“Hello…” she whispered into the phone, until she heard the voice on the other end. “MOYA, YOU FUCK!”
“I’m sorry you feel like that, Dr. Delaney, but I guess I would be the same if I was locked up with carriers of the Baltic flu and—”
“Baltic flu? You don’t know half of it—or perhaps you do and you’re still playing dumb. Either way, Moya, this outbreak has the sufferers in a state of complete mental breakdown, they’re seeking the blood of others, killing—”
The door to the office rattled when the handle was grabbed from outside and rapidly pulled. The walls shuddered as a heavy pounding followed; it would only be a matter of time before the infected discovered the window would be an easy way to gain entry.
“Quick, get in the back,” Tilford was he first to react. The infected were already here so no need to worry about being heard now. Tilford tried the door to the storeroom but it was locked.
“What the hell do we do now?” Childs’s shrieked. Her fear was as obvious in her voice as it was on her face.
Nurse Sanders, on the other hand, had gone quiet. She stared back at the vibrating office door hoping, praying for a miracle.
“Dr. Delaney, Dr. Delaney?” Moya squawked over the phone.
“What? What is it, Moya, we’re about to become blood donors here!” Grace held the phone away from her face.
“The door, the door you’re trying to access, it has a code, eleven dash two dash one, nine, five, nine.”
“What?”
“Try it, Delaney, try it!”
The office door started to split under the constant pressure and the hinges bent. Grace had no choices.
“Do something, please… do something!” Tears flowed down Childs’ puffy red cheeks as her panic increased. A tiny trickle of blood also seeped from one eye. In their panic to escape from the infected; no one noticed.
“Eleven dash two dash one, nine, five, nine! In the number pad,” Grace pointed below the door lock. “Now!”
Tilford immediately did as told, no questions. He punched the numbers in, turned the handle.
The door opened.
“Inside, quickly, get inside.” He waved his arm while keeping a watchful eye on the door of the office. The door was about to give way any moment.
Tilford locked the door behind as he did the other one but stopped to observe the locks or that is what
“What is it, is something wrong Isaac?” Grace asked.
“No, nothing’s wrong, not at all. This door is much stronger, with reinforced metal frame and locks. This might hold them at bay.” Might, being the magic word.
“Did it work? Delaney? Did the door open?” Moya’s voice cackled once again from the cell phone, Grace still held in her hand.
“Yes, yes it did,” she answered angrily. “How the hell did you know, how?”
She pressed the phone into her ear as the sound of the outer door crashing down reached them—the infected were in the next room.
“Moya? Moya? You shit!”
“Who’s Moya and what was that all about?” Tilford asked her.
The walls shuddered with heavy contact to the door. Their presence had been discovered.
10
Ten
Moya hadn’t become so de-sensitized by his crossover to the dark side that he didn’t feel any grief over the loss of life that was—confirmed—to be taking place at the hospital. He had spent all of his professional life in the field of immunology, infectious and contagious diseases, and death was not a total stranger to him; he’d witnessed its many guises and of course the consequences. As a young man, not long after his graduation from medical school, he’d volunteered to assist in treatment centers in West Africa. He was of the belief that hands-on experience was the best teacher. What he saw in Africa, particularly in Mali, Guinea and Burkina Faso, was how disease that was thought controlled, preventable or nonexistent in Europe flourished in poverty-stricken areas of the world. Moya understood the relationship between wealth and health firsthand; he didn’t need to read about it in a newspaper or see it on TV. He witnessed first-hand how the greedy treated the poor and had nothing but contempt for the suffering. The lack of clean water, food, sanitation and electricity, what the modern Western world took for granted. Add the continuous warfare on display in many parts of Africa and the cycle of death and destruction is never ending.
He was under no illusion about who was to blame. Throughout the latter decade of the twentieth century as he’d started his career with the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, he’d kept a keen eye on developments in Africa. He watched as Western governments—mainly the United States—acting in the interests of their paymasters reduced African and many parts of the Middle Eastern landscapes to rubble, either directly or indirectly through proxy agents. Most of the military actions or wars undertaken were in the guise of freedom. Freedom against communism or terrorism or against drug cartels. Moya knew otherwise, however. The real truth of the matter was these wars and military actions were used to take control of the wealth of other nations. Of their minerals, oil fields, privatized government services and even their drug fields. After the debacle that was Vietnam, the US had to find new markets to fleece. Still, he surmised, the Vietnam War no matter how tragic was much easier on most Americans, than the Vietnamese. The bombed cities, the defoliated and poisoned countryside and a casualty rate in the millions. Americans got their news from the safety and luxury of their couches or easy chairs. Tiny snippets of sugar coated stories about “one thing or another” just before or after the ball game or their favorite talk show host came on. These news “snippets” fell on deaf ears as viewers went for another beer or a snack from the fridge. It was a much different story in Vietnam where most people didn’t even have a TV. And as the Cold War tensions also changed, so did the political climate. With the fall of the Soviet Union and its satellite states, the need for constant readiness and the manufacturing weapons of war, at least at the high levels, became a luxury rather than a necessity.
