Grim Reaper: End of Days

by Steve Alten

  * * *

  The elevator was powered by a generator off the grid. Two ESU escorts and Dr. Roy Mohan rode in silence to the seventeenth floor. Mohan understood tragedy all too well. A drunk driver had stolen his wife and infant son six months ago. Now the physician put in sixty-hour workweeks at the Centers for Disease Control, using his job to blunt the pain. In the last four hours, he had examined more than seventy civilians and thirty-one police officers. What he had seen had churned up all the bad memories.

  Scythe was a ruthless killer, designed to spread faster than any virus the microbiologist had ever worked on. Its effect was sinister. Almost supernatural. Within minutes of being infected, the new host was already infecting others. A kiss. A cough. A hug. A handshake. Sometimes simple proximity. As Scythe continued its lethal spread, the Secretariat Building had become an incubator of toxic bacilli.

  “Doc, you ready?”

  He nodded to the ESU officer. The three men exited the elevator. One of the officers tapped on the door of Suite 1701 with the butt end of his Taser. A plaque identified the tenants as the Democratic Republic of Congo.

  After a moment, the door cracked open, revealing a cocoa-skinned male in his early twenties. Wrapped in a blanket. A bloody hand towel held over his nose and mouth. His dark, jaundiced eyes were wide in fear. “Mai… poladó.”

  The security officer looks looked back at his partner. “Anybody speak African?”

  “It’s Lingala.” Dr. Mohan reached into his backpack and extracted a bottled water.

  The man grabbed it from him, draining it.

  “Do you speak any English?”

  “A little. Just what I learned at Tasok… the American school in Kinshasa. My name is Matthew Vincent Albert Hawkins. My parents work for the government. You will tell me what is killing us.”

  The first police officer answered “It’s just a bad flu. We need to examine everyone in the suite, then we’ll come back with medicine.”

  “You are a liar. This is not flu.” Hawkins opened the suite door wider.

  There were at least a dozen of them inside, mostly blacks, a few whites, including a Caucasian woman in her fifties. Their faces were covered by newspaper. Streaks of fresh blood were visible on the print.

  “Fourteen dead. Five more in the adjoining office, alive but infected. I am a premed student, so you will not lie to me again. What is killing us?”

  “Bubonic plague,” Dr. Mohan replied. “A strain that spreads very quickly.”

  “Why have you not issued antibiotics?”

  “Unfortunately, we haven’t found any that are effective.”

  Hawkins teared up, his nostrils sniffling, his brow knitted in anger. Lowering the blanket, he tore open his dress shirt — revealing the tattoo of a lion over his heart, encircled by the words Mwana ya Congo. Above the tattoo, situated along his neck, was a swollen black bubo the size of an apple. “We deserve better. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “My brother and sister… they are also thirsty.”

  Dr. Mohan handed him his backpack. “There’s water and some supplies. Go with God.”

  Hawkins nodded. Closed the door.

  VA Medical Center

  East Side, Manhattan

  2:44 P.M.

  Leigh Nelson hovered outside the portable plastic isolation tent. Directed her light into the half-open sunken eyes of the Russian woman. The pupils responded.

  Beneath the feverish hot water within the ebb and flow of nausea in the endless sea of pain, Mary Klipot followed the light to the surface of consciousness.

  “Dana, my name is Dr. Nelson. Can you understand English?”

  “My baby?”

  “Your child is safe. We had to perform an emergency C-section.”

  Baby Jesus is born! “I want to see my baby.”

  “Dana, listen to me. Your baby is fine, but you are very sick. We have to wait until you feel better. The antibiotics should take effect soon.”

  “Bring me my child.” The words rasped in her throat, gurgled in blood.

  “Dana, you’re contagious.”

  “The child’s protected. I inoculated him against Scythe.”

  “Scythe?”

  “Bubonic plague. A new strain. Harvested in my lab.”

  The color drained from Leigh’s face. “What lab?”

  Mary coughed up blood, then licked the residue away, staining her lips. “Fort Detrick.”

  “You did this?”

