“You got it, Sir.” The black shirts’ disdain for Calgleef was evident in his tone, but the CDC Director wasn’t going to pull him up over it—he’d just as likely get shot for it. He continued on outside the warehouse, stripped off the hazmat suit, dumped it in a small storeroom by the entrance, took his secure cell phone out and made a call.
“Yes, this is Director Calgleef, let me have the CDC officer in charge there.”
He waited while the officer came to the phone. “I want you to take a team inside the hospital and search for the remaining vials of the vaccine. When you’ve got them call me… oh, and as you should know, there has been no sign of any movement detected in several hours, but wear your suits with full oxygen and go armed—just to be safe, okay?”
Once Calgleef was sure his orders were understood and would be followed to the letter, he made one more call. He grabbed the satellite phone he kept in a leather pouch attached to his belt under his gray jacket. As he pushed the numbers, he allowed a small grin of satisfaction.
“It’s all in place. I think I might have it under control,” he told his NSA contact who had asked to be kept in the loop.
“The survivors taken from the rooftop will be given the vaccine, and based upon the rate of decline in those injected at the hospital, they should present little problem after twenty-four hours. Our friend Dr. Moya is due to join them shortly, and he will receive the same treatment. I’m organizing the vaccines to be picked up from the hospital by one of my security teams. They have no knowledge of the full extent of our involvement.” But does anyone? Calgleef paused to ask himself. “The body of the nurse shot earlier has been disposed of—in a furnace—and the TV station has been informed its crew has been taken in for routine observation. All in all, I think we can say, ‘panic averted,’ would you not agree?”
“You’ve done well, Dr. Calgleef, tied a lot of the loose ends yourself. You’ve surprised me. There’s a few more to be tied yet, but we’ll handle that. Do inform me when you take delivery of the remaining vials, okay?”
“But of course.”
As soon as he ended the conversation, Calgleef took a white unmarked refrigerated van, which he would drive to the hospital. No more second-or third-party involvement, he would take the vaccinations himself back to the warehouse and oversee the injections, then their destruction. He thought of calling Thorncroft but decided against it. Better to call when all was complete and the news to give would then be all good. It would put him in a better position with Thorncroft. In such a nefarious scheme as this, that couldn’t be a bad thing.
He let another smile creep over his face as he drove away. A few more steps and it would all be in place, and with just enough people infected to keep the pathogen spreading and keep the panic levels high. And, most importantly of all, the demand for the vaccine would become a top priority for millions of people throughout the United States.
He became so comfortable with developments he began to whistle as he drove. The situation with the hospital was coming to an end, and all those who had fled were incommunicado or dead or soon would be. The event itself would be news for a day or so until another overpaid and underperforming ‘sports star’ got injured or busted for drug use and that would be the end of the story. He had left nothing in place that could possibly go wrong—he was sure of that.
“So how are we doing this?” a CDC security agent asked the OIC.
“We’re just walking in the front door, or did you want to kick it down or even use breaches?” The CDC officer in charge of the retrieval team sent for the vaccines shook his head inside the suit at his subordinate. It was mid-evening in Des Moines, and though floodlights lit the area of the hospital, he was sure his disgust hadn’t been noticed. “There have been no reports of any movement in there for some time. We’re keeping our suits on and going in armed as a precaution, okay? We head straight to the outpatients area, find the vaccines, grab ‘em and leave. That simple. You got it?” The officer laid down the law to his team.
“Yes, sir, fine by me.”
“Good. Let’s get it over and done with!” The officer wasn’t keen on walking into a hospital where no life signs had been detected for more than an hour. A CDC field officer for many years, he knew it wasn’t Legionnaires’ disease. That doesn’t kill hundreds in less than twenty-four hours—no way. He hadn’t been told the full picture, but with government departments like the CDC you never are. They’re so busy with their plots and counter plots, top secret this and top secret that, as well as compartmentalized clearances, he doubted there would be one man in the whole department who knew everything that went on. With the current outbreak of Ebola in Africa still going today, and with four cases diagnosed in the US and two contracted within the US in 2014 and 2015, the officer in charge suspected this is what they were up against. It was being kept quiet to prevent a panic. He wasn’t comfortable, but he would get the job done and get out, then he might go see his brother in California; he had some time owed.
