The Anthrax Protocol

by James Thompson

  “Uh-oh. What’s the bad news?”

  “I’m going to need an extraction team here at the site pronto. They’re going to have to be prepared to bring a living specimen back to the States for tests, and they’ll have to be prepared to bring him in while quarantined.”

  Blackman ran his hands through his hair. “You’re not asking for much, Janus. You do realize the whole world is in lockdown and nothing is flying anywhere right now?”

  “Okay,” Janus said, and Blackman could almost hear the shrug over the phone. “I guess I’ll just let the CDC have him and let them get control of the vaccine and antidote to the anthrax then.”

  “You’ve got a vaccine?” he almost shouted.

  “Calm down, Colonel,” Janus said. “No vaccine yet, but I’ve got, or rather we’re soon going to have, someone who is totally immune to the anthrax, and his blood and tissue are just as good as a vaccine.” There was a slight hesitation, and then Janus continued, “In fact, there just may be an entire village of people immune to this bad boy, but I won’t know that for a while yet.”

  “So, you want a medical extraction team to bring this person back to Fort Detrick?”

  “Ummm,” Janus muttered. “No, I think you’d better send the military boys, along with some heavy ordnance. Depending on the circumstances, they may have to do some wet work to gain control of the specimen.”

  “Wet work? On whom, or do I really want to know?”

  “It could be the CDC team, or it might even be the entire fucking Mexican Army! What the hell do you care as long as we get control of this epidemic for ourselves?”

  He chuckled. “You’re right, of course. It really doesn’t matter, but you’ll have to forgive me for being a little rattled right now. That fucking Paco managed to contaminate the entire fort while killing himself in the bargain.”

  He could hear Janus sigh over the satellite connection. “I told you he wasn’t right for a courier . . . too dumb and too unconcerned with security of the specimens I sent.”

  “Okay, okay. You were right. Now, tell me how I’m gonna get a kill team from here to you without the entire world knowing about it.”

  “Check the satellite maps of Mexico. I seem to remember an abandoned airfield about ten klicks east of here. It should be okay for one of those twin-engine Air Kings to land, and they’re big enough for your team and a couple of other passengers on the return trip.”

  “A couple of other passengers?”

  “Yeah. If we have to waste the CDC team I’m going to have to disappear without a trace also, otherwise I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulders for FBI trackers.”

  “You’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “That means this will be my last mission, but I might as well go out on a big one, right?”

  “Right,” he said, but he was thinking the team would only have to bring one passenger back. If Janus wasn’t going to be of any further use to him, might as well have the extraction team kill the entire CDC team including his spy and leave no loose ends that might bite him in the ass.

  “It’ll take me a while to set this up, so hang loose and contact me again in a few hours and I’ll give you the kill team’s ETA.”

  “Don’t dawdle, Blackie,” Janus said, “I don’t know how fast the CDC team will be able to get transportation for the specimen and I’d hate for you to come in second place in a race for a cure for this shit.”

  “Don’t worry, Janus. I can act a lot faster than some dipshit government health service can. We’ll get there first with the most, and I’ll have you out of there before you know it.”

  Tlateloco

  Mason, wearing long-sleeved scrubs, latex gloves, and a micropore mask, exited the lab and began to direct his team members down various paths through the jungle overgrowth to look for the Indio boy.

  As he started to talk, he noticed Sam Jakes off by himself talking on a sat-phone. “Hey Sam,” he said, after walking over to him so he could speak in private. “I didn’t know you had a personal sat-phone.”

  Jakes’s face colored and he stammered, “Er . . . uh . . . well, after the last mission to Australia where we were out of touch for almost a month, I decided to splurge on one to keep in touch with my family.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I was just calling my sister. She lives in the Bronx, and I told her to take her husband and their two kids to my cabin in the Catskills until this plague blows over. I told her to have her food delivered and to get no closer than ten feet to anyone until this is over.”

  “What’d she say?”

