I was out of the car before it stopped, shouting to him, “How’s Lilly?”
“Basically okay, Susan. Maybe a touch nervous, but—” I was already rushing past as I heard him recognize Chris behind me. “Dr. Smith, a great pleasure. Alex Farquar.”
The old building looked dark and abandoned from the outside because all the light leaks had been carefully sealed inside. The barn-size door was open just enough for entering. Hurrying inside I glanced quickly around the funky place. The tin roof was vaulted with wood to about thirty-five feet. A few pigeons fluttered in the rafters. Light came from an assortment of jerry-rigged hanging lamps or bare bulbs.
Eight or nine trucks of varying sizes were all parked inside. Their sides or backs had been opened outward to access equipment and supplies within. I understood: someone had wisely realized we needed mobility for emergency relocation. Then I met that someone. She was hurrying to meet me: a thirtyish, sturdy, muscular woman wearing a tight Atlanta PD T-shirt. She had the richest velvet black skin I’d ever seen, and the ten tight parallel cornrows running front to back on her head made a visual statement as strong as the no-nonsense military respect from her intense eyes. “Dr. Perry. Glad you made it back, ma’am. Dodsworth, Veronica. Ronnie, ma’am.”
I nodded, preoccupied. “I need to see—”
“Your sister. Yes, ma’am. This way.” I appreciated how quickly Ronnie walked. “We all love Lilly, ma’am. Katie told us to keep her supplied with fresh books, and she’s been going through ’em like lightning.”
Ronnie led me down the center of the warehouse, quickly explaining how she’d been horrified by growing Fascism in the PD, and joined our cause. Though focused on getting to Lilly, I took note en route of how things had progressed. The couple dozen people we passed were a cross section of race, gender, age, and class. Many were new faces who merely nodded, but those I knew waved, gave a thumbs-up, or pressed my hand. Rachel, the microbiologist from Tel Aviv who’d put me on to Chris, gave me a quick hug, saying, “You actually found him. Amazing.”
Ronnie understood my anxiety and led me hurriedly on past two trucks holding foodstuffs. The makeshift kitchen nearby was a compendium of appliance odds and ends. I noted that a Braun espresso maker must have been treasured since it was carefully enshrined to one side.
There was a paramedic van. Another van was clearly our communications center where Chunhua had her hands full, wiring something, but waved eagerly to me.
Along one side of the warehouse’s interior were ratty office cubicles that had been pressed into service as living quarters for those who had to remain here in hiding. Through the doors that were open, I could see the rooms had been personalized with some pictures or items to help those people keep in touch with their lives.
The last section contained a few vans with advanced electronic and biomedical equipment that had transformed our fledgling lab into a more extensive one.
At the very end was a slightly raised platform about twenty feet square that was part chemistry research lab, part living area with a couple of cots. Two shipping crates doubled as tables and storage space for the few articles of my clothes that Katie had quickly grabbed and brought.
In the center of the space was a large battered worktable with microscopes and other instruments. There were three mismatched chairs. In one corner, slightly to the side as usual, was a smaller table with a little Tiffany lamp, missing several of its stained glass pieces, but supplying illumination. There were also books and pencils, meticulously arranged.
And sitting beside it was Lilly. The bruise on her forehead brought tears to my eyes.
She didn’t see me. She was busy speed-reading a volume of Carl Sandburg. I came up beside her and the stack of books on the floor: some scientific journals, but also an eclectic mix including history, ethics, philosophy, and autobiographies.
I knelt down beside her. Lilly’s eyes flitted for only an instant in my direction. But I was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax slightly. I put my arm around her and leaned my head against hers, determined to hold back more tears that were threatening. I whispered, “How’s my exceptional sister?”
“. . . O-okay.” She said flatly as she turned a page. Then her other hand found mine and grasped it tightly, like a child might. Its warmth and love radiated through my whole soul.
My voice became barely audible. “Good, honey. That’s good.” I felt a tear escape down my cheek as Lilly simply turned another page.
I saw that the title of the next poem was “Limited.”
Dr. R.W. Hutcherson. . .