  “Known antibiotics won’t stop it. The antidote… is in my car. In the spare-wheel hub.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “It was towed this morning… near the UN. Bring me the antidote, and I’ll show you how to use it.”

  USAMRIID

  Fort Detrick — Frederick, Maryland

  2:53 P.M.

  The real-time satellite map of Manhattan featured on the 140-inch projection screen was a hybrid, listing streets and identifying buildings. Red dots represented the verifiable number of infected individuals in a given neighborhood, the tallies quantified along the border of the image.

  Most of the damage appeared in the Lower East Side along a four-square-block area encompassing the United Nations Plaza, where the numbers of infected were approaching two hundred.

  Of greater concern to Colonel Zwawa’s team were the growing number of cases being reported in other areas of Manhattan, including Lenox Hill, the Upper East Side, and Central and East Harlem, where Scythe had leap-frogged west to Lincoln Square and Manhattanville. Each locale had begun as a single case, only to blossom into a patch of red Xs as the infected individual had unknowingly spread plague to unsuspecting family members, friends, and, finally, medical workers.

  Colonel Zwawa glanced at the wall clock. Seven minutes until Mayor Kushner’s next press conference and still no word from the president.

  As if reading his thoughts, a blank wall monitor activated, revealing President Eric Kogelo. Drained. His complexion a pasty gray. “My apologies. With the power out, we’ve had to deal with some technical challenges. Our conference monitors aren’t working… is the vice president on the line?”

  “Right here, Mr. President. I’m in the Situation Room with Secretary Clausner and the Joint Chiefs. I’ve asked Lieutenant General Folino from the National Guard and Admiral Ogren from the Coast Guard to join us. They’ve mobilized their forces to help secure Manhattan’s bridges, tunnels, and waterways.”

  “Whose decision was it to mobilize the Freedom Force?”

  The vice president offered an irritated frown. “You’d have to speak with Secretary Clausner about that, sir.”

  Harriet Clausner refused to cower. “It was my call, Mr. President. The director of Homeland Security called me personally while en route to New York and flatly stated that it would take him three hours to mobilize the Guard and have them in position to seal all of Manhattan’s exits and entry points. We were given minutes. I contacted the Freedom Force. They sent a squadron from Jersey City. I did what I felt was necessary.”

  “Understood. Who’s in charge of the foreign militia?”

  “That would be me, Mr. President.” A blue-eyed man appeared on-screen. Short-cropped blondish gray hair. His accent classic Sandhurst. “James O’Neill, British Armed Forces, Acting Commandant of the Freedom Force. Let me put your mind at ease, Mr. President. Dealing with civilian populations is our specialty. My units have served in Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Northern Ireland, as well as—”

  “I’m not questioning your qualifications, Mr. O’Neill, only my secretary of state’s decision to employ a private international militia in a domestic matter.”

  “With all due respect, sir, today’s events are exactly why your predecessor funded our unit. When it comes to domestic challenges, the Freedom Force can mobilize quicker and more efficiently than the National Guard.”

  “We appreciate your service, but this is a delicate matter, and your presence could make matters worse. General Folino?”

  “Here, sir.”
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  “How quickly can we replace the Freedom Force with US troops?”

  “We’ve mobilized the Third Infantry Division’s First Brigade Combat Team; they’re en route from their home post at Fort Stewart, Georgia. As for the Guard, we’d have to free up a division or two helping to reinforce levees along the Mississippi.”

  “Whatever it takes, General, I want the Freedom Force replaced. Colonel Zwawa, what’s the situation at the UN?”

  “Not good, sir. A.I.T. and CDC teams are being overwhelmed by the sheer number of the infected. We’re preparing to pull out and relocate to Governor’s Island.”

  “Wait… are you saying we’ve lost the United Nations?”

  “Mr. President, we lost Manhattan hours ago.”

  “Manhattan? Dear Lord…”

  “Sir, we expect to have a suitable facility set up on Governor’s Island by seven o’clock this evening. We’ll be bringing in choppers to evacuate your party as well as the surviving delegates. To reiterate, we have every Bio-4 lab facility in North America working on developing an effective antibiotic on this mutated version of the virus.”