The OIC and the four other CDC agents checked each other’s equipment, strapped on holsters around their waists and moved off toward the front entrance of the hospital. The hazmat suits had internal mics and earpieces for private communication, also monitored by the NSA.
The floodlights on the front of the hospital made for an eerie sight, bright in the center, dark around the edges and silent. A cemetery at midnight type silence. The National Guard had been relieved, their presence no longer deemed necessary, and it would mean fewer witnesses and fewer mouths to talk. Just four police vehicles remained and were situated at the main driveway entrance of the hospital—all the nosey ones had been removed. Soon the CDC cleanup crews would arrive to remove the bodies and dispose of them in the NSA provided—and secret—furnace.
“Okay, through the lobby, then right at the first corridor, that will take us to outpatients,” the OIC informed his team as they entered the sealed-off plastic tent erected in front of the main double doors. “Let’s do this as quickly as these suits will allow.”
The generator power had declined as the day wore on, and now the corridors’ of the hospital was bathed in a ghostly yellowish light.
The first three members of the team turned right without looking behind, while the fourth—just behind the OIC in the middle—paused to look back; he was charged with protecting their six.
“Holy shit… guys! Take a look at this, will ya?”
The others turned back and saw their rear guard heading toward the counter that was the nurses’ station.
“What is it?” the OIC asked through the comms.
“There’s a body on the floor over here—”
“We’re not to concern ourselves with these matters. We’re here to pick up a package and that’s it. That is our one and only order, mister!”
“This person has been attacked… mutilated, looks like bite marks all over.”
“Bite marks?” The interest of the three other agents had been aroused.
“We don’t have time for this. Get to the outpatients area, now!” The OIC raised his voice.
His order was ignored as the four CDC men gathered around the body of hospital CEO Gerard, who was a pale chalk-blue. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, frozen in eternal shock.
“Hey, hey, we got a live one here!” One of the team-members standing over Gerard, stood and pointed to the more confined hallway behind the counter. The OIC’s interest had now been sparked—there weren’t supposed to be anyone left alive. From a side room, a slim woman in her mid-twenties and just over medium height appeared—as silent as the night itself. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face and into a braid at the back. All she had on was a pair of women’s briefs. Blood stained briefs.
“Jesus, man, get a load of this!” one called. The distance and yellowish emergency lighting inside didn’t show the bloodstains over her body or her blood-filled eyes all that well, but it did show her tits and that’s what held their interest—they were still men after all.
As she got closer all members the security team stared excitedly at her small, firm, enticing tits.
They soon forgot their duty.
The closest four agents moved toward the naked woman. Though experienced CDC agents, the organ with which they collectively thought with was not found between their ears.
“Get back, get back!” the OIC bellowed. He had been informed by his superiors there was no movement inside whatsoever, that all had perished. And now they had a twenty-year-old woman who strutted her stuff like a lap dancer at a men’s club.
His orders were ignored, as they went straight to her.
“Are you okay, miss—”
When they got within ten feet of her, she lifted her head and the light took hold. Tears of blood ran down both her cheeks. Smeared blood also evident, the agents soon lost their interest and their hard—on’s. She raised her hands up like claws, and snarled—an angry demon poised to strike. In the same instance the double doors of the hallway to the left of the CDC team burst open. Like a crowd of frantic shoppers on Black Friday, a blood—eyed mob of what once were patient’s, doctor’s, nurse’s, and other staff surged forward. Their arms outstretched, searching, seething forward. Unlike the bargain-hunters, they weren’t after a good buy or an interest free purchase; only blood.
