CDC was on its way to North Carolina. Norman turned up the volume to listen to a doctor being interviewed.
“Doctor Fujiyama, do you know what this disease is?”
“As of right now, no. But we do not want to alarm the public. This looks like a contained incident. All ten individuals were employees of a fast food restaurant. We are asking anyone that frequented the Whirly Burger on Albemarle within the last twenty-four hours to come to Carolina Medical. There is a special entrance set up for you.”
“Doctor, this sounds a little more serious than your original statement suggests.”
“We are being precautious. Fear spreads faster than disease. The Center for Disease Control is sending a team to Charlotte. They should be here within the hour. We will know more shortly.”
Norman’s phone rang. He muted the television and answered it.
A computerized voice said, “Welcome to the apocalypse.”
Before Norman could speak, he was met by a dial tone. He smiled and finished the Revelations verse the mysterious caller quoted. "'And power was given unto them over the fourth part of earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beast of the earth.'" Norman walked over to the enormous window overlooking the busy streets of New York. A dull ache raced through his body. He rubbed the pain away with his nearly translucent hand. He coughed out the words, "Cities will fall. Death to all."
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Babylon Girl is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
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“We do not despise all those who have vices, but we do despise those that have no virtue.”
— Francois de La Rochefoucauld
One
James Beamer
1994
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
I dabbed a healthy dose of vapor rub under my nose before breaking the police line. “He’s in there? You’re sure?” I asked one of the uniformed officers as I eased my way toward the portable toilet.
“Fraid so, sir.”
“Great.”
This was the second time Kevin Sawyer escaped from maximum security. The media nicknamed him Houdini, but Sawyer preferred the name Lady Killer — an homage to his idol Ted Bundy. Sawyer was serving four life sentences for murdering four college girls from the University of Wisconsin. He patterned the attacks after Bundy’s rampage at Florida State in 1978. In his confession, Sawyer said Bundy came to him the day after his execution in 1989 and told Sawyer it was up to him to continue the legacy. A psych evaluation determined Sawyer was schizophrenic. For most, that satisfied the lunacy of Bundy coming to him after death and passing the torch. I had my doubts. Norman Wallace was still out there. And that gave me first-hand knowledge of a serial killer trying to pass his legacy. But, in reality, it was probably the crazy speaking to Sawyer.
“Your life’s really turned to crap, huh?” I stepped to the portable toilet where Sawyer was hiding. “What would Bundy say? He chose you. And look at where you are, stowed away, buried in a pile of crap. Bundy was smart. I’m surprised he never heard the saying you can’t polish a turd.”
A dent formed in the plastic on the side of the toilet, accompanied by a thud. But Sawyer didn’t say a word.
“What’s wrong, Sawyer? Afraid to open your mouth? Afraid you’ll taste that smell?”
There was a grunt, followed by the toilet rocking side to side.
“Be careful in there. You don’t want to get anything on your prison oranges. Ever heard of Typhoid? How about cholera?”
Another dent formed in the plastic. Several small tapping sounds followed it. The noise reminded me of someone banging his head against wall, but softly, so there was no permanent damage or no fecal matter to the face, if you’re trapped inside a portable toilet.
“Does it make you feel like a man to beat up a defenseless toilet, Sawyer? You’re too much of a hothead. Do you think Bundy is proud of you? I mean, you left your driver’s license at the crime scene.” I laughed. “I’m sure that screw-up has Bundy spinning at the speed of light on his roasting pit.”
The door to the toilet swung open. The smell of feces slapped my face as I caught an orange blur darting towards me. I stepped to the side, dropped to my knees, and swept the back of Sawyer’s ankles with my foot. He floated parallel to the ground before slamming back first onto the dirt. He bounced up to lunge at me, but the barrel of .38 against his forehead stopped him in his tracks. “I’ve already got grass stains on my suit. Be a dear and don’t make me add grey matter. That would really piss the dry cleaners off.”
Sawyer relaxed his body. A uniformed officer grabbed his forearms and cuffed his hands behind his back.
“One of these days, Beamer, someone is going to gut you, and I’ll be cheering from the fires of Hell,” Sawyer said, as the officer carted him away.
“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. I got some bad news for you, Sawyer. That’s already a sold-out show, good luck scalping tickets.”
