Omega Plague: Collapse

by P. R. Principe

  The first time he had ever fired a pistol, the instructor had told him the exact moment of the shot should surprise, so you don’t anticipate the recoil and pull the shot off the target.

  They were getting closer . . . one hundred meters . . . fifty meters . . .

  He tried to slow his breathing.

  . . . Thirty meters . . .

  He brought the pistol to bear, holding it with both hands, trained on the slightly farther of the approaching figures.

  . . . Twenty meters . . .

  If he made a mistake he would be dead, or worse than dead.

  He squeezed the trigger in a slow, even motion, and was amazed at the amount of blood and brains. The man died before he hit the ground. The second man froze, and Bruno fired twice; the man dropped, clutching his gut, and began to scream.

  Bruno snatched his backpack and ran towards the screaming man, who was writhing now on the ground. He fired one more shot, and suddenly everything was silent. There was no time to linger. Bruno grabbed a rifle and ran towards the square pier, rounding the squat buildings and reaching the far corner. Before taking the stairs down to the water, he peered over the side of the cement railing, onto the rocks below where he had left the motorboat.

  But the boat was no longer there.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  September 19

  Bruno leaned against the doorway, captivated by the scene on the flat screen above the bar. He wore a light-blue shirt with epaulettes and dark slacks with a brash scarlet stripe down the side of each leg. A white leather bandolier lay across his chest, and his gun belt was weighted with the usual law-enforcement gear: pistol, handcuffs, and baton. His uniform marked him as a member of the Carabinieri, an arm of Italian national law enforcement with both military and police duties. Many of its members had been deployed abroad for missions that straddled peacekeeping and the fighting of wars. There were fewer of them than local cops. They were better paid, and they unquestionably held more prestige than many of the other overlapping national law enforcement agencies. None of that, however, kept the telling of irreverent Carabinieri jokes from being a national pastime.

  A taller, lanky man wearing the same uniform appeared in the doorway. “Why the hell are you watching this crap?” said Cristian Di Cassio. Cristian swallowed off the end of his words, typical for someone born and raised in Rome. He was angular, with a hawk-like nose and a sparse beard running along his jawline.

  On the television, throngs of people followed a procession of priests and bishops into a cathedral. One of the priests, in red and white vestments, carried what looked like a thick mirror on a long, silver handle. Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear the object was not a mirror; rather it was a round container, a sandwich of glass, and between the glass was suspended a clear phial of what looked like black powder. After arriving at the altar of the cathedral, the priest turned toward the crowd and thrust the object into the air. The audience erupted into applause and the perspective on the screen shifted, focusing on the phial within. The substance did not seem to move, and a murmur went up from the crowd. The priest began to pray. Two grey-haired men sat at the bar, laughing together, paying no mind to what was going on over their heads.

  “It’s the festival of San Gennaro,” said Bruno.

  Cristian laughed. “Of course, your patron saint! You Neapolitans love your pagan rituals, don’t you? The ancient blood becomes liquid again!”

  Bruno looked up at the screen. “Doesn’t look like it turned to liquid this year. And I’m from Nusco, not Naples.”

  “Well, if it didn’t turn to liquid, then bad luck for Naples. Guess they’ll lose their next five games against Roma,” said Cristian. “Forgot you were from Nusco. Isn’t that a little piss-hole of a town outside the city? You bang sheep there, no?”

  Bruno had met Cristian his first day on duty on the island last year, after his assignment from their regional headquarters in Naples. Cristian was the type who had no problem telling you what he had for lunch and what it looked like coming out the other end. A few minutes after they’d first met, Bruno discovered far more than he wanted to about Cristian’s divorce (it was her fault), his seven-year-old daughter (now living with Cristian’s parents), and how many foreign tourists he’d bedded since being stationed on the island (a lot). Nevertheless, Cristian had a malicious charm. He’d only slightly toned down his self-aggrandizing profanity since he’d started dating Bruno’s older sister, Carla, a few weeks ago. But that didn’t deceive Bruno; he knew Cristian was still full of shit.

