The Fall: The Rift Book I

by Robert J. Duperre

  “All right,” she replied. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  It actually took a half-hour. The traffic seemed busier than usual. Fridays, she thought, tailing a beaten-up old Ford Explorer with a bumper sticker that said, “We are born naked, wet, and hungry. Then things get worse.” She chuckled at the truth of it.

  She arrived at the packed lot of Wentworth-Douglass and parked the car. She strolled across the pavement, her body still sore, and walked through the automated emergency room door. A nurse greeted her at the desk and pointed her in the direction of the elevator, which she took to a large, crowded waiting area on the second floor. Once there, she marveled at how many folks had gathered and the expressions they wore. It reminded her of those news shots of nervous family members gathered in Red Cross stations around New York City in the aftermath of September 11th, awaiting news of their loved ones.

  Kyra made her way to the reception desk, where the attending nurse, a pretty black woman with kind, round features, stood behind the sliding window.

  “Hello,” said Kyra, “I’m Mrs. Holcomb. I’m here about my husband.”

  “Does he work for Capital Oil?” asked the nurse.

  “Yes.”

  The nurse—Tiana, as her nametag stated—gestured in the direction of the others in the room. “Please, wait over there. The doctor will see you all in a few moments.”

  “Thank you,” replied Kyra. She spotted an open chair outside the huddled throng and took it. She sat beside a slender young woman, who moved her purse from the area beneath Kyra’s seat and held it in her lap. The woman never looked up as she did so, her blank face staring straight ahead in silence. Kyra offered her thanks but received no reply. She looked around then, noticing that no one else in the room had given her so much as a second glance. It was as if they were all hypnotized, with fifty sets of eyes ordered to stare at the ground. Kyra leaned back, closed hers, and waited.

  Ten minutes later a doctor strode into the room. His short, fat body swayed with each step. The few remaining hairs on his head were matted down with nervous sweat. Those who lingered pulled their collective attention from the polished tile floor. The doctor pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose with his right index finger and cleared his throat.

  “Hello everyone, I’m Dr. Fitzsimmons,” he said. “I spoke with many of you on the phone. I thank you for coming.”

  “What’s going on here?” the voice of a large, older man boomed. “Where’s my son?”

  The nervous doctor shifted on his small feet. “You’ll be able to see your loved ones shortly.” He frowned and stared at his watch. His voice dropped to the point where Kyra could barely make out his words. “We’re really not sure what’s going on. Representatives from the CDC are on their way, but until they arrive, they are all to remain under strict supervision.”

  “What happened?” asked the formerly silent woman beside Kyra. Her voice came out mousy and timid.

  Doctor Fitzsimmons shrugged. “We can’t be certain. An emergency call was placed from the Capital Oil garage at one-thirty this afternoon. When the ambulance arrived, everyone inside appeared…sick. We’ve done some tests on them, but haven’t been able to arrive at an acceptable diagnosis.” He feigned a smile. “With that being said, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Everything that’s being done is strictly precautionary. It might be something like Legionnaires’, but more than likely it’s nothing but a new strain of flu. They’re all currently being administered heavy doses of antivirals, so hopefully this will be much ado about nothing.”

  There was something uncomfortable in the doctor’s body language. He knows something he’s not telling us, Kyra thought. Others seemed to sense this, as well, because his words of reassurance did little to change the doubt on their faces. The doctor, obviously unnerved, lifted the chart in his left hand and ogled it as if it had a copy of Penthouse beneath the metal clip. His actions said he was searching for a way to get past the uncomfortable silence.

  Another doctor, this one young and Hispanic with deep blue eyes, emerged from the double doors. He whispered into Dr. Fitzsimmons’s ear, who nodded intently.

  “All right,” Fitzsimmons said, addressing the crowd, “everyone follow me.”