“And I got some bad news for you,” Special Agent Jill Tanner said, tapping me on the shoulder. She pointed to brown streaks on my black shoes. “Looks like you stepped in crap.”
“Yeah, well, don’t rub it in.”
“Dammit, James, that’s just gross.” Jill shook her head and shivered. “You’re always ruining my jokes.”
The first med
ia van pulled up. A reporter, followed by a cameraman, and then another stumbled out of the van like clowns in a Volkswagen. “Bozo and the gang are here. It’s your turn to talk to them, right?”
“Good try, James. You lost paper, rock, and scissors fair and square.”
“Two out of three?”
“You’ve lost the last twelve times. You’re the worst player I’ve ever se…”
“Excuse me, Agent Beamer, but did Kevin Sawyer say anything when you apprehended him?”
The blonde smiled at me. For a moment, I saw my ex-wife, Rebecca. We met nearly fifteen years earlier in a similar situation. Guilt tugged at my stomach. I hadn’t talked to Rebecca in seven years. The more time passed, the easier it became to forget her voice. Seeing the reporter reminded me I hadn’t thought about Rebecca in a while. Guilt slapped me harder than the smell of feces — I hadn’t thought about my daughter, Michelle, much either. Did it make me a bad father to forget about her? Could I even be called a father? Erasing my family was the only way I could go on. When Rebecca and Michelle went into witness protection I had to forget them. That was my protection. If I didn’t erase my family, the pain would eat away at me until there was only a shell left. And then who could save the world from Norman Wallace?
“Agent Beamer? Did Sawyer say anything when you caught him?”
The microphone tapping against my cheek scared the stupor away. “Let’s just say, Sawyer is full of crap.”
The two cameramen laughed. One of them panned a camera down to the stain on my shoe. Judging by the deadly glare the blonde gave me, she didn’t care for my sense of humor.
“Super-Agent Beamer, are you aware that you have a bit of Sawyer on your shoe?”
The male voice startled me. Jill laughed. I turned to see my good friend, Dr. Mack Root standing behind me.
“How much did you pay for those shoes? Two-hundred? Three-hundred? That’s considered newsworthy these days?”
I turned my back to the media and shook Mack’s hand. “You would have been proud of me. I threatened Sawyer with Typhoid.”
Mack laughed. “That would have been a credible threat if this was Africa.”
“You should see the size of mosquitos down here,” I said.
“Speaking of disease, have you seen the report out of Charlotte?”
I looked at Jill. She nodded. “Sawyer had something to say to me,” she said to the blonde reporter.
The reporter ignored me and jammed the microphone under Jill’s chin. “What did Sawyer tell you?”
“He said something about doing anything for love, but he wouldn’t do that.”
“He quoted the Meat Loaf song?”
Jill laughed. “It’s a song? I didn’t know that. Well, maybe he really was full of crap. Thanks. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what ‘that’ was.”
“She’s good,” Mack said, as we used the distraction to get away from the reporter.
“What about Charlotte? I thought it was a contained outbreak of a virus brought back to the States by an employee at that fast food joint.”
“It’s contained…,” Mack paused, “…for now, but no one brought it here. It originated from here.”
“What?”
“Patient Zero wasn’t the kid that came back from a mission in Africa. It was a girl that never left Charlotte.”
“So, you think someone purposefully infected those people in the restaurant?”
Mack opened the hatch on his Nissan Pathfinder and pulled a folder from a backpack. “Here, look at this. The only people infected were employees. There was a fear that the pathogen may be airborne transmitted, but turns out that wasn’t the case. Patient Zero brought a batch of cupcakes for a fellow employee’s birthday. The cupcakes tested positive.”
I flipped through the folder which had photos of all the infected. “So, what is it?”
“That’s the scary thing. It seems to be a synthetic that when ingested presents as a bacterial agent. Since it only mimics a bacterial infection, antibiotics are useless. It’s possible that antibiotics actually feed this thing. It’s a homegrown apocalypse bug.”
“How’s that even possible?”
“Not sure yet. But this is bad, James. I’ve never seen anything like it. The mind that created this is a threat to the world.”
“What’s the prognosis for the victims?”
“Not good. Without a treatment, this will have a hundred percent mortality rate. And we have no treatment.”