Bradford Mitchell was amused by the pleasant coincidence that the posh office which had been arranged for him in Atlanta’s city hall building was on the corner of Washington and Mitchell Streets. When people joked that he’d had it named after him, he would smile, lower his hawklike eyes, and quietly say, “Not this one.” He was confident that numerous streets in the future would bear his name.
His expansive office enjoyed a view of the neoclassical, domed State Capitol to the east, so he had easy access to its inner workings. Mitchell was gazing out at it that morning as Dubrovski, the ex-Ranger black-ops guy with a face scarred by acne who was his chief lieutenant, opened the door to admit Reverend Abraham Brown and myself into the mahogany-paneled chamber. I noticed Dr. Brown’s eyes fixate on the lovely young intern arranging a coffee service—for one—on Mitchell’s side table. When the girl nodded courteously and moved to leave, Brown’s eyes casually followed her all the way out the door, which she closed. But he kept looking. It called to mind some dicey rumors I’d heard about the reverend doctor’s private preferences.
“Gentlemen,” Mitchell said, turning from the window and gesturing us to chairs before his massive Stalinesque desk that made everyone facing it feel small. We sat obediently as he leaned on the high back of his big leather chair, which always reminded me of a throne. “You know what a gadfly is?”
“Sure do, sir,” I said, stretching a leg out. “Seen plenty of ’em annoying my uncle’s cattle.”
“We’ve got a couple annoying us in Atlanta. And they’re slowing down some of our important efforts here, particularly when it comes to law and order.”
I nodded. “Abdulla.” He was surprised. I was pleased. Homework counts.
“Right, Hutcherson. Ronald Abdulla is trying to move up in the ACLU at our expense. Getting bothersome. Needs to be brought into the fold. Also that senior FBI guy, Clive what’s-his-name.”
“Clive McWilliams?” Dr. Brown volunteered. “He’s a member of my church.”
“Is he now?” Mitchell said as if he was unaware, though I knew better. “Well, Reverend, might you invite Agent McWilliams to one of our special meals?”
Dr. Brown nodded. “Be my pleasure, chief.”
I smiled. “And I’ll buy Abdulla a drink with a twist of CAV-B.”
Mitchell nodded and gestured our dismissal with his coffee cup.
Jimmy-Joe Hartman. . .
I wuz still all swolled up, but they kicked me outta the prison hospital block after three days ’cause it wuz jammed to the rafters already when there’d been a gang rumble, and a shitload more bleeders got brung in.
The main block wuz empty ’cause inmates wuz all out in the yard. I thought this big redneck guard wuz leadin’ me there, too, but he stopped by another door, shoved me through and locked it. I turned round and seen I was alone in a room wid lotsa books on shelves. I wuz lookin’ round, confused. Then I heard this gravelly voice from behind a bookshelf, “It’s called a library.”
I cocked right up. “I know what the fuck it’s called.”
That scrawny, older black inmate with them wire-frame glasses like Poppa’s come out holdin’ some books. “Hey, you little shithead”—he looked right up in my face—“don’t get surly with me or I’ll throw yo’ candy ass back to the meat grinders. Only reason I pulled you in here’s ’cause you kinda remind me o’my own kid.”
“Hell-lo: I ain’t black.”
“No
, but you dense. First minute you here you pick a fight with Julio the Magnificent?”
“Juli-who?”
The old guy grabbed my balls wid one hand and my collar wid t’other, pulled me down to his nose. “Julio the Mexican heavyweight champ, numbnuts. Now listen up: fuck up with me, you outta here, and it’ll be bend-over-and-grab-the-soap time. Got it, punk?”
I nodded, but still hung tough. He chuckled at me. Went to an old wheeled cart stacked with books, “I’m Phil. You gonna be cleanin’ up and shit. Restackin’ the books on the shelves. I’m sure you know all about the Dewey decimal system, huh?” He seen the blank look I was tryin’ to cover. “Riiiight. Get your candy ass over here, and I’ll ’splain it.”
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
Having Dr. Christopher Smith suddenly among our group of scientists gave us all a much-needed shot in the arm. Even though Chris mostly frowned under the invisible dark cloud always hovering over him, I could see he was energized by being among us. After two years of solitude, finding himself abruptly back in his element had kick-started Chris’s über-resourceful brain. And the challenge facing us also sparked him: how to stop and ideally reverse the effects of the CAV viruses. He took pains to listen carefully and get steeped in every avenue we’d researched and explored, every solution we’d proposed, and so far failed with. As always, Chris wanted maximum input and had convened a meeting of the minds.
