by Alex Myers
He paused to look over his shoulder as two men clad in military green brought down a disheveled looking man in a badly-wrinkled business suit. The man had apparently been trying to hide in one of the unused barracks.
Ethan glanced at his watch, time was flying by. It was barely seven o’clock and would be dark in an hour. He knew the nightmare would begin again. He moved closer to the big‑screen television.
"That was David R. Cockerel reporting live from California. For more on the Apoc Affliction, here's Barbara Seeton with spokesperson Ava Porter at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. Where do we stand right now on Apoc, Barbara?"
The reporter stood with a beautiful woman, the reporter with her hand to her ear waiting for the already-given cue. Many faces on the evening news had changed in the last week. Overzealous reporters, in their effort to get exclusives, had gotten a little too close to some of the people with the virus. They ended up catching the disease that they had gone out to cover. One reporter from a TV news magazine, under orders from his producer, had actually tried to spend a weekend with a group of Apocs. He was even able to interview a few and get a videotape back to the studio. It was part two of his exciting series on the Apoc that killed him and his camerawoman.
Barbara Seeton finally got her cue. She reiterated the question to the Center for Disease Control's Ava Porter, "Just where do we stand on the Apoc situation?"
"The Center and other government agencies have field agents now in Baltimore, Washington, and San Diego, as well as researchers at the Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkin's and Bethesda Naval Hospital. We feel that a breakthrough is just around the corner."
Ethan studied the young woman from the CDC. He thought she was stunning. Ethan looked on with rapt interest. She had a tall graceful body, the kind that looked good in her business suit. Her exquisite profile belonged to a cameo of the same style: its pure, proud lines and the lustrous, light brown waves of her hair, worn with classical simplicity, suggested an austere, imperial beauty. She was the polar opposite of Sophia.
"When you say breakthrough, do you mean a cure?" the newswoman asked.
"Not so much a cure, as a vaccine."
"A vaccine to prevent the virus from spreading?"
"Yes, the scientists feel that they are closing in on one."
"A vaccine to prevent the spread of the disease, but what about those people already afflicted?"
"I can't comment on that at this time," she said as she averted her eyes downward.
“The changes that occur, they seem almost too horrific to imagine. How can the human body change so dramatically in such a short amount of time?”
“It’s a mutation, the likes of a sort we’ve never seen before, never imagined before.”
The newswoman pushed on, "What about the rumor that the Apoc has genetic implications. That the affliction is man-made?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't comment on that either."
"Norfolk, Virginia seems the hardest hit so far, yet you didn't mention a team there?"
"We are preparing a team for departure as we speak."
"Is there any kind of evidence that this is connected to the Navy, headquartered in Norfolk?"
"Again, I'm sorry, but no comment at this time."
"Bullshit!" Ethan yelled at the television. "Can't comment my ass, what are you people trying to cover up?" He hit the ‘off’ button on the remote control and threw it at the wall.
His watch said 7:23. The minutes were flying by like seconds. It seemed the big outbreaks were confined to San Diego and Norfolk. Smaller outbreaks in other cities were now just starting to trickle in. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and the four networks had been on a daily twenty‑four hour "super" coverage of the disease for a day and a half, it felt like it did on 9-11 or the Gulf Wars. According to their "on‑the‑scene" reporters, the cases in the smaller cities were being dealt with the utmost urgency. The victims had usually been drifters, or travelers. Ethan made a mental note that they were calling the virus 'Apoc' because it affected the ApoCs gene. The people who had the virus were called the 'Apocs' as in the “Apocalypse”. At least that's what that crazy preacher was calling it the other day, he thought.
CHAPTER 7
SADDLE UP
"And they thought the Greekfest riots in '89 were bad. Shit Ethan, this is a goddamn zoo!" Bill said as he climbed into Ethan's convertible Jeep. "According to some of the guys from the shop, there are a couple of other ways of stopping these things."
"Like what?” Ethan asked as he climbed in behind the wheel.
"Well, if you douse them with water it'll either kill ‘em or cure em. Plus some of the other guys have had luck burning ‘em."
Ethan watched Bill as he adjusted the seat belt for optimum fit. He thought it was ludicrous to take safety precautions considering what they were setting out to do.
"Like I've always said Ethan, let safety be your tenant."
"You're fucking goofy man, I swear," Ethan said as he put it in gear.
The hot, stuffy air bombarded them as they rode with the top down. The streets were starting to clear on their way to the Oceanview. It was still a good half an hour until darkness fell. The only people left on the roads had worried expressions painted on their faces. Every time Bill and Ethan went out they were encountering fewer and fewer people.
Looking up, Ethan thought the view in the mirror was spectacular. After an off‑again‑on‑again rainy day, the sky in the West was clearing. It painted a surreal tapestry as the sun was starting to set. The scene reminded Ethan of a picture in his grandmother's bedroom of Jesus riding a cloud to earth on the Day of Judgment.
"Red sky at night, sailors' delight,” Bill said.