Like many of his friends in the medical field, Moya watched with a renewed hope that peace and co—existence between peoples could become a reality. But he couldn’t help his cynicism. The writing, he believed, was on the wall as far as the dissolution of the Soviet empire was concerned. If the US didn’t have a direct hand in its demise (as was suggested by a top aide in the Carter administration), then it certainly had foreknowledge. Was this the big stick being wielded by Uncle Sam and the faceless men behind the office of power? If you don’t toe the line then we will change your government to one that will? Moya believed, and rightly so, that the powerful military/industrial/banking complex would need a new enemy. Peace was not good for business. By the late eighties that new enemy had been found. One that would guarantee perpetual war and keep the cash registers of the weapons manufacturers overflowing. More wars, more hatred and more deaths. This would lead to severe health issues and in turn a greater need for medicines and vaccines; the pharmaceutical companies—another partner within the pyramid of world power—would benefit greatly, as Moya would soon discover.
After years of disdainfully observing all of the subterfuge of the treachery and the lust for power, he had come to the realization that as much as he wanted to help change all of it, without money he couldn’t. He never considered himself a socialist but did believe in social justice, and as a senior member of the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, he was convinced he could solve the disease problems in poorer areas of the world; but he needed to get his plans heard by those who could help. The shakers and the makers. However, by the early twenty-first century his “leftist” political views were well known and he was no longer invited to speak at many conferences attended by the bigwigs. Increasingly avoided, he retreated into his own world. He would have been happy to stay that way, until the sudden outbreak of an influenza-like strain that would be dubbed the Baltic flu.
As the Centre for Disease Prevention and Control prepared a
n emergency team to respond to the situation, Moya was shocked to find himself ostracized; he was being punished for his views. He considered leaving the organization altogether and going back to Spain, where there were enough hospitals that would gladly take him, when he received a late night phone call from Noel Thorncroft himself. He knew of Thorncroft, anyone in the medical field in Europe if not the whole world did. Thorn Bio-Tech, the largest pharmaceutical company in Europe, was founded by Noel’s father and was now in control of the son. Moya, had also come across Thorncroft’s name in relation to other activities. As a major shareholder in several of Europe’s largest merchant banks and a private military weapon’s manufacturing company. He also funded certain groups in Africa and the Middle East that were, according to a US intelligence release, a destabilizing threat to the peace of the regions. What Moya found most repulsive of all, was the obese rich bastard used his wealth for secretive—and perverted—sexual encounters with young male prostitutes. The last piece of information wasn’t found by following up on rumor, hearsay or reports from independent sources on the Internet. No, Moya heard these stories—more than once—at several medical conventions he’d attended. He’d also heard of what became of those who knew of his carnal liaisons and were foolish enough to threaten Thorncroft with disclosure should he not proffer a small tribute.
“We have an opening for a physician of your standing. We’re in the development stages of a vaccine to tackle this terrible flu, would you be interested?” Moya recalled these exact words spoken by Thorncroft in that conversation. How did he know I might be seeking other employment?
When Thorncroft told him that he, Moya, would have a major say in how to best distribute the vaccine and involvement with other medical programs around the world, he didn’t hesitate, and agreed.
Now as he sat on his bed in the American city of Des Moines, Iowa, he realized he’d sold his soul to the devil that day. What followed was money, trips overseas (to sell Thorn pharmaceuticals or the vision) and more money. He received a large office of his own with staff where he could plan health programs for the poorer countries and actually saw the initial stages implemented but that was about all. Increasingly, however, he became nothing more than a salesman. He would travel to European and Middle East countries to extol the virtues of Thorn Bio-Tech and its products. With each new commitment, he received a bonus and with the bonuses came the cars, the travel, the good dining, the fine clothes and of course the women—young women. The idealistic doctor was no more. He had become a whore, of that there were no longer any doubts. The only difference, he reflected, was that he didn’t have to bend over and spread his cheeks. Now in his late forties he could no longer afford to care like he once had. After so many years of working side by side with death, he had come to terms with his own life. He wasn’t infallible. It was time to look after number one, a phrase he despised because it was so selfish and was the epitome of all he hated about the rich, the powerful and the corrupt, everything he had become.
“Fuck you, Thorncroft, fuck you!”
He threw the half-full bottle of water against the wall with disgust, but a moment later he allowed himself a slight chuckle.
“No. I’m too old for him!”
He would need to check with Calgleef or Thorncroft to see where he would be relocated to, but before then he would check out of this hotel; he was much too close to Riverside Hospital.
The former hospital staff and patients now turned into blood craving fiends didn’t give up easy. They pushed, pounded and kicked on the door to the security storeroom. Tilford was correct in his assessment that the door was of a stronger construction, he also thought there probably the only people on the second floor either—alive at any rate.
“Look, the safe’s open.” Sanders pointed to the corner of the room. The door was only open an inch or so, but it was enough for Sanders to notice, even in this light.
Tilford quickly rushed over to check the safe’s contents.
“What’s in there Isaac, is there a gun?” Childs asked optimistically against the rhythmic pounding from the outside office.
