The First Bird: Omnibus Edition

by Greig Beck

  “What?” Maria broke her silence and turned with a scowl.

  “Nothing, my sweet.” He shifted in his seat and sniffed. He needed a shower; he stunk.

  *****

  Hew had been speaking for around fifteen minutes, and had only just covered the suspected origination point of the parasite, its primary symptoms and multiple transmission mechanisms. He knew he was going to go over his allotted time, so he spoke faster as he clicked his pointer at the screen, preparing to outline his recommended treatments.

  Mason held up his hand like a traffic cop.

  “Number of deaths to date, Dr. Hewson?”

  “Ahh, forty-eight … known deaths.”

  Mason nodded. “Number currently afflicted?”

  “Known and projected, there are …”

  “Just known afflicted for now, Doctor.”

  Hew was going to object, but saw the bored expressions around the table and experienced a sudden sinking feeling in his gut. His presentation wasn’t working.

  “Two hundred and twenty – more than half of those now in an induced coma.”

  “Fatality rate? Please, Dr. Hewson, don’t make me pull this information out of you.” Mason sounded impatient.

  Hew clicked ahead a few panels in his presentation, but Mason kept his eyes on him. “Well, fatality rate is around twenty percent, but that’s so far. And if you class recovery as being in an induced coma, or living on anti-rejection drugs following full-body skin grafting, then I’d hardly call it a stunning recovery rate.” He bit his lip; he was starting to sound shrill.

  From beside Mason, an Asian woman lifted some notes from the desk, and looked up at him. “Dr. Hewson, you call for an immediate raising of the Infectious Disease Alert Level to …” She looked down at the notes again, and scoffed slightly. “Five. Do you know what that means?”

  He licked his lips. He knew it was one of the highest possible levels of alert, and that every medical facility in the United States would be moved from vigilance to action. He didn’t know all the details, but he thought it was appropriate. “I have a basic idea.”

  “Really? Not to trouble you with details, Doctor, but it means we would need to shut down international travel and have medical facilities set up for a prospective one million suffers of a life-threatening or life-ending illness. It also means that we would need to inform the World Health Organization, who would be expected to raise a simultaneous global alert – one level short of what is instigated for a global pandemic.” She dropped his notes back onto the table. “And all that for forty-eight deaths?”

  “Look, this … infestation is almost invisible. It has the potential to …”

  She raised her voice. “Last influenza season we lost over 40,000 people.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “We had over 30,000 new cases of AIDS, we had 20,000 people die from secondary bacterial infections caught in our hospitals, and do you know how many people died from something as simple as diarrhea last year?” She didn’t wait for an answer – her point was clear. You’re wasting our time. “I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and we will definitely …”

  Hew threw the electronic pointer on the table. “No, you don’t appreciate my concern. This infestation is the archetypical bamboo syndrome – it’ll be invisible for a time, then it’ll explode up all around us, and overwhelm us.”

  Mason’s eyebrows shot up. Hew knew he understood what he was implying. A bamboo syndrome was named after the way the plant grew under the ground for many years, secretly spreading its runners for hundreds of feet before, seemingly at some sort of prearranged signal, bursting up through the soil in dozens, sometimes hundreds, of places. One minute you had a few feet of growth, the next, you had a jungle.

  Mason held up his hand again. “We never said we planned do nothing. We’ll pass your information along to HAN.”

  “HAN.” Hew said the word softly as he turned back to the screen. From the swiftness of the decision, it had to have been made before he’d even walked into the room. It had been his job to try and change their minds – and he’d failed.

  Carla, you should have been here, he thought. HAN, the primary Health Alert Network, was a countrywide program that was used to disseminate information nationally at the state and local levels. It could reach over ninety percent of the population via a messaging system that transmitted health alerts to over one million health and authority recipients.

  Hew packed his things away. It was better than nothing, he thought. He heard Mason speaking again and turned.