“JEEE’ZUZ…” an agent managed. The naked twenty-year-old pounced as he turned to face the enraged mob. His previous thought centered on physical contact with her—but not in this manner. The CDC officer in charge, a few feet back from where this attack was taking place, pulled his weapon out. The modified 9mm pistol—the trigger guard had been removed so the weapon could be fired while wearing the cumbersome gloves—wouldn’t be enough. The OIC watched helplessly as the rubber-like material of the hazmat suits was torn apart in the feeding frenzy, then the underclothes stripped as gnashing teeth searched for flesh and blood beneath. The OIC panicked and fired rapidly into the pack of bodies. All four of his officers were down, and more than a dozen of the blood-eyed ghouls were upon them tearing, biting, growling like junkyard dogs protecting a tossed bone.
“Officers down, officers down!” he screamed into the mic, hoping for a quick reaction. He’d forgotten the Guard had left and what cops remained were more than a hundred yards away.
Some of his shots hit targets, the attackers and his own men; he couldn’t hold the pistol steady. He just kept pulling the trigger until the magazine ran dry.
Click, click, click. He continued to pull the trigger on the double-action pistol. Realizing his pistol was empty, he panicked and threw it at the mob and ran for the front entrance. He couldn’t save anyone; he could only try and save himself.
The few members of the Des Moines Police Department in the nearby parking lot rushed through the front doors at the same time. They’d heard the gunfire—not the panicked call for help—drew their revolvers and did what cops do: investigated. They hadn’t been informed of the details, and, as no one thought they’d ever need to go inside the hospital itself, they hadn’t been issued any protective uniforms.
“Get out, get out, there’s a plague on the loose, there’s a—” the CDC officer in charge of the recovery team tried to warn as the cops forced open the doors, shattering the glass of one side. But he was brought down in a side tackle that would have been the envy of any linebacker in the NFL. The police opened fire at the confusion ahead—they had no idea, they only saw the CDC officials being attacked and responded as they were trained. Shoot first. More gunfire brought more blood-seeking ghouls to the entrance, the front door was now smashed and left wide open, the plastic seals torn down by the cops in the desperation to get to where the action was.
The Baltic flu was known to be airborne, and with blood spattering everywhere from gunshots and a rush of wind from the open doorway, the pathogen was now on its way to an unsuspecting and ill—prepared American public.
16
Sixteen
Calgleef took a roundabout way from the warehouse to the hospital. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch as he drove and figured the sedatives would have been admitted to Delaney and her group of interfering miscreants. His mind was on the day’s events and how, on the surface, it looked so bad. Beyond redemption. But he was directly involved, on the front line, and it always looked worse from that position. It was, he reasoned, why wars were able to continue and more than 70 percent of the taxpayers’ dollars were spent to keep them active. For those involved in the battles, it wasn’t fun, but for the general population it was nothing more than a televised spectacle like a big sports event. It was even scored as such by some news outlets so that, “Bubba” could flop on his couch in his Walmart finery, swill beer, eat ‘burgers and bags of potato chips, and root for the “home team.” As long as any discussion of why the US was involved in yet another armed intervention in yet another foreign country that no one could pronounce was ignored, it would go on and on. That the country would suffer, and was indeed suffering, was of no consequence to the public as long as the home team was winning—or appeared to be.
A few cautiously worded statements to the media about the tragedy at the hospital and it would be forgotten about in a few weeks, maybe even a few days. He had the backing of the NSA, he was sure of that and he knew they could control things. He didn’t know how and wasn’t brave enough to ask. Warmer weather would be upon most of the country soon, and that meant more outside activities and less interest in current affairs. When his satellite phone chirped its faint buzz, Calgleef became alarmed. He only used this particular phone to make secure calls to his NSA contact—no one had called him on this phone—ever.
He pulled over to the side of the road before he answered. “Calgleef…”
“Turn around, Calgleef… get to the airport—use the side entrance, a car will be waiting to flag you down—your plane is ready.”