“Let me look.” Tilford searched the safe while Grace opened the drawers and the small cupboard that belonged to the small desk.
“Here, this might help.” She passed Tilford a small flashlight she’d discovered. The light in the storeroom was small and, with just emergency power in operation, not very strong.
“Great, thank you.”
Tilford’s hand clasped over the top of hers as he reached for the flashlight. Their eyes met and for the briefest instant, time all but ceased. They had exchanged a smile before their fleeting moment was interrupted by a chorus of heavy thumps on the door.
“Uh, thanks.” He said then turned to search the safe.
“Here look.” He pulled a metal lunch box from the safe. It was locked with a small brass padlock. “Find something to break this open, quick!”
Sanders looked on the shelves on the far side while Childs looked in the closet opposite the door. As far away as she could get from the pounding suited her just fine.
“How about these?” Grace found a set of keys in the drawer. “I bet one of these will do the job, Isaac.”
“Can we hurry up and find out?” Childs said.
“Keep your voice down, Jenny, for Christ’s sake!” Sanders said
“Why bother? They already know we in here so—”
“We don’t need to encourage them is what I mean, that’s all.”
“Okay… here we go!” Tilford sounded like a kid given the keys to a candy store when he took a .38 revolver from the tin box along with a box of ammunition.
“Great, we can defend ourselves now!” Childs beamed.
“You take it, I’ve never used one before.” He said handing the gun and the box of ammunition to Grace, who immediately swung the cylinder out to check to see if it was loaded. Satisfied it wasn’t, she tucked it into the top of her pants, under her white coat.
“Aren’t you going to load it?” Childs demanded. She was elated that a gun had been found but confused when Grace didn’t load it.
“In a moment, trust me, I will.” She smiled, hoping to ease Childs’s anxiety.
“Shh, listen…” Sanders called. “They’re moving on, or it sounds like it.”
Everyone stopped and listened. The pounding on the wall and doors had ceased, and they could hear the plodding footsteps of their pursuers move away from the door. Had they just given up, found something better or got bored? No one knew the answer but didn’t much care as long as they were gone.
“We’ll have to wait for a while to be sure. We’re safe in here for now. Jenny, check the fridge over there and see what’s in it.”
Jenny searched the fridge that was inside the security room as Tilford moved closer to Grace. “What are you going to do with that?”
“I’m going to use it if I have to, and it looks to me like I’ll have to!” She cocked a thumb toward the door behind her.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you think they’re gone for good?”
“From here maybe, but not from the hospital. Like us, they’re sealed in!”
“Hey, we got some water and a few sodas in here,” Childs announced.
“Great, I could do with a cold water. I’d lay off the sodas. Too much sugar. After the stress we’ve been through and the running, we don’t need any one having a bad reaction right now.” Grace, warned.
Childs passed water to everyone as they sat against the far wall. A few deep breaths and a time out is what they all needed. All drank their water and stared in shock at the white linoleum floor just passed their feet. The eyes said it all as each one contemplated how close they’d come to being caught, having their blood drained or becoming infected—or all of the above.
“How are we going to get out of here now?” Childs’s question re—focused their attention. “I mean we’re basically stuck in here, right?”
“No. We continue with our plan, to the roof rig
ht?” Grace looked over at Tilford for support.
“Yes, of course and there’s more room on the roof, we can probably keep the door locked but other than that,” Tilford fired back. “Our only avenue is the fire escape.”
“There’s a heliport on the roof.” Sanders added.
“And you have your own personal chopper up there waiting to spirit us away?” Grace tried to be humorous but it didn’t come out that way.
“No, I don’t. I was just saying!” Sanders’ retort was far from pleasant.
“Okay, okay let’s not lose ourselves. We’ve still got some distance to travel yet and that’s our only priority for now.” Tilford stepped in as the voice of calm.
“Okay, you people know this place better than me, how do we access the roof from here?”
“There’s a set of stairs,” Tilford told Grace, “from the third floor straight to the roof.”
“We might not have any other choice but to take the fire escape into the waiting arms of the authorities below but at least we’ll be out of this hell hole.”
“Dr. Delaney’s right, we can’t just stay here until we die.” Childs sat on the office swivel chair—the only chair in the storeroom. It had no arms on the side, which made it possible for her to plop her ample rear-end into it and was far better than the floor.
“Damn straight, we’ll give it another five minutes before we go. Any objections?” Grace was pleased when she didn’t receive any.
“Tell me about this Moya you were speaking to, won’t you?” Tilford asked as Grace drank from her water.
“Sure.” She had no hesitations now about telling everyone what she knew or believed; not after what had taken place. She spoke loud enough for all of them to hear, but not so loud anyone beyond this room could. “He was one of the best doctors in Europe in the understanding of contagious disease and the treatment thereof. When this new strain of flu broke out and became a pandemic throughout Europe and the Middle East, we at the CDC were put on alert. I was selected to head up a team to begin vaccinations, the current ones we are conducting here. Well, he was the first person I contacted as I attempted to get as much information as possible on the situation taking place across Europe.”
Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2] Page 8