“What else do you know?”
“Whoever created this didn’t want to take out a coffee shop just because someone screwed up their order. There are bigger plans. I fear this was a test run. Make sure the pathogen works and then put the effort into making it airborne.”
“Is that even doable?”
“It’s easier than you think. Now that this guy knows it works, he could transmit it through a mist or even gas.”
“You think Wallace has anything to do with this?” I asked.
“He’s the first person I thought of. But honestly, he’s smart. He’s not this smart.”
“But he’s influential.”
Mack nodded.
Two
The Plague Vendor
Charlotte, North Carolina
The Plague Vendor, as he dubbed himself, checked his email for fifth time within a two-hour span. Two days ago, by this time of day, the checks were well into double digits. Five days had passed since he sent the message to Norman Wallace. When he hit SEND on the email, he gleamed with anticipation that Wallace would respond. Maybe email was new to Wallace. Maybe Wallace wondered how someone tracked him down via a somewhat new technology. It wasn’t hard. In the age of computers, the lure of anonymity is attractive, but it’s much harder to hide in the cyber shadows. The Internet Protocol Address is your digital fingerprint and if you’re new to the Internet, you’re not aware you have to hide it. Wallace never left a fingerprint at any crime scene, but when he registered for an account on the Dahmer and Friends bulletin board, his I.P. address made him vulnerable. His email made him accessible.
The Plague Vendor watched Wallace for months before making contact. He studied Wallace’s actions on the message board, interacting with guys who worshipped Ted Bundy and girls who wanted to marry Richard Ramirez. The Vendor had never met Wallace and was one of only a handful of people who knew The Morning Star Killer was still alive.
Impatience got the best of him. Death told him to wait. No matter how long it took, Wallace would eventually make contact. But The Vendor doubted that now. He opened his email and typed a message. A phone ringing caused him to pause mid-sentence.
“Did you see the news?”
“Yes,” The Vendor said, closing out his email.
“Three dead. Seven others in ICU. I would say it was successful.”
“The others will die.” The Vendor turned on his television and muted the sound. There was a breaking news report about the outbreak.
“Of course they will.”
“Two more just did,” The Vendor said.
“There will be a hundred percent mortality rate. We must be patient. Speaking of patience, has Wallace made contact?”
The Vendor turned off the television. “No. You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”
“The cancer is Stage II. He still has time to see his prophecy fulfilled. Norman’s alive. He’s just apprehensive. Give him time. He will come to you.”
“What do we do while we wait?”
“Halloween is coming. I have something special planned for the kiddies.” Elation accented the caller’s voice.
“I guess have to get a mask then.”
Deep laughter reverberated through the phone, tickling The Vendor’s ear. “I’ll be in touch.”
The Vendor stood up. Just as he was about to walk away from the computer, there was a chirping sound. He turned to see a small envelope flashing on the screen. Finally, there was an email from he_shines_brightest. The Vendor opened it.
I’ve been admiring your work. We need to meet. I’ll be in touch. - NW
The Vendor’s smile widened. He sat at the computer and typed a reply. One simple question — Where? He hit send and waited. About twenty minutes later, there was another chirp. He opening the email which was an error message that read, Sorry, but ‘[email protected]’ does not exist.
“What the hell?”
The phone rang.
“I’ll come to you. Stay by your phone tomorrow. After 4pm, I will call with instructions,” Norman Wallace hung up.
Three
Norman Wallace
Manhattan, New York
The sharp pain that was Norman Wallace’s best friend was only a dull ache. Was it a sign of better days to come? The experimental treatment he received for his cancer could be working. Or maybe this was the end. Wallace’s first mile of a peaceful journey into nothingness. The monster that terrorized the innocent for years was leaving this world without a whimper. Poetic justice or the last hand dealt from a God that never existed. At the young age, when Death served Norman a cocktail of power and violence, he knew he was destined to become the beast this world feared. He didn’t believe in gods or devils. Norman chose Revelations as inspiration — a way to mock his “god-fearing, sinning when no one was watching” parents. If there was the slightest chance he was wrong, this was Norman’s way of making sure his parents suffered in the afterlife. If, this was the end for him, he would make sure the world understood the name Norman Wallace was to be feared more than a fictional character with horns and pitchfork.