“But I—” he answered the unfamiliar voice.
“Just do it, Calgleef! Do not go to the hospital. An incident out of our control is underway. You need to get back to Atlanta immediately!” the stranger ended the call.
Calgleef presumed the call came from the NSA. They had been the only party contacted via this phone who knew of his plans to visit the hospital.
“What kind of incident could be going on at the hospital?” he asked out loud. Other than the one already in motion, he couldn’t think of any possible answers as he took the turn off that would lead him to the airport. He was curious enough to want to see for himself but not stupid enough to ignore the warning he’d just received.
Dr. Moya lay on the floor of the van. It was uncomfortable but he didn’t struggle. He assumed this to be his last ride and accepted his fate. He felt every bump and every corner, particularly now as the van had moved onto a rough gravel road. It struck him as strange that in your last moments of like you take notice of things like this. He heard the engine of the van as it geared down, took a slow turn, traveled over some rougher ground, before it came to a stop. Moya heard one of the CDC officers talking earlier—he assumed it was into a phone, because there was no reply—and while he wasn’t able to hear what was discussed he knew it was about where to take him. Or more specifically, his body.
When the van stopped in the middle of a road, Moya heard another vehicle pull up alongside. Two doors from the vehicle opened and he clearly heard two men walk toward the van. The doors to van then opened, Moya felt the van rock from side to side as it shifted with the change of occupants. That’s what he figured was happening; there was no other reason for the stop. The vehicle that pulled alongside then drove off before the van did likewise.
The road deteriorated further as they continued. Moya put two and two together and realized the stop was for the arrival of his executioners.
When you get in bed with the devil… The analogy of Thorncroft as the devil wasn’t as disturbing as the picture in his mind of getting in bed with the fat pervert had him feeling nauseous. He might throw up inside the dark hood over his head and choke on his own vom
it.
When the van finally came to its final stop, Moya heard the front doors open, the shuffling of feet on the gravel, then the side door opened with a jolt. No words were said by his captors’ or himself. There was no point in pleading with these men. If they’d taken him this far out, their decision had already been made. Moya was pulled by the shoulders from the van, forcibly marched a short way from it. A light kick to the back of his knee brought him to the ground. He gritted his teeth and squinted when he heard the metallic sound of pistols being cocked behind his head.
It was the last sound he heard.
Grace Delaney had no idea of the time nor if it was light or dark outside but believed an hour had passed since Calgleef visited. The abandoned warehouse where they were held was as quiet as a library. Occasionally the sound of a door being opened and closed or the heavy footsteps of leather boots patrolling down the hallway outside would filter through into her room, but other than that, there was little indication of activity.
“Hello? Is anybody out there?” she called after some time. She wanted to “go” but there hadn’t been as much as a bucket left in the room for such purposes. “Hey is any—”
The suddenness of the lock being pulled back startled her.
“Step into the hallway,” a black shirt ordered.
“But I need—”
“Step into the hallway—now!” Menace accompanied the guard’s voice lined.
Grace did as instructed and stepped into the cramped space of the hallway, which was white like the rest of the prefab trailer. The other’s she came in with were already lined up.
“Keep silent and move to your right, toward the man at the door. Follow his instructions.”
Grace understood; they were being transported. The black shirt at the door raised his hand, indicating for her to halt. He then placed handcuffs on her wrist and ankles. She was ordered to move outside to the warehouse while the guard did the same to Tilford, who was next in line. Grace had to jump from the trailer to the concrete floor of the warehouse and hobble to a point indicated by another black shirt. All five were cuffed at the hands and ankles, but the first of three crucial mistakes was made by the secret NSA guards: cuffing the hands of the prisoners in front of them, was the first. Outside of the trailers’, a set of portable spotlights lit up the area and showed a dark-colored passenger van parked just in front. The sliding door on the side was open. Grace noticed there were no windows on this van.
Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2] Page 14