  Jakes chuckled. “She whined about her husband losing his job if they left on vacation without giving notice, so I asked her if she’d rather have a live unemployed husband or a dead one with a job.”

  “And?”

  “She’s packing.”

  Mason nodded. “You know, Sam, you might want to offer the sat-phone to the others so they can do the same thing for their relatives. I can’t let them use the satellite uplink CDC provides us ’cause Joel’s on it 24/7 giving the Battleship updates on our progress and checking on what’s happening with the plague.”

  “Good idea, boss, I’ll do that.”

  Mason turned and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, people, time to get moving.”

  He stood in the middle of the group and pointed out different directions for each of them to take to look for the boy, taking the one through the densest part of the jungle for himself.

  * * *

  Lauren had gone about three hundred yards, pushing her way through thick vines and bushy jungle plants, when she thought she smelled smoke.

  She broke through into a small clearing and saw a brown-skinned boy sitting next to a tiny campfire. He was staring at her with wide, frightened eyes and had a child-size bow with an arrow notched and pointed at her chest.

  She held her hands out in a nonthreatening way and said in Spanish, “I am a friend. I am not here to hurt you.”

  He replied in something that was close to Spanish but was not quite the same. “Are you one of Los Oráculos, messengers from the sun god, or are you a creature from the Spirit World sent to take me to the underworld?”

  “I am neither, young one, but merely a person such as yourself.”

  “Did the warriors wearing costumes the color of naranja send you?”

  Lauren had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, realizing how strange they must have seemed to this primitive young man. “Yes, I am one of the warriors who wore orange costumes, but they were to protect us from the sickness that killed the other Americans.”

  “You were friends with the Americanos?”

  “Yes.” Lauren pushed the lump in her throat down and said, “The older man was my . . . father.”

  Guatemotzi nodded. “He was a very nice man. He gave me money and food to help with the digging.”

  “Yes, he was,” Lauren said, moving slowly closer to the boy as he lowered the bow and arrow. “My name is Lauren, what is yours?”

  “I am called Guatemotzi,” he answered, putting the bow down and moving an MRE pack around on the fire a bit.

  Lauren grinned. “That is a very powerful name. You are named for the emperor who came to power after Montezuma?”

  He sat up straighter and puffed out his chest a little. “Yes. My grandfather says he was killed when he would not tell the Spaniards the secret hiding place of Los Aztecas’ gold. He was very brave.” He pointed at the MRE. “Would you like some food, Lauren?”

  She smiled, noticing his ribs showing through his skin. “No, thank you, Guatemotzi, but I think you need it far more than I do.”

  He expertly popped open the MRE and began to spoon out the steaming contents with his fingers and popped the food into his mouth.

  Lauren squatted down across the fire from him. “Do you know what happened to the Americans?”

  He nodded. “An illness came out of Los Aztecas’ tomb and
killed them.”

  “Do you know of this illness?”

  “Yes. My grandfather told me of the bleeding sickness that killed Los Aztecas many, many years ago. He said the Aztecs that the sickness did not kill are the ancestors of our village and he prays to them every day.”

  Lauren felt her heartbeat quicken. If what this boy was saying was true, there could be an entire village of people immune to the plague. Surely Mason and the others could use them to help find a cure for the anthrax.

  “Guatemotzi, where is your village?”

  He pointed back over his shoulder. “It is in Chiapas, in the mountains to the south.” He scrunched up his face for a moment, thinking, and then added, “It is not so far from the city of Tuxtla Gutierrez, but is on other side of very high mountain.”

  “Guatemotzi, would you mind coming back with me to our camp and meeting my friends? There is much good food there, and I know they would love to meet you and hear the stories your grandfather told you about the sickness.”

  He looked up from his food and stared intently at her. “Are they all like you . . . with no face?”

  She laughed and realized she had forgotten she was still wearing her micropore mask. She reached up and pulled it down for a second so he could see her features. “No, we have faces. It is just that we have to wear these masks to keep from getting the sickness that killed the other Americans.”