  “Come on, Bruno. If you watch too much of this stuff, you’ll go, from this,” Cristian held his finger up, “to this.” Cristian dropped his finger down, limp and lifeless.

  Bruno smiled and gestured with head. “All right, let’s go,” he said.

  Though he was happy to joke with Cristian, Bruno in fact took no solace from the feast days of the Church’s beloved saints. The death of his mother and little brother seven years ago had left him cold. In fact, in the months following their deaths, he had ceased to believe in God at all. He had even toyed with joining a group that had paid for slogans on the side of city buses in Milan that read: “Bad News is, God doesn’t Exist—Good News is, You Don’t Need Him.” It had caused quite a stir. But while he may have agreed with the sentiment, Bruno realized that associating with those mildly subversive types would invite heightened scrutiny from his superiors. Not to mention what he knew his mother would have thought. So, mostly, he kept his opinions on religion to himself. Following their mother’s and brother’s death, Carla had returned to Naples from her teaching position at San Raffaele Hospital in Milan, and had just a few months ago taken a position at the hospital on Capri. Carla and Bruno were already planning a surprise visit to their father at Christmas. Bruno turned and walked back into the square, and Cristian followed.

  The late-afternoon sun shone brightly, and they squinted their eyes on emerging from the bar into Capri’s main square. They had spent the better part of the morning reviewing intelligence on a gang in Naples running drugs and arms to Serbia, so they were happy to be outside now enjoying the sun. Their boss told them that after they signed off on the reports, they could patrol until the end of their shift. Taking full advantage of the opportunity, Bruno and Cristian wandered about, nominally on patrol, but in reality simply taking in the beauty of the scenes before them. It was the middle of September, but on Capri, the promise of many warm fall nights lingered well into November.

  From just off the main square the view was spectacular. The marina rested at the bottom of rocky slopes, dotted with rich, verdant vegetation and orange terracotta roofs on whitewashed houses. Figures below bustled along piers where boats were coming and going. Beyond the marina lay the semi-circular Bay of Naples, and beyond that, looming over the shore in grey haze and terrible splendor, stood the cone of Vesuvius. The volcano served as a reminder that Naples lay under a delayed death sentence. Someday it would erupt again, and hundreds of thousands would face evacuation or suffocation. Bruno had heard a scientist on the news mention an increase in tremors over the last few months, enough to raise some concerns among volcanologists. He had even read on a British website once that if an eruption from Vesuvius were large enough, it might devastate the climate around the world for decades, even centuries. It had happened before in prehistory, long before there had been people to bear witness. Now the same event might cause civilization to crumble. If there were ever a serious eruption, Bruno had heard that the government’s evacuation plans called for cities and towns all over Italy to take in refugees. But in an emergency like that, what were the chances anything would go as planned? Zero, he thought.

  Out in the bay, Bruno could see vessels steaming towards the city. He noted the massive bulk of an aircraft carrier with another vessel behind it. From this distance, they looked the size of children’s toys. Ships from the US Navy’s Sixth Fleet, headquartered in Naples, were probably coming back now from a deployment on the ope
n sea. No doubt the sailors would be happy to hit the streets of Naples, causing more work for his colleagues tonight. Bruno smiled to himself. The only crime they saw on Capri was the occasional inebriated tourist pissing in some alleyway. And anyway, on the island, the municipal police handled the drunks. There hadn’t been a serious crime in years. Even then it had been jewel theft, nothing violent. Bruno had plenty of time for musing while on patrol.

  The contrast between Naples and the island of Capri, the jewel in the bay, always amazed Bruno. Less than an hour’s ride by hydrofoil from Naples, Capri seemed worlds away from the city’s chaos, noise, and delinquency. He wondered if it was the same when the Romans had built their villas on Capri. Had Naples been hot and sullied then, as now?