  “Straight talk, Colonel. You’re moving us to Governor’s Island so you can keep us quarantined. Is that essentially it?”

  “Quarantined, yes, but also you’ll be more readily accessible so that we can quickly administer an effective antibiotic once we have it.”

  “But we’ve lost Manhattan?”

  “Yes, sir. While we haven’t received a single report of plague outside Manhattan, Scythe is spreading across the island, each infected area similar to a small brush fire capable of burning out of control.”

  “General Folino, can your troops maintain the quarantine?”

  “For the moment. It’s like herding cattle. A dozen cowboys on horses can do it, provided there’s no stampede. Once these neighborhoods reach a saturation point, the herd will panic, and suddenly you’ve unwittingly organized a mob of several hundred thousand people. Our forces simply cannot maintain containment against those odds.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Instruct the mayor to clear the streets. Order everyone indoors, then institute martial law. Civilians congregating in public places are Scythe’s kindling, every riot a threat to overwhelm our containment.”

  “Admiral Willick?”

  Steven Willick, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, appeared on-screen. “I agree. As it stands now, our biggest concern is the hundred thousand commuters stuck in gridlocked traffic along Manhattan’s bridges and tunnels. Panic that herd, and we’re looking at a mass vehicular exodus that will overwhelm our gauntlets. Should that happen, we collapse the bridges. Then there are the Hudson, Harlem, and East River escape routes. We’re patrolling shorelines along the Bronx and Queens, and we’re treating Roosevelt Island as part of Manhattan. Two more Coast Guard cutters are en route to guard the waterways, along with a cargo plane loaded with our latest combat aerial drones. Right now, we need the mayor to buy us enough time to get our units into position.”

  “How much time do you need?”

  “Two hours.”

  The president massaged his temples, closing his eyes to think. “Put me through to Mayor Kushner.”

  Sunshine Cinema

  Lower Manhattan

  2:47 P.M.

  Shelby Morrison fed from the trough of popcorn perched in her lap. Her friend Jamie texted in the dark movie theater. “Brent Tripp just asked me out.”

  “The buzz cut from Georgia?”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Shh!” A heavyset woman two rows back scowled at them.

  Shelby lowered her voice. “He’s like a Boy Scout or something.”

  “Eagle Scout. So what? The guy’s cool. He’s like, going to be a filmmaker.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Shh!”

  “Oh shush yourself!” Shelby grabbed another handful of popcorn — screaming as she tucked both feet onto her seat. “Jamie, something just ran across my foot!”

  “A dog?”

  “I think it was a rat.”

  “Oh my God.” Jamie Rumson pulled her feet up and looked down as a two-pound black rat scurried up her leg!

  “Ahhh! Ahh!” Using the tub of popcorn, the horror-stricken teen swatted the creature into the next row as an army of black rats scurried along the floor and over the seats, sending waves of screaming patrons hurrying into the aisle.

  “Run!” Shelby tried to walk across the seats, gave up, and stepped on a rodent’s back, twisting her ankle. The houselights turned on, revealing the heavyset woman struggling up the main aisle ahead of them, rats leaping upon the back of her fur coat.

  Jamie grabbed Shelby’s hand, and they pushed through the crowd toward the screen for a sliver of daylight coming from the open exit door. Bodies pressed in from all sides. Wedged between a wall of human overcoats, they shuffled along blindly, grabbing for balance, praying not to fall. A cold blast of December followed gray daylight and they were in an alleyway, hurrying past a trash bin overstuffed with plastic garbage bags and a homeless man. He was writhing on his side, inebriated and ranting. A dozen rats swarmed over his ragged clothes, tearing into his flesh.

  Screaming all the way through the alley, the teens followed the dispersing crowd across Houston Street, stopping traffic.

  “Oh my God, oh my God… I’m going to be sick.”

  “Shelby, my leg is bleeding. I think it bit me.”

  “Seriously? Oh my God, Jamie, you are bleeding.”