I’d broken away from the group session to help position an older-generation electron microscope Chunhua’d just “liberated” from the deep storage annex of the CDC. She used the keys I borrowed from dear old custodian Joseph back when Hutch and I snuck in there a lifetime ago. Crash and athletic ex-cop Ronnie supplied the muscle power to get the unit here. All that remained was for Chunhua to get it working. “Merely that.” She grimaced, intimidated. But I knew if anyone could do it, Chunhua could.
Crash started arranging power for the big unit. All our electricity was bootlegged from a power pole a half mile away and was notoriously unreliable when it rained.
En route back to Chris’s symposium, Ronnie and I stopped by the kitchen area. I needed some tea and she needed some beef, grabbed a sandwich. Lilly sat in a nearby chair speeding through Plato’s Republic. Eric was grading essays on a ragged, sagging couch. He showed us a notice on the school letterhead. “The latest additions to the books that’ll be temporarily unavailable.”
I read the list, “The Catcher in the Rye, Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life, and”—my eyes went wide—“The Cat in the Hat!?”
“Mmmph. Shit yeah!” Ronnie chuckled through a mouthful of roast beef. “That scoundrel Dr. Seuss! Famous for bein’ a radical anarchist.”
“I’ll teach about ’em anyway,” Eric said. “Outside of school. Kids meet me.”
Ronnie wiped some mustard off her lower lip and cautioned, “Better watch your ass, Eric. I hear they’re offering rewards for informing on people like you. And us.”
One of my throwaway cell phones rang. It was Gwyneth, the chemist from Edinburgh who’d been working on a way to screen for CAV. She was distressed, shouting over crowd noise and sirens; her voice was rushed, nervous. “Susan? I’m down on Washington, outside city hall. There’s a big protest! I think there’s gonna be some real trouble! I—”
“What? Can you hear me? Gwyn?”
Ronnie had read my expression, stopped eating. “Tell me.”
“Have you got your bike?”
Ronnie drove her Indian Chief Vintage 111 like a demon Valkyrie weaving through traffic. I held on for dear life. Within fifteen minutes we were on the periphery of the protest. She locked the bike, gave me a do-rag and dark glasses so I wouldn’t be easily recognized, and we hurried through people who were running—either away from the city center or, like us, toward it. At one point I heard a low rumble and looked down an alley to the next street parallel where a large armored SWAT vehicle rolled to a stop with its big diesel engine idling.
Then ahead of us Ronnie and I saw an angry mob of college students and others at least five hundred strong marching down Washington past the dome of the State Capitol toward city hall. I couldn’t spot Gwyneth. People were waving handmade signs and loudly protesting police brutality, blacklisting, media censorship, and increasingly restrictive policies of the state government.
I heard Ronnie speaking low, “The revolution begins. About fuckin’ time.”
Just as she said it, we heard a grinding of gears and the roar of powerful engines. We saw three black SWAT vehicles converging on the crowd from different angles to challenge the marchers. An amplified voice echoed off the buildings on Washington Street, “This is an illegal assembly. Disperse immediately.”
The spirited crowd shouted defiance. Across the intersection, nervous pedestrians who were not part of the protesters began to hurry away. Among them I thought I saw someone I knew. Yes. It was our gentle CDC custodian, Joseph. I saw him looking back as he ran—then suddenly come to an abrupt stop. Something had caught his attention. I followed his line of sight and saw, a block away from him, a young woman wearing light blue nurse’s scrubs some distance ahead of the crowd. She calmly stepped directly in front of one of the advancing armored vehicles, which came to an abrupt stop.
I had a frightening thought and tried to get a better view between the bobbing heads of the people who were rushing past or crowding Ronnie and me. When I got a clear view, it was what I’d feared. “Oh my God, it’s Claire!”
Ronnie was startled. “You know her?”