  “You’ve done your job correctly, Dr. Hewson. You have raised the profile of the threat, and for that we thank you. However, at this point the mortality rate, or even the transmission rate, is not of sufficient significance to warrant a threat level change. We are also aware that your senior colleague is already looking for a biological retardant at the source.” Mason pushed his chair back but didn’t rise. “So, for now, we’ll monitor the situation. Thank you for your time.”

  Hew nodded and noticed that, wraith-like, the whispering girl had returned to his side. She led him to the door and stood back, holding it open and smiling. At the door he paused for a second and half turned, thinking about Mason’s comments. Not of sufficient significance. Mason hadn’t seen … none of them had seen the lumps or the potential aerosol spread of the infestation. None of them had seen the raw skin after the epidermal layer literally slid off the physical frame. Sure, the patients weren’t killed immediately, but the idea that they could recover … or even be expected to live? That wasn’t living.

  The woman whispered something to him, and Hew rounded on her. “Speak up, will you?” He pushed open the door and marched out.

  CHAPTER 12

  Matt marveled at the strength of the small Brazilian man. He was a good foot shorter than Steinberg’s burly bodyguard, but he managed to carry twice the pack weight. It seemed to Matt that where Kurt was Crocodile Dundee, Moema was a little brown Hercules.

  Carla had told him the packs mostly contained demountable cages, and some camera equipment. Luckily the cameras were little more than the size of a shoebox, including long-life batteries. In Moema’s grandfather’s day, they would have had to carry suitcase-sized boxes and tripod legs. Matt had offered to help, but Moema had just looked confused, then smiled and shook his head. Matt knew not to press him – he was paid to do the job, and was certainly strong enough, so any offer to lighten his load might have been viewed as a question about his masculinity.

  They had been trekking for over six hours, and Matt felt small streams of perspiration running under his long hair and down his face to join up with the rivers on his torso before continuing down through his groin to flood his socks. His clothing had long given up trying to absorb the sweat and was now doing little more than adding to his personal weight and discomfort. The salty bath also meant that insect repellent had to be reapplied hourly, otherwise the constant swarm of tiny satellites circling his head would land for a quick meal. Matt hated to think what the chemical onslaught was doing to his system, but preferred it to being injected by some parasitic jungle microorganism in a bug’s saliva.

  He let his eyes wander to the treetops overhead. As they traveled farther into the heart of the Boreal, it became darker – not from increasing cloud, or evening fall, but from the tree canopy, which became further enmeshed, forming a single ceiling of dark green. Shoals of small monkeys seemed to travel with them, running across the upper branch balconies and constantly scolding the humans for their intrusion, and occasionally lobbing soft rinds of fruit in their direction.

  Megan was in her element, Matt noticed, walking along with her gaze directed to the green sky, mouth turned up in a broad grin. Occasionally she would dart to the side of the track or get down low to stare at something under a rotting log or growing on a tree trunk. She continually fell behind, and when Kurt turned back to glare, it was usually at him. Matt would just shrug and grin. If Kurt wanted someone to yell at her, he could do it himself.

&nbs
p; The path was narrow and squashy underfoot – little more than an animal track, and surprisingly dry. However, the wet season would soon commence, bringing drenching rains that could last for weeks at a time without any corresponding relief from the heat. Matt couldn’t wait – there’d be moss, mold, and other exotic fungal infections growing like coral from between their toes and behind their ears.

  Matt sped up to walk just behind Carla. For the most part, walking side-by-side was impossible on the narrow pathway.

  “Damned hot.”

  “Don’t worry, you can cool off in the pool this evening.”

  Matt groaned good-humoredly. The thought of a cool swimming pool, even a frosty beer, was too much to bear. “That would be heaven right about now. Any word from home?” He’d been watching her repeatedly tap away on her smartphone.

  “Unfortunately, no. Communications are getting a little patchy. I trust my people in the field – it’s up to them now. They need to document the cases, treat the afflicted, and, where necessary, raise appropriate alerts with head office. I don’t think … I hope we’re not at any sort of critical juncture just yet. I’d prefer to have a natural treatment, or develop something simple and with as few side effects as possible, before we have to resort to a barrage of chemicals.” She looked across at him with a half smile. “We’d cure the population, but would probably get sued for the next fifty years.”