  He grinned. “They make you look funny.”

  “I know. Will you come with me?”

  He thought for a moment, and then he nodded. “Yes, I will come with you.”

  Lauren stood up and stretched. “Good, and I will see that you get some pan dulce.”

  His eyes lit up. “Sweet bread?”

  “Yes, and we have lots and lots of cookies with pieces of chocolate in them.”

  He grinned widely. “Chocolate es muy bueno!”

  Chapter 22

  Mason Williams and the rest of the team, unsuccessful in their search for the Indio boy, returned to the lab just in time for Joel to tune the com-sat link to the latest news coming out of Mexico City.

  Even as the female reporter spoke into the camera, scattered gunfire could be heard in the distance and she continually ran her hand through her hair, her frightened eyes lending credence to her terrible story.

  “Many local citizens are now calling the widespread plague sweeping throughout Mexico into neighboring countries ‘Montezuma’s Curse,’ thanks to rumors the illness originated in an archaeological dig in which the ancient emperor’s tomb was opened. They say his spirit is seeking revenge for the desecration of his eternal resting place by a visiting team of American scientists.”

  She hesitated and looked over her shoulder as a much louder explosion seemed to come from just off camera. She pulled herself together and continued, “Still others are drawing analogies to the ‘Fifth Plague of Egypt,’ an ancient epidemic in which hundreds of thousands of animals and people died in 1491 BC, as was described in the Book of Genesis. While many of these people believe this is a Biblical curse brought about by the disturbance of Montezuma’s tomb, Catholic Church leaders are asking their parishioners to remain calm and to seek God’s guidance in prayers and to not succumb to superstition or unproven rumors.”

  A man’s dark head could be seen briefly on camera as he leaned in and handed the reporter a piece of paper.

  She scanned it and then looked directly into the camera. “This is just in. There are reports of thousands of Mexican citizens rushing borders of neighboring countries to the north and south trying to escape the plague and even some reports of Central American countries’ soldiers firing weapons indiscriminately into the fleeing masses, causing untold loss of life and escalation of international tensions and fear.”

  She lowered the paper. “The government has notified this station that the plague is virtually everywhere . . . it will do you no good to try to cross borders into other countries as the illness is there, too. According to the Mexican Institutes of Health, the best thing we can do is to stay in our homes and have as little contact with others as is possible.”

  She leaned in close to the camera, her eyes brimming with tears. “Stay home, gentle viewers, and pray for divine guidance. This is Veronica Gonzales signing off and heading home where I’m going to follow my own advice.”

  As the screen faded to black, Shirley Cole looked at the others. “She was spot on about the ‘Fifth Plague of Egypt,’” she said. “Epidemiologists now think that was a plague of anthrax, just as this one is now.”

  “The only differences are that this particular bug seems to spare animals, and this plague is spread person to person and that one was not, which makes this baby a magnitude worse than that one,” Jakes said sourly.

  “They also didn’t have airplanes spreading the damn thing all over the world back then, either,” Lionel Johnson said in his quiet voice.

  “Well, look who’s back, and look what she’s brought with her,” Suzanne Elliot said as Lauren and Guatemotzi walked out of the jungle and through the lab doorway into the decontamination chamber.

  She spent some moments explaining to the boy what was about to happen and then they turned their heads as she removed her clothes and then his and went through the decontamination process. After they were dressed in scrubs and had entered the dining room, she addressed the group as casually as if she’d just invited a friend for tea.

  “How about something sweet for Guatemotzi?” she asked, ushering him to a seat at the long dining table.

  Shirley jumped up. “I’ve just taken some homemade cinnamon rolls out of the oven and I think we could all use some comfort food right about now.”

  She piled a few rolls on a plate, poured a soda into a plastic cup, and handed them to the boy.