“Yes. She’s Joseph Hartman’s daughter. He works at the CDC. And he’s over there.” We saw Joseph call out a warning to Claire, but his voice was lost amid the angry shouts of the protesters and the growl of the SWAT engines. He began shouldering his way toward her through the mass of humanity that was either protesting or trying to get safely away from the intensifying confrontation.
I saw him shout to her again, but there was no way his voice could carry over the din. He was like a salmon swimming against a surging current that he could barely keep his head above. He looked again, hoping to see that she wasn’t still standing there.
But she was. Claire stood, with a workaday carpetbag purse on her shoulder that she’d probably carried for years, wearing a thin, peach-colored cardigan over her blue scrubs. She was calm, unmoving, boldly facing off against the massive armored vehicle.
And then a lone ARPC glided in from behind the SWAT vehicle and hovered twenty feet above the back of it. The strange, futuristic craft gave pause to many in the crowd who had never seen one firsthand, never experienced its ominous hooded-cobra appearance. A hush began to spread across the crowd as more people began to realize something important was happening.
The ARPC’s humming turbines churned up gusts of wind that ruffled Claire’s light sweater and her dark hair. From a block away, Ronnie and I saw Claire look up with a Gandhi-like passivity at the menacing airborne craft. Everyone watching from their different vantage points saw that Claire was not challenging the power of the mechanical might and authority, but rather merely presenting her person and her humanity in silent opposition to its heavily metallic force.
Those of us who witnessed the scene would recall it afterward as a seminal moment in our lives. The hundreds of people in the street had grown entirely quiet, watching. All eyes were focused on the brave young nurse. Aside from the low, menacing rumble of the vehicles, there was complete silence, except for a lone, anguished male voice, still trying to make his way to his beloved daughter, shouting her name with increasing alarm, “Claire!”
ARPC GSP Unit 331 Cockpit Cam A/V - Date: 04/10/21 Time: 16:22:12
Transcript Analysis [Abridged]
Pilot: Copilot:
Dash Cam: Shows white female nurse standing in front of SWAT Unit 286.
Heads-Up Displays: Functioning. Targeting Grid: Active. Locked.
CKPT REC: Active.
Co-P: Little warning shot?
Pilot: Sure. What the hell.
Courtesy GSP,
FBI
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
Claire breathed slowly, maintaining her calm serenity in the face of the martial strength. For all of us who observed, it was a lesson in simplicity and an affirmation of the power one individual could channel.
Then, almost casually, the El-Stat gun on the patrol craft flashed. Claire took a fiery hit to her chest that blew her to the pavement. Joseph shrieked, “Claire!! Christ Jesus!!”
ARPC GSP Unit 331 Cockpit Cam A/V - Date: 04/10/21 Time: 16:22:26
Transcript Analysis [Abridged]
Dash Cam: Shows white female nurse on ground.
Heads-Up Displays: Functioning.
CKPT REC: Active
Co-P: . . . Ooops.
(Laughter)
Courtesy GSP, FBI
Dr. Susan Perry. . .
Joseph clawed his way through the stunned people toward Claire’s quivering body, but before he could get to her, the SWAT vehicle suddenly lurched into gear and rolled forward right over her toward the crowd, who reacted in disbelieving horror. Five hundred people exploded in righteous fury. There was wild pandemonium as they stormed the SWAT units, and suddenly we were in the midst of a full-fledged riot. I was already pushing through the crowd toward Claire, shouting back over my shoulder, “Ronnie?!”
“Go, Sue!” she bellowed. “I got your six!”
Across from us a SWAT truck with a water cannon wheeled onto the scene. Helmeted SWAT officers swung the cannon to mow down the enraged protesters with the stinging high-pressure blast. Tear gas canisters exploded amid other struggling people. Bitter, noxious fumes began to swirl in the air. Still the people in the street fought back with whatever meager weapons they could lay hands on. But they were fiercely outgunned.
Joseph reached his daughter before I did and knelt in the street beside her. Her sweater was smoking from the burning blast. On her chest the open wound—larger than Joseph’s hand—was blackened and thick with blood. He raised and cradled Claire’s scorched, broken body, weeping so uncontrollably that he could barely see through his tears as he rocked her. “No, no, no . . . Sweet Jesus, no . . .”
The Darwin Variant Page 33