  He led the group through the doors and down a long corridor. The sound of the linoleum as shoes squeaked over it, wet from the slow drizzle that had started an hour or so before, echoed off the pure-white walls. They entered another large room, one with a huge viewing window. There stood four unarmed security guards, two standing on either side of the locked door to the left. Bright fluorescent light shone from behind the enormous window. This seemed like an abnormal and definitely unethical practice to Kyra, but she had no choice but to follow the leader. Dr. Fitzsimmons chatted with the guard closest to him, then ushered everyone forward. A series of gasps rose from the crowd.

  Kyra pushed her way to the front and peered through the window. Four rows of gurneys lined the room behind the glass. At least twenty men and women were in there, IVs taped to their forearms. Their skin appeared spongy, virtually translucent, their veins clearly visible. An older woman screeched and began weeping. The kind young gentleman standing next to the woman put his arm around her, allowing her to sob into the lapel of his suit jacket. Kyra felt the woman’s pain but could only stare with slack-jawed astonishment.

  One of the patients was Harry, a boy of eighteen Kyra had first met at the company’s Independence Day picnic. The youngster lifted his head and yellow secretions streaked with red tendrils dripped from the corner of his mouth. A tear trickled down Kyra’s cheek. The Harry she remembered had been a strapping young man with pitch-black hair, soulful brown eyes, and a thinly muscled physique. Now he appeared thin, malnourished beyond belief. He moved his mouth, looking like he was trying to form words, and then his body started to shake. His arms lifted above his head and he turned away. It was as feeble a gesture as Kyra had ever seen. Another middle-aged woman in the group of observers howled and ran from the room. It was probably the young man’s mother.

  The ruckus of the screaming woman subsided and Kyra spotted Justin, laying three cots down from Harry. His large features were bloated to the point of absurdity. He was unconscious, his chest rising and falling at odd intervals. She could almost hear his rasping through the soundproof glass. He coughed. His eyes opened for a brief second, stared blankly at the ceiling, and then closed.

  Kyra turned her back to the scene, nudged her way through the crowd, and returned to the sitting room. Sadness overwhelmed her and she cried openly. These tears were not for Justin, he who’d broken his vow never to hurt her, but for the innocent boy; for Harry, the youngster who’d never hurt a fly, who had never said an unkind word in her presence. Suddenly this whole mess became her husband’s fault. Fuck you, Justin, she thought. You’re the one who deserves this. Not him.

  An unexpected commotion broke out, drawing her attention. A crowd of nurses and cleaning staff had gathered around the corner television, shooting snippets of conversation back and forth, their eyes glued to the screen. The sound of what appeared to be a digital foghorn filled the air.

  Kyra approached the group and spotted Tiana the nurse. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Emergency broadcast,” replied Tiana in a far away, frightened voice. “The damned horn’s been going off for the last five minutes.”

  Kyra nodded and looked at the television. URGENT MESSAGE: PLEASE STAND BY flashed across the screen. She knelt down in the front so others could see over her. The message faded away and an image appeared: a portly man she recognized but couldn’t exactly place, with thinning brown hair and wearing a disheveled gray suit that hung from his shoulders like a drape, stood behind the presidential podium. He opened his mouth and spoke, his eyes wide and dire.

  “Citizens of this great nation,” he said, “this is not a test.”

  CHAPTER 4

  LIES

  “GOOD EVENING, AMERICA,” Tom Steinberg said. He squinte
d through the glare of spotlights and camera flashes, thankful their brightness transformed the rows of reporters sitting below him into unrecognizable black smears. Damned leeches, he thought, and widened his grin into the phoniest of smiles before continuing.

  “I am here to speak with the citizens of this great nation about the current state of affairs, both in this country and around the world. The President and his cabinet are engaged in emergency sessions with world leaders as we speak, discussing the events of the last few weeks and how we are to handle them. It is my duty, as House Speaker, to convey their findings to you.

  “As many of you may know by now, there have been outbreaks of violence along the shores of Central and South America for the last four weeks. With the economy of these countries in decline for some time and the rise of the drug cartels and local warlords, especially in Mexico, we at first considered these to be isolated incidents involving confined insurgents. It has been brought to our attention, however, that pockets of hostility have crossed the borders of Texas and California. This happened five days ago.”