  She looked around at the group, arching an eyebrow. “The rest of you will just have to get your own.”

  Jakes cleared his throat and asked Mason, “Do you think we should don our masks in the presence of . . . what did you say his name was?”

  “Guatemotzi,” Lauren replied.

  Mason shook his head. “I don’t think so. The fact that he is immune should keep him from harboring any live bacteria organisms in his lungs and the shower should have killed any on his skin or in his hair.”

  While Guatemotzi hurriedly scarfed down the sweet rolls and the others availed themselves of like treats and coffee, Lauren repeated all that he had told her in the jungle.

  Suzanne raised her eyebrows. “You mean there may be an entire village of people like him, people immune to this strain of anthrax?”

  Lauren shrugged. “That’s what he says. According to him, his village is populated by more or less direct descendants of the ancient Aztecs who survived the original plague hundreds of years ago.”

  “They must be so isolated that they’ve never integrated into Mexican society and therefore the immune strain of their blood has remained relatively pure.”

  “Or it could be due to a dominant gene, in which case even if they intermarried the offspring would still be immune,” Lionel said. “Either way, those villagers could be a gold mine for us and may represent the best chance we have of producing a vaccine to prevent the spread of the illness.”

  Joel, who was rapidly typing on his laptop computer, spoke up, “It says here that the city of Tuxtla Gutierrez in the state of Chiapas was originally inhabited and founded by a tribe native to the region known as the Zoques who named the city Coyatoc, which means ‘home of the rabbit’ in their native tongue. Between 1486 and 1505, they were invaded by the Aztecs and the city was renamed ‘Tochtlan,’ which meant the same thing in Nahuatl. After the Spanish conquest, the name was changed to ‘Tuxtla.’”

  “So when the Aztecs invaded they could have brought the anthrax infection with them, and the survivors of that plague could be the ancestors of Guatemotzi’s villagers and their blood could hold the secret to a vaccine against this bug,” Mason said.

  Jakes shook his head. “In spite of Jo
el’s fascinating history lesson,” he said sarcastically, “a vaccine is all well and good, but by the time we take their blood and transport it to CDC and a vaccine is made, mass produced, and then distributed across the world, hundreds of millions of people are going to die.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lauren said. “You haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  “Better than a vaccine?” Mason asked, a hopeful expression on his face.

  Lauren nodded. “On the way here, I told him that many, many people were getting sick like the Americans he saw die at the dig site, and he said that his grandfather knows a curandera who lives near their village who uses certain plants and herbs to cure the illness in those who aren’t immune and catch the ‘bleeding’ sickness as he calls it.”

  “What the hell is a curandera?” Jakes spit irritably.

  “A Mexican herbal healer,” Lauren answered.

  “You mean she can cure the illness after the symptoms have already begun by using plants and herbs grown locally?” Shirley Cole asked.

  Lauren shrugged. “That’s what he says.”

  “He may just be right,” Mason interjected. “Fully a fourth of all modern medicinal compounds have their origins in alkaloids derived from plants.”

  “Then we have no choice,” Shirley said. “We must travel to this village and start taking blood samples and see what this herbal healer can teach us.”

  Mason glanced at Guatemotzi and shook his head. “I don’t think the best idea is for a herd of strangers to descend on this village and try to get them to cooperate in a scientific exercise.”

  He stood up and poured himself another cup of coffee. “No, I think it best if just a couple of us go down there to see what we can find out. They’ll be much less apprehensive with two of us instead of six, especially if we can convince Guatemotzi to lead us there.”

  “But there is so much to do,” Suzanne said. “I think I should be the one to accompany you.”

  Again Mason shook his head. “No, I need someone who speaks the language. What I need from each of you is a list of what samples I need to obtain . . . what kind of tubes of blood, what tissue samples, and anything else you need me to get from the villagers. Meanwhile Lauren and I will talk to Guatemotzi and find out if the village is in walking distance or if we need to requisition a chopper from CDC.”