  “Ungrateful sods.”

  She laughed. “We’re only ever fully protected under special legislation if the government deems it to be a high probability threat to life – basically, take it or die.”

  “They can do that?”

  She turned and smiled without humor. “We can do a lot if we need to, Professor Kearns.” Her jaw was rigid. “If we find a treatment, I’ll make damned sure people take it. Did you know that with all the vaccinations we have available today, vaccination rates in the West are dropping to pre-1950 levels?”

  “That’s weird. Why is that?” Matt glanced at Carla. Her face was hard, but there was sorrow around her eyes.

  “Bottom line, we think we know better. I certainly did. I didn’t get my child vaccinated for pertussis – whooping cough.” Carla watched her feet as she walked, her words lifeless. “At six, Madeleine should have recovered with standard antibiotics; instead she developed encephalitis, and died in agony. My husband – ex-husband – and I were too trendy, too clever, to bother with vaccinations. We paid the ultimate price.”

  Matt now understood the woman’s drive. It was more than a calling – it was her penance.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Matt saw that Carla’s jaw was set, but her eyes had welled up. “Carla, if there’s anything…”

  She shook her head quickly, and looked away. Matt got the message; the topic was closed. They marched in silence for another twenty minutes before Carla’s tight expression eventually eased.

  Kurt called a halt at the base of a large tree, pulled his canteen from his belt and took a small sip. He rescrewed the top and lifted his chin; it looked for a minute as though he was sniffing the air. “River coming up soon, ladies and gentlemen. Once we cross that we get into uncharted territory.”

  Matt leaned in close and whispered to Carla. “I thought we were already in uncharted territory.”

  Kurt glanced over at Matt. “Only uncharted on our maps … but once we cross the river … uncharted on his.” He nodded toward Moema.

  Matt gave the big man a flat smile. Great, hearing like a bat as well, he thought.

  “Hey.” Megan caught up with them. After hours of hiking she was still walking as easily as when she started. She was using a long stick as a walking staff, and she tapped Matt’s leg with it as she went past, heading off the path and leaning up against the trunk of an enormous tree.

  She tilted her head back. “This is like a wonderland.”

  Matt smiled. “Yep, the happiest kingdom on earth.”

  She craned her neck forward. “Hmm, that sounds a little sarcastic … or perhaps just world-weary. I haven’t been on as many trips as you, Indiana, so to me, it’s all fantastic.” She pulled the rolled bandana from her head and wrung it out, raining salty drops down onto the rotting leaves at her feet.

  Megan went to lean back again when Jian came out of the brush and roughly pulled her forward.

  “Hey!” She stumbled and then swung around, raising her walking stick in his direction. But Jian was already on her, slapping her furiously.

  “What the fu—” Matt grabbed at the small entomologist, but pulled back when he saw the crawling mass on Megan’s shoulders.

  Jian continued his attack as Megan shielded her head. “Aztec ants.” He swatted at the half-inch insects, some stubbornly clinging to the damp material of Megan’s shirt with their sharp, hooked feet. In another few seconds he cleared the red and black mass and pulled her up. Megan did a little shivery dance, and stuck out her tongue.

  “Yecch.” She continued to shake.

  Jian pointed at the tree. “Sorry, but that’s a cecropia tree. It has a symbiotic relationship with the Azteca Alfari ant – very aggressive. Anything deemed to be attacking the tree triggers the hive’s warrior response.” He pointed at the tree with a twig; by now every leaf tip and stem was bristling with the spindly insects.

  Matt looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Megan just shook her head. “It’s still a wonderland. And besides, they were probably just as scared of me as I was of them.”

