by G. M. Ford
She smiled. “Your room. You’re going to need to lie down.”
54
No dreams at all. No feeling. No moving. Just a sense of being suspended in warm water. And then the drums began. Deep and rhythmic. One two, one two, into infinity they thumped. He listened to the drumming for what seemed like days before he had an idea. He was asleep. He was dreaming. All he had to do was…
He couldn’t. Muster a muscle. Open an eye. Raise his hand. He couldn’t.
He began to rock, or at least to try. Rolling left and right, trying to move a little farther on each roll. The drums got louder. He rocked harder. Trying to use the momentum of his last effort to improve the next. Back and forth to the sound of the drumming. And then he teetered on the edge, experienced a moment of free fall and hit the floor face-first, driving the air from his lungs.
He gasped, fighting for breath, rolling over onto his back where he lay for what seemed an eternity, pulling air in and out of his chest in great whooshes.
With great effort, he levered himself into a sitting position. Unable to raise his eyelids, he used his fingers to peel the lids upward. The world swam in his vision. Tears ran down his cheeks. He removed his fingers. The lids stayed up.
Slowly, moving in stages, he gathered his strength and managed to raise himself to sit on the edge of the bed, where it all came back to him in a sudden rush. The stateroom. The woman. Lying on his back while she gave him the injection. The paralyzing heat of whatever was in the syringe as it coursed through his veins, and then the all-encompassing darkness settling over him like a velvet cape.
Must have been a dream. Some inner defense mechanism designed to provide some measure of relief from the looming specter of death. The body’s way of keeping the stress level in check. Wishful thinking at its finest. He lowered his watery eyes. A small brown Band-Aid decorated the inside of his left elbow. Took him three tries to peel it off. A single spot of blood on the gauze made a serious dent in the dream theory. He moved his eyes across the room. The manila envelope on the nightstand dismissed the notion altogether.
Using the walls and furniture for balance, Corso crossed the room and pulled open the outside door. The blast of cold air sent a series of shudders through his body. He leaned heavily against the doorjamb until the shaking subsided.
It was daytime. The weather was clear. The sky a muted blue. The air was full of the smell of seawater and diesel fumes. Using the rail for support, he made his way aft. Pair of martini glasses on the bar. One nearly full. One empty. So much for dreaming.
He kept moving. Got to the starboard rail. Seemed like the whole bay was full of boats and barges. An armada coming and going from the Arctic Flower. More action than the past week combined. On his way back to his room, he put the martini glasses in the sink.
Five minutes in the head, running cold water over his face and then brushing his teeth, and he was a new man. A little shaky but otherwise okay.
He snapped on the TV. Peter Jennings. Nice clip of the Arctic Flower floating around in Elliott Bay. PLAGUE SHIP. “The inevitable has come to pass. Despite a complete news blackout, ABC News has confirmed an earlier report. Hemorrhagic fever is now rampant aboard the Arctic Flower. Medical teams from as far away as the Midwest have responded to this emergency and are now engaged in the process of trying to help those on board in any way they can. What we know for certain—”
Corso changed the channel. Jim Sexton, settling in for his morning broadcast. Corso smiled. Sexton finally had his big break. Probably not exactly what he had in mind, floating around on a seagoing isolation ward, doing his impression of the electronic grim reaper, but what the hell. He was having his fifteen minutes of fame. Should he, by some twist of fate, survive the experience, it was safe to say he would be in great demand within the industry. Amazing how one’s moment comes around.
Jim Sexton was looking more disheveled than usual. Looking a little bit bleary. Probably been up all night. Lots of chaos on his deck maybe. He shuffled the papers in front of him on the desk and then finally looked up at the camera.
“Jim Sexton on board the Arctic Flower reporting for KING Five TV. Day nine and our worst fears have come to pass. Nearly everyone is sick.” No doubt about it. Sexton was either ailing or drunk or both. “Not feeling very well myself,” Jim slurred. “At least three people on my section of the ship have already melted down.” He went on to describe the army of medical personnel who were on board trying to isolate the victims and console the terrified. Having come to what appeared to be the end of his report, Jim Sexton squared his shoulders and leaned closer to the camera. “You know,” he said, “when you find yourself in a situation like this, where you’re probably not going to make it through, it gives you pause to wonder just how in the name of God you managed to end up where you are.” He waved a spastic hand at the camera. “I’m not talking about just bobbing around out here on this floating morgue. I’m talking about my whole goddamn life. About my dreams. About my fat-ass wife who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me as long as I keep paying the damn bills. Who’s gotta be the worst fuck in history. I mean like…” Corso sat straight up in the chair. Definitely both. Sick and drunk.
“A pair of daughters”—he waved the hand again—“don’t care whether I live or die as long as they can shop at The Gap and talk on the friggin’ phone.” He shook his head. When he looked back at the camera, it took him a while to focus. “And you know, I’m doing this because…I don’t know, I’m doing this because…I thought it might get me ahead. Maybe make those assholes I work for sit up and take notice of me. Just for once, maybe they’d finally notice me. Stop handing out jobs on the basis of a hair helmet or a big pair of tits…maybe look for a little depth…maybe…” The station pulled the plug on him. The screen went dark for a second, then came back with the Technical Difficulties screen. Segue to an antacid commercial. Corso couldn’t help but smile. “Way to go, Jimbo,” he said out loud.