  Tom cleared his throat and glanced at his notes. “Now, it seems, there have been attacks in other countries, as well. Great Britain, France, Libya, and as far east as Taiwan have all reported similar incidents over the past week. This morning I received an official record from CIA director Roger Leckner based on their investigations of these confrontations. Although I cannot disclose the totality of these findings, I have been instructed to inform you all that significant data has been gathered, which concludes that these attacks have been the result of a massive global terrorist operation, organized and funded by Al Qaeda, The Children of Diyala, and other fundamentalist Muslim organizations. At present time, the military has been dispatched to the affected areas in an effort to quell the violence.” Tom slammed his fist on the podium. “We will stop them,” he said with feigned conviction. “This country will not bend to the whims of terrorists. All insurgents will be found and dealt with swiftly. There is no reason for panic. The situation is under control.”

  In the crowd of reporters, a woman he recognized raised her hand. Tom sighed and waved her off. He’d already seen her column in the Washington Post earlier that day and had to suppress her line of questioning before it began.

  “I know what you are going to ask, Marge,” he said, then turned his eyes back to the cameras and addressed his unseen audience yet again. “There have been rumors circulated by certain individuals in this room that these events are the result of a biological agent. I am here to tell you, right now, that these rumors are completely unfounded. I have it on good authority from the CDC that there is indeed a powerful strain of influenza circulating through our classrooms and workplaces and homes, but it is nothing we cannot handle. A new vaccine will be distributed later this week, so remember everyone, make sure to get your shots. A healthy America is a happy America. And let me repeat, we will stop the insurgency. This is the state of the world we live in, nothing more, nothing less. Do not panic. If we stick together and trust our elected leaders to do what is in our best interest, we will all be fine.

  “This…situation…will…be…remedied. And life will proceed as usual.”

  Tom lifted his notes and straightened them by tapping the edge on the podium. More reporters began to raise their hands but he shook them off. “That is all,” he said. “Senator Hoffman will be fielding all questions. Take care, America, and God bless. Your country is behind you.”

  With that he nodded to the broadcast crew and walked off the stage. Tom’s assistant, a pitiable little man named Peter Sherman, who had a crooked nose and thick spectacles and spoke with a nasal wine, greeted him as he descended the stairs. Peter looked nervous, his fingers tapping the clipboard in his hands as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

  “You didn’t follow protocol,” said Peter. “Why didn’t you read what I wrote?”

  “Because it was shit,” Tom replied. He tossed the pages in the garbage and signaled for a Secret Service agent to dispose of them. “Next time give me something I don’t have to fudge my way through.”

  Pete’s shrill voice reached a fevered pitch. “Do you know how much trouble we’re going to be in? You changed the whole thing, Tom! We have no proof of anything you just said! Not to mention you implicated groups that might really start to do something once they find out you’ve—we’ve—blamed them. This is going to spiral out of control. Pendergrass will ream us for sure on top of that, if the Arab Consulate doesn’t come down on us first!”

  “Pendergrass doesn’t matter,” said Tom. He raised an eyebrow at one of the military personnel lurking about the back room—General Moore, if he remembered correctly—and, when satisfied they were out of earshot, told Peter, “Neither does anyone else.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Sherm. We’re all that’s left. The shit you gave me…what did you want me to do with it, create a panic? We can’t make that kind of information available to the public. We wouldn’t be able to control them. Come on, you’ve been around here long enough to know how it works. We give them the devil they know. They’re comfortable with that. Like children.”

  Peter opened his mouth to retort but shut it when Tom glared at him. Good little lackey, Tom thought, smiling on the inside. Always remember who has the power.