  Jian grunted. “One thing insects do not know is fear. Lucky for us, they are small.” He backed up as the ants started to take small leaps from the leaf tips toward his twig. “Otherwise, life on this planet would be very different.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Forget it. Matt gave up and walked in sullen silence, his thoughts the only voice left to chide him for trying to engage Dan Brenner in conversation. The professor refused to offer any more than grunts, and the odd flat-eyed, indifferent stare. After a time Matt had dropped back a step or two, vowing to empathize a little more in future before banging out his professional opinions on another man’s life’s work.

  It was mid-afternoon when, ahead of them, columns of misty sunshine broke through the green ceiling, announcing the river. The waterway was a tributary of the Mamoré River – relatively small, but still a good fifty feet wide, moving sluggishly. Kurt unclipped his holster and moved cautiously along the bank until he found what he was looking for – a slight lumping in the water from one bank to the other. He conferred with Moema, who nodded once, then he had the small man take a length of rope, tie it around a tree and wade in.

  Matt gritted his teeth in apprehension. Bottomless water always scared him. Even though the coffee-colored water only came up to the Brazilian’s waist, the thought of something hiding just beneath the surface, in all its toothed or spiked glory, made his stomach lurch.

  After a few minutes Moema was safely on the opposite bank. He quickly set about tying the rope around another tree, creating a handrail for everyone to follow. Kurt waved to the small guide and then turned to the group.

  “Single file, follow the line, hang onto the line, do not stop or step away from the line.” He pointed to the river. “Just below the surface we have a silt pile. These are temporary underwater bridges. Something gets wedged in the river, debris builds up against it, and then silt covers it. It’ll be washed away in the next rain surge, but for now, it means we don’t need to swim.”

  The big man had a smirk on his face. “But be warned – either side of that silt pile its get deep … and big things hide in the deep. So, let’s not go swimming.” He turned and whistled to Moema, waving him back.

  “Grab all your gear, ’coz we aren’t making two trips. I’ll go first, followed by Mr. Steinberg. The rest of you follow.”

  Max Steinberg handed Kurt his computer bag and other personal effects. Moema picked up a pack, looped it over his shoulders and then lifted another large box up onto his head.


  Matt turned to Megan. “Seems the rule against making two trips doesn’t apply to the hired help.” He pointed to the river and bowed. “Ladies first.”

  She turned and smiled. “Just don’t be last. You’ve seen what happens in the movies to the last guy on the jungle trail.”

  Matt waited with Moema. The small man looked surprisingly comfortable despite the hundred pounds of gear on his head and back. Matt pulled a face. “Hope there’re no crocodiles.”

  Moema looked at Matt for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No, not here.” He turned back to the water. “They get eaten.”

  Matt frowned, replaying the comment in his head, and then dismissed it. He mustn’t have heard correctly. Megan had just set off, pulling herself across on the rope, and now it was his turn. He took a deep breath and lowered one foot into the water, feeling his boot squelch into the mud and sink a good four inches. He kept his eyes on his girlfriend’s back as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other.

  He inhaled. The smell rising in mist-like vapors reminded him of mud and perfume – the damp soil, combined with the pollens and sap from a billion trees and flowers that had touched its surface now rode the water on their way to the coast. At one point something bumped his knee and he froze, tensing his muscles, expecting the grind of large jaws to come at any second.

  A prod in the center of his back from Carla, crossing behind him, unlocked his muscles and he started to move again. He let out a small, sheepish laugh and turned to make some sort of self-deprecating joke when just behind Carla, Dan Brenner grunted and then splashed heavily into the water up to his neck. His face looked ashen, and in an instant he went from looking confused to terrified. The linguist winced and screamed shrilly, his head whipping beneath the brown surface of the water, as if he had fallen into a deep hole.

  No, not fallen. Been pulled.

  Kurt yelled for everyone to get out of the water, and Moema dropped his pack and raised a long machete over his head, his eyes wide. Matt could hear the little man yelling a single word: yacu-mayma, yacu-mayma, over and over. Matt automatically translated the word in his head – mother of the water.