55
First out were the dead. Or what was left of them. A hundred seventy-seven, if the news organizations could be believed. They came out on gurneys. Loose like jelly, inside thick black bags. Sealed metal boxes rolled with a solemn flourish over to hearses, where waiting families stood ready to take charge of their loved ones. Last bodies out were those of the four cops who had perished. A solid line of blue uniforms awaited their remains. Corso could make out Harry Dobson and the rest of the SPD brass at the far end of the gauntlet. The police band played “Amazing Grace” as the bodies were wheeled by.
Next came the sick. A baker’s dozen of them. Those who had contracted the disease but who, for one reason or another, had managed to survive. These they rolled unceremoniously over to waiting ambulances, where they were immediately secured and driven away in a symphony of sirens.
The landward side of Pier Eighteen was a madhouse. Maybe a hundred TV remotes from all over the world. As many people as could possibly squeeze into the area between the pier and the solid line of Metro buses parked nose to tail to prevent the crowd from spilling out onto Alaskan Way.
Then…the rest of them…mostly the crew…those who, by the grace of God, had been spared the plague. Corso brought up the rear. Or at least he thought so. As he stood outside the elevator watching a multitude of tearful reunions, he heard the muted ding of another elevator arriving. He turned, expecting to see one of the army of security personnel. But no. Instead, out stepped Jim Sexton, looking hale and hardy.
“Glad to see you made it,” Corso said.
“You too,” Jim said.
“I thought…you know, that last broadcast…I thought you were—”
“Turned out to be the flu.”
“Ah. What next?”
“No idea.” Jim looked out over the crowd. “Guess I’ll get a hotel room and take it from there.”
“Good luck,” Corso offered.
Jim Sexton nodded his thanks and stepped out onto the dock. Corso stood and watched as Jim made his way among the reunited, among th
e grieving, among the assembled multitude for whom this moment would forever be foremost in their memories. When he was no longer able to pick Jim Sexton from the throng, Corso followed suit, making his way through the crowd, toward the gate at the far end of the yard.
He was studying the gate, trying to figure out how he could get out without being deluged by the press, when he heard his name being called. He looked out over the crowd. Took him a minute, but there they were. Charly Hart, Harry Dobson and a woman he’d never seen before. They shook hands and clapped shoulders.
“My wife Kathleen,” the chief said.
Corso acknowledged her with a bow and a stiff handshake.
“Glad to see you made it,” the chief said, checking the immediate area. He turned to his wife. “I need to have a few words with Mr. Corso,” he said. She nodded and stepped away, with Charly Hart at her elbow.
The chief moved to Corso’s side. “Lotta static about the two guys in the freezer.”
“Somebody musta jostled the switch,” Corso said.
The chief smiled. “You been watching me on the tube.”
“Wasn’t a hell of a lot to do.”
The chief looked Corso in the eye, liked what he saw and then nodded. “Good,” he said. “We’ve got enough to do without that kind of shit.”
“What’s the final tally?”
The chief’s face darkened. “A hundred seventy-seven so far from the ship. At least that many on land.” He shook his head. “It’ll be another three weeks or so before it all shakes out. Counting the people in the tunnel, they’re estimating the final figure will be somewhere in the vicinity of six hundred dead.”
“Imagine if they’d pulled it off.”
“The fact that they didn’t is in no small measure attributable to you.”
“Aw, gosh and golly,” Corso hemmed.
“I mean it.”
“Me too.”
Before the chief could speak again, Corso asked, “Can you get me out of here? I need to get to the airport.”
“I’ll have a unit take you wherever you need to go.”
“I’ve got something I’ve got to do first,” Corso said.
“I’ll have the unit over by the gate.”
The two men shook hands. Corso turned and walked away. Over to the section of chain-link fence where the media were crowded together like sardines in a can. “How’d you do it, Mr. Corso? How’d you survive?”
“I made a deal with the devil.”
A laugh ran through the crowd. The questions went on for another ten minutes, until Corso held up a hand. “I’m really not a good source of what may or may not have happened. I was locked on a section of the ship by myself. If you want details, you’d be far better off asking somebody who was there.”
“Mr. Corso, the two terrorists in the freezer. Could you—”
He raised both arms and quieted the crowd. “I do have something I want to say.” Only the whirring of cameras could be heard. “There was a man. His name was Roderick Holmes.” A buzz ran through the throng. “Yes, same guy,” Corso said. “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, he had the opportunity to kill me and chose not to.” Corso cleared his throat. “In return…”—he paused—“in return, I promised, if I survived, I would tell you what he had to say.” Corso pulled a worn piece of paper from his pants pocket. He took a moment to scan it before he looked up at the sea of cameras again. “He wanted you to know that his name was Roderick Holmes and that he’d been a policeman in the Indian state of…I hope I’m pronouncing this right,…Madhya Pradesh. That all he ever wanted to do was to help his people. That he’d loved a girl since they were children. That they’d married and had two girls of their own.” Corso paused and ran his eyes over the crowd. “When the Bhopal tragedy happened, he volunteered to be transferred to the area. He wanted to help his people. The government insisted the danger was over. That decision cost him everything. His wife, his children, everything.” The crowd was still now, standing at rapt attention. “His wife died giving birth to something that looked like a lump of coal. His daughters died of breast cancer before they even had breasts.” Corso tried to make eye contact with all of them. “He wanted me to tell you that his only regret”—he paused and took a deep breath—“his only regret was that he wasn’t able to kill every single one of you.”