  * * *

  The rear of the limo and a bottle of scotch provided the relief Tom needed. With the partition up, his own breathing and the muted drone of tires rolling over pavement were the only sounds he could hear. This was the way he liked it. No one to spill an endless stream of drivel into his ears, no one to tell him the way things had to be done, no one to question his decisions. If only he could quiet the chatter of his own thoughts, then the moment might have approached nirvana.

  In all his years of greasing the squeaky wheel of democracy, Thomas Steinberg had never found himself entrenched in a situation he couldn’t handle, be it the war in the Middle East, ten years running and still going strong, or the shady dealings behind the former administration’s re-election, and he thought he’d seen it all. The current state of affairs, however, felt different. There was so much confusion and so little damned knowledge. Everyone found themselves running around like frightened squirrels and Tom thought it only a matter of time before a semi came barreling down the road. He seemed to be the only one keeping his head about him. He had to. One misstep and all he’d worked for would go up in flames.

  A shot of chilled scotch slid over his tongue and down his throat. He welcomed the burn that followed. Nothing quelled the demons better than Balvenie on the rocks. The world sped by outside his darkened limousine windows, the monuments and administrative buildings of the capital giving way to the houses, estates, and shopping centers of the surrounding suburbs. The sun had finally dropped behind the mountains and the sky reflected a deep rose color, tingeing the neighborhood in ghostly purples. Isn’t that ominous, Tom thought. He giggled while he poured himself another glass of liquid heaven.

  He had always been an intelligent and motivated man, and now the discarded piece of him that remembered rising to be the youngest DOT director in New York’s history barked its disapproval. What happened to the virtue of honesty? it asked. What happened to ‘the people come first’? How about dealing with what’s in front of you with a shred of decency, dignity, and perseverance? Look at you now. Your words are toxic. You spray propaganda over an unsuspecting public, knowing it will lead to disaster, and you can only live with yourself by getting hammered. Is this what’s become of us? Is this what you promised Allison?

  “Shut up,” Tom muttered, thankful the driver couldn’t hear him behind the three inches of bulletproof glass separating them. “I can’t hear you anymore.”

  He wished that were the case, but he did hear the voices, and knew they spoke the truth. The good folks of America, some being the citizens of Pennsylvania who’d elected him representative five times, were dying. The virus he had found it so easy to lie about had spread li
ke a vicious rumor through not only the Americas, but countries around the globe. Those in the know called it Wrathchild, spoken in whispers throughout the medical and political communities. They said it originated somewhere in Central America, reducing its victims to murderous hordes of drooling, rage-filled human echoes. No one knew how to stop it and no one understood how it spread. The doctors and scientists dispersed to the affected areas were never heard from again.

  They were running out of time. By even the most conservative estimates, every corner of the globe would be infected in less than a month.

  “That’s what you don’t get,” Tom whispered to his conscience. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

  The limo dropped him off at home. Normally during times of crisis he would be accompanied by at least one Secret Service agent, but Washington lay in shambles while the President, everyone’s top priority, fled with the rest of those liberal fucks in his cabinet, along with a small militia, to the bunker hidden beneath Camp David. That left the rest of them understaffed and alone. This didn’t trouble Tom Steinberg, however. He thought it was better this way.

  He glanced at the dark sky when he stepped out of the limo and waved the driver away. The cold was sharp, yet bearable. Crickets chirped from behind the thin line of trees surrounding his house. Bats swooped about, tweeting their sonic catcalls across the darkness. He rubbed his temple, aware of the dizziness that said the whiskey had done its work. There were worse places to be than where he found himself now—alone, in the relative quiet, with a good buzz coming on, and no one to answer to. He didn’t feel so bad at all.

  A photograph of his family greeted him as he walked in the door. It hung in the foyer, the first thing he saw each time he entered. The portrait had been taken the previous year, during their December holiday. Tom stared at his likeness. He looked as plump as could be, with round, smooth cheeks that shimmered with the camera flash. Allison stood beside him, his wife of nine years. Her curly brown hair framed her English features—high cheeks, upturned nose, thin red lips—and made them more beautiful than ever. Her smile could reduce granite to magma.