  Cristian had wandered back into the main part of the square, packed with foreigners, and Bruno quickened his pace to catch up. This time of year, the island was still teeming with tourists from Europe and Asia. Lately, Bruno noticed more Chinese than Americans roaming in the piazza; the Great American Debt Crisis a few years back and subsequent Chinese bailout had taken their toll on America’s economy, and the United States was still digging itself out of the hole it had dug for itself. Bruno and Cristian picked their way through the crowd. Tables and chairs from the restaurants were set out in the square, and waiters buzzed back and forth. Though it was late afternoon, many patrons were still lingering over the remnants of lunch. Cristian nudged Bruno when he spotted a woman walking through the square.

  “She’s taken, I think,” said Bruno, as the woman gave a decidedly non-daughterly hug to a man who was old enough to be her father.

  “Who cares?” said Cristian. “I’m just looking. He’s just some rich old fart.” Cristian’s voice took on a longing tone. “She’s a dark angel, for sure; good to look at, but maybe dangerous to touch.” Then as if realizing the ridiculousness of his own serious tone, he chuckled.

  “You’re dating my sister, remember.”

  “Don’t worry! I said I’m just looking!” laughed Cristian. “Actually, I prefer older women doctors like your sister. And president of the hospital, too. A rich older woman—I really like those!”

  Bruno said nothing.

  “Oh, come on! I’m just joking, Bruno. You’re so uptight! You need another woman.”

  “How much longer will I be the only one who has to listen to your shit? When do you think Marco will arrive?” asked Bruno, changing the subject.

  “Il Maresciallo said he’d be here in about two weeks. Could be longer. You know how slow they can be at headquarters.” Bruno knew exactly who Cristian meant by “il Maresciallo.” There was only one Marshal with the Carabinieri on the island: Bernardo Veri, their boss.

  “Maybe we should dump all our shit cases on Marco when he gets here,” laughed Bruno.

  “I’m sure Veri would get a kick out of that,” said Cristian. “What about that shit case of yours, that weird pirate radio thing? Wasn’t the broadcaster some kind of conspiracy nut?”

  “Oh yeah, that guy was transmitting all sorts of tinfoil hat shit, then just stopped. I talked to a few amateur radio geeks, but they’re pretty tight-lipped. Not many of them on the island. If they know anything, they’re not telling. Fucking nutters, the lot of them.”

  “What a waste of time.”

  “Yeah, whoever it was hasn’t broadcast for months. I’ll probably just recommend closing the case,” said Bruno.

  “How did you end up with it?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Dunno. I guess when they referred this case to us, someone at the Provincial Command remembered I spent six months working as a communications tech.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you how to find out who’s broadcasting,” said Cristian. “Find the geekiest ham radio guy, the kind who couldn’t get laid in a bordello. That’ll be your man.”

  “What a brilliant strategy. Clever aren’t, you? Like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Nah, I’m more like that TV cop—what’s his name?” Cristian paused, then snapped his fingers. “Commissario Montalbano! Smart and sexy.”

  “You’re a bloody idiot,” said Bruno.

  Their meanderings had brought them full circle, and they were standing in the entrance to the bar again. The same two old men were lounging about, still paying no mind to the screen overhead. It was a few minutes after the hour, and the voice of a female news presenter caught Bruno’s ear. “In other news, the Minister of Health in Rome will honor a group of ten doctors, including three Italians, from the charitable group Médecins à l’aide des autres, who are returning from West Africa today after a twenty-one day quarantine. The honors are in recognition of their assistance in containing the latest outbreak of Ebola, as well as fighting mosquito-borne diseases. They will continue on to . . .” the news presenter’s downy voice faded into the background as a group of bustling Japanese tourists led by an Italian guide carrying a sign on a stick moved past them. Bruno found it curious that the Japanese still liked to have a live tour guide, unlike most of the English speakers, whose various devices constantly droned on wherever they went.

  Cristian looked up from his phone. “Hey! Carla just texted me. She’s got a friend who wants to meet you.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah! She’s a nurse—works at the hospital with Carla. I think Carla’s her supervisor, actually. And I bet she’s hot!” Cristian laughed. “Come on, you want to meet up tonight?”

  Bruno shrugged. “Why not?”