  “Oh my God, am I going to die?”

  “No, it’s okay. People get bitten by rats all the time. We better wash it off or something before you get rabies. Come on.”

  Chinatown

  2:51 P.M.

  Manhattan’s Chinatown was home to more than 160,000 people living and working in a maze of narrow streets crowded with vendors and greengrocers, fishmongers and jewelry shops and more than two hundred “authentic” Chinese restaurants. But there was more to Chinatown than dim sum and cheap perfume. An undercurrent of black-marketed goods flowed through this Asian ghetto, luring bargain hunters seeking illegal imitation designer sunglasses and handbags into storefront back rooms and alleys and basements.

  Gavi Kantor had detoured to Mott Street in search of a Christmas present for her new beau, Shawn-Ray. The “spotter” took inventory of the Caucasian teen from one corner. Radioed his “tout” as she approached.

  "Prada… Gucci… Coach. You want Prada? Gucci? I get you good deal.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for a watch. For my boyfriend.”

  “How much you got?”

  “Forty dollars.”

  “Hmm. Seiko. Timex. Wait! How ’bout Rolex?”

  “For forty bucks? Come on.”

  “Slightly used. Look brand-new. Work perfect. You like very much. Even have box. Come on, I show you.”

  With visions of an overwhelmed Shawn-Ray Dalinky floating in her head, the naïve thirteen-year-old chased her Pied Piper through a twisting alleyway and down a flight of steps leading into a redbrick building’s basement corridor and the darkness that awaited…

  Times Square

  Broadway & 45th Street

  Midtown Manhattan

  3:02 P.M.

  It was the heart of Manhattan: A brilliantly lit twelve-block Mecca of multiplexes and Broadway shows sandwiched between glass towers and computerized billboards. Now, a quarter of a million people paused amid gridlocked traffic to gaze up in silence at the multiple images of their mayor broadcast over half a dozen giant HD screens.

  “…in order to prevent the spread of the virus and allow health authorities to properly treat those infected, we are instituting a mandatory 5 P.M. curfew. Anyone remaining on the street after 5 P.M. will be subject to arrest. Those of you who are stranded on Manhattan’s bridges and interstates will be transported by buses to Madison Square Garden for the night. This mandatory curfew will remain in effect until the Department of Health issues their all clear sign.”


  A collective moan took the crowd.

  On the big screens, reporters shouted over one another to be heard. “Mr. Mayor, the United Nations is under quarantine. What about President Kogelo?”

  “President Kogelo, his staff, and the rest of the United Nations delegates are under lockdown orders until the danger has passed. The president is asking all of us to take similar precautions.”

  “How lethal is this virus?”

  “It’s extremely contagious. Nobody said it was lethal.”

  “Come on, Mayor Kushner! There are teams of health workers dressed in environmental suits bagging bodies in the UN Plaza. It’s all over YouTube! How can you stand here and tell us it’s not lethal?”

  In the crowded intersection, among a quarter of a million suddenly uneasy shoppers and tourists and businessmen, Santa Claus arrived on foot to spread a different kind of “holiday cheer.”

  Still in uniform, Heath Shelby staggered through the crowd. Feverish. His body ached. Strands of white hair from his wig stuck to the sweat beads lining his forehead and pasty complexion. Droplets of coughed-up blood stained the fake beard and mustache adhering to his face. Another wave of nausea built.

  “Mr. Mayor, how can you stand here and tell us it’s not lethal?”

  Lethal? The Salvation Army volunteer looks up at the big screen mounted on the side of the truncated triangular building known as One Times Square. The pregnant woman at the UN? She was sick.

  Heath Shelby’s heart pounded with the rapid rhythm of a man who had just received a death sentence. He needed to flee… to get to a hospital, but he was surrounded by a sea of people, his very presence among the throng threatening their existence, the crowd’s overwhelming numbers denying him the privacy to succumb to the hot bile rising from his gut.

  Pushing bodies out of his way, he staggered to a trash can and retched.

  “Mommy, look! Santa Claus is sick.”