Corso folded the paper, put it back into his pocket and strode away amid a rush of shouted questions.
As promised, a police cruiser waited just inside the gate. Corso opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat next to the big African-American cop who sat behind the wheel.
“Where to?” the cop wanted to know.
“The airport,” Corso said.
56
“He’s expecting me.”
The pair of marine MPs manning the front desk looked Corso over like a duty roster. If their expressions were any indication, he had been found, in some way, seriously substandard. The one sitting down reached for the phone, then changed his mind. He nodded at the one standing at attention, who, without further prompting, did a clean left face and began to march down the hall.
“Have a seat,” said the marine. The phone rang. “Yes sir…no sir.”
Corso looked out through the glass doors, over the sidewalks toward the parking lot where he’d left the rented Chevy Malibu. He’d passed through three checkpoints, so they must have known he was coming, making him wonder what this final hoopla was all about.
Huge concrete planters, overflowing with fall flowers, were spread over the forty yards leading to the front doors. The sky was without clouds and azure blue. A perfect fall day on the East Coast. The smell of leaves floating in the air. Just a touch of winter on the tip of your nose when you walked.
“Sir.”
Corso looked up.
“If you’ll follow me, please.”
Corso grabbed the briefcase he’d bought at the airport and followed the marine down the long polished hall, to the next to the last office on the right. The marine moved to the side but made no move to open the door.
Corso nodded his thanks and stepped inside. Government issue top-of-the-line office complete with flag set in the corner. Pictures of the guy behind the desk posing with an impressive array of dignitaries, including the head man, just down the road in D.C.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Colonel Hines said.
“I’ve seen you on TV.”
“And I, you.” He gestured toward a chair on the far side of the room, under the window. Corso shook his head.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stand.”
The decision seemed to force Hines to reevaluate. He looked Corso over like a used car. “Well then, you mentioned David Reubens.”
“Yes,” Corso said.
“I’m not sure I’m familiar with the name. I—”
Corso cut him off. “If you weren’t familiar with the name I wouldn’t be standing here.” He set the edge of the briefcase on the desk, popped the latches and pulled out the manila envelope. When Hines made no move to take it from his hands, Corso dropped it on the desk. “I’m just the messenger boy, Colonel. All I volunteered to do was bring you that envelope.” He snapped the briefcase closed. “My job is done.”
Hines picked up the envelope, looked up at Corso. “Have you seen this?”
Corso said he had. “And I’m betting there’s a lot more of those where that came from.”
Hines slid the photo from the envelope. While the colonel’s face never moved as he gazed at the image, Corso watched his blood drain into his neck. Hines threw a glance at the shredder on the far side of the room, then looked up. “And what am I supposed to make of this?”
Corso thought it over. “I hear your father-in-law’s about to retire from the Joint Chiefs.” Hines made a “so what” motion with his hand. “I think the idea is you do what’s right here. That you don’t embarrass anyone any more than necessary.”
“And what would that be?”
“That’s e
ntirely up to you.”
Blood had returned to his cheeks. He got to his feet. “You don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to,” Corso said quickly.
“These people we’ve put in charge of our safety…they’re a…a…bunch of bureaucrats—joke…a bunch of idiots not prepared for anything.” Hines’s voice rose. “It’s a joke…they’re not ready for what’s coming. They just play at it so the public feels better. Nothing short of a disaster is ever going to shake them out of their stupidity. You know why?”
Corso didn’t answer. Hines didn’t care.
“Because we’re the most arrogant people on earth. Because it’s never happened here. Wars happen other places. Devastations happen somewhere else, but never here. Closest they ever get is television.” He waved a disgusted hand. “It’s just the way it is. Nobody wants to be inconvenienced.”
By that time, Corso was back in the hall. Backlit by the front doors, the floor was shiny as a mirror as he strode to the security desk. “Could you please open the briefcase, sir?” said the sitter. Corso complied. If the sight of the totally empty interior was unusual, he didn’t let on. “Thank you, sir,” was all he said.
Under different circumstances, the ride to the airport could have been pleasant. Fall foliage was in full swing. A thousand shades of red and brown and yellow covered the low hills, but Corso hardly noticed. He spent the drive wondering if the woman would be as accurate about the colonel’s character as she’d been about his. If he’d known the answer was to be so shortly forthcoming, he might have looked at the trees.
An hour later, he was sitting in a cracked plastic chair waiting for his flight. CNN ran on the overhead tube. Closed captioned. “Reports from Fort Detrick tell CNN that Colonel David Hines, former director of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, has apparently committed suicide by gunshot. Sources say…”