  Cristian clapped him around the shoulder. “Now that’s what I like to hear! Don’t worry, after tonight, you won’t even remember your ex—what’s her name? See, I can’t even remember!”

  “Good. You watching the game tomorrow?”

  “Napoli-Roma? Of course, we’re going to kick your asses!”

  “Did you hear what happened to your captain?”

  “Manelli? Is he injured?” Cristian’s face grew dark with concern.

  “While he was driving around Paris in his Porsche, a bunch of thieves busted his window and stole his girlfriend’s purse, right in front of him. You know how sensitive he is. That’ll wreck his game for sure.”

  “Good thing he wasn’t in Naples,” said Cristian with a smirk. “In Naples they’d steal the Porsche, but leave the purse.”

  Chapter 2

  October 2

  Bruno raised his right hand, steadying the earpiece and pushing it deeper. The orange sun lingered over the ocean on the western horizon. He was enjoying the still-warm air as it settled over the island. Bruno was at the marina, watching the crowd queuing up for the hydrofoils and ferries to Naples. He scanned the people in front of him, his face blank as he spoke to his sister.

  “Did you see the video?” said Bruno, just loud enough for Carla to hear.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” said Carla, her voice loud Bruno’s ear.

  “Is it fake? The sores on that guy looked pretty real.”

  “I’ve been talking about it with some doctors here,” said Carla. “We think somebody’s just trying to get famous off this new Ebola scare.”

  “Well, this virus—or whatever it is—has got someone in the Interior Ministry scared. We’ve been placed on alert. And why hasn’t anyone seen those doctors who were in Africa? Where are they?”

  Carla did not answer.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry, just got an e-mail.” Carla paused again. “The Minister of Health is convening a conference call with the presidents of all hospitals nationwide in one hour.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Bruno. “The news said there are people in London, Paris, and Rome that are showing signs of sickness.”

  “Oh, the call’s probably just routine information sharing, or something like that. For sure, this thing’s not Ebola. It’s probably just some weird flu strain. And you know how people are; they hear something like this, they get a runny nose, and think they’re going to die.” There was a pause again. “Listen, Bruno, I’ve got to go. I won’t be able to meet you and Cris
tian tonight. Tell Cristian I’ll try to see him tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

  Bruno started to talk, but realized he was talking to dead air. Carla was already gone.

  For a few minutes, Bruno scanned the crowd. Then Cristian returned from his patrol of the other side of the marina. Veri had sent the two Carabinieri to the marina to back up the municipal police.

  “How goes it?”

  “People are on edge,” said Cristian. “Guess Veri was right to be worried, but there aren’t any problems yet. You saw the video?”

  “Yeah, Carla thinks it’s fake,” said Bruno. “So do the other docs at the hospital. But take a look around. Some people are already wearing masks. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the people who had close contact with those damn doctors are in quarantine.”

  Scores of people stretched along the piers and back into the buildings along the water, more people than usual waiting for the ferries and hydrofoils. They were jostling and talking more loudly than normal. Some foreigners wore makeshift masks made of handkerchiefs and clutched at their suitcases. The natives yammered away on their phones, whether unconcerned or in disbelief about what might be happening, Bruno could not say.

  Two municipal police officers made their way towards Bruno and Cristian. Their arrival at the marina meant they had come to relieve the two Carabinieri. They conferred briefly. Bruno and Cristian let the new arrivals know that people were on edge, then they departed for their station.

  At Cristian’s suggestion, they decided not to take the funicular up the side of the slopes leading to the main square, choosing instead to walk through the winding stairs and narrow streets between houses. Though the daylight faded, they took their time.

  “How’s your family doing?” Bruno knew Cristian’s family lived near Rome.

  “For now, fine,” Cristian replied. “Just talked to them yesterday. Someone had the sniffles in my daughter’s class, and they closed the whole school.” He laughed. “My daughter loves it. She’s home with my parents all day.” Cristian’s face clouded. “Guess they don’t want to take any chances with kids. I hope there’s nothing to it . . .”