"There isn’t too many sailors delighted about jack-shit tonight."
"I'm telling ya."
"Do you think it's right what were going out to do, Bill? I mean, Christ, these are people—sick people, but people still the same. We're killing innocent people and we're probably going to burn in hell for it."
“According to the Right Reverend Swanson," Bill said, screwing up his face to give a perfect impression of the pinched expression of the televangelist, “We are to be forgiven. The very emphasis of the commandment ‘thou shall not kill’, makes it certain that we are descended from an endlessly long chain of generations of murderers, whose love of murder, was in their blood as it is perhaps also in ours. And besides, these things are not people any longer in my book. They're the killing machines not us."
"I guess you're right. If you don't tell anyone about me getting my butt kicked last night, I won't tell anyone you're going around quoting Freud." Ethan glanced over at the circling of seagulls in the seaside breeze. "Reverend Swanson? Isn't he the one that gave the disease its name?"
"Yeah, the goddamned end of the world syndrome . . . the Apoc Disease," Bill said as he checked the load in his 44 magnum. "And he and his band of idiots over at the Glorified Church of God are doing all they can to keep people in a sheer panic. He says that their leader is the Antichrist. He says that the military evil of this country was the thing that brought this finally on—the war in the Middle East, the Holy Land.”
"I was thinking about that when I used your access to the police computer today. The hardest hit places are here and in San Diego, both major Navy bases. That's the only common denominator I could come up with today as I loaded the graphics and accessed my other data bases."
"You and Reverend Ira Swanson aren't the only ones to come up with that conclusion Sherlock. MSNBC is already speculating the Navy got themselves contaminated with the new AIDS vaccine the Navy was investigating,” Bill said as he played with his mustache.
"But why just the Navy? What about all those prisoners down in Guantanamo they tested it on first?"
“I don’t know, how do we not hear anything about AIDS other than in Africa for twenty years and all of a sudden it makes a resurgence. It just came on too quick. How in the hell and why did it spread through the prison systems?”
&nbs
p; “Manmade? Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Convenient is more what I was thinking. They are saying it’s a cure this new strain of AIDS that’s killing everyone, causing their genes to mutate.”
"I don't know. Maybe they got ahold of a bad batch or something. All I know is that they've halted all the vaccines across the country until they can check this out. Which is just fine because we've already gotten our hands full. We couldn't handle another major outbreak. Right now we've got an active missing persons file of over 500 names, and it doubles every night."
"I bet we could probably kill these things by running them over too." Ethan said trying to keep Bill from going off on a tangent about the Reverend Swanson. "What do you think Bill? Want to give it a try?"
"I don't know, Ethan, that yellow pus they got in them is supposed to be what spreads the disease. You get that stuff in your mouth, your eyes, or in a cut, and boom—you're one of them. And besides . . .” he said after a little thought and a pull on his mustache, "you could ruin your nice paint job. Prudence, my friend, is that virtue by which we discern what is proper to be done under the various circumstances of time and place—Milton."
“I never once thought these quotes are coming off the top of your head. I think you do prep work then guide the conversations so that you can work them in.”
They took a left turn off Laskin Road onto Atlantic Avenue. Atlantic would soon turn into Shore Drive and Shore became Oceanview. The wind blowing off the ocean was thick, hot and wet. When the wind was blocked by a building though, it was like hitting a pocket of warm, stagnant death.
"It sure seems strange to be driving down the strip in the middle of tourist season and not see people out cruising,” Ethan said and both agreed.
The sky was taking on an amber‑violet hue. Ethan wiped the perspiration off his hands onto his chinos. "Where we off to tonight?” He asked.
"There's a section of Oceanview that's had the juice knocked out for a day and a half. The Vepco crews have tried to get it back on twice. There's a couple of abandoned buildings there. The police and National Guard are going to torch them. Figured we go down there and wait to see what comes out of them. Maybe get a little target practice." Bill said as he spun the chamber of the big gun.
Ethan winced and tried not to think of the night before.
We all labor against our own cure, for death is the cure of all diseases.
Sir Thomas Browne (1605‑1682)
English doctor, author
CHAPTER 8
THE FORT
The tall building stood outlined against the rural Maryland night sky, sharp and straight like a raised sword. The monolithic structure stood conspicuously amongst the other bunker‑like buildings of Fort Detrick. The Center for Biological Warfare was ensconced into the mountainous region of the state, easily protected, and equally hidden for all that even knew where to look. Inside the edifice was a large room with walls of white tile and mammoth exhaust fans that glittered in the reflection of the stark overhead lights like silver brocade. One would immediately think it had an unusually high ceiling, yet feel claustrophobic because of all the equipment. There were large antiseptic‑looking counters of glass and steel loaded with the latest technology and most expensive paraphernalia the United States Army could buy. One large window filled the east end of the room with a view of the small city of Frederick below. The lights of the village were like phosphorescent sea animals on the black waves of the ocean—only it was an ocean of steel and stone. A lone figure stood with her back to the room staring blankly at the view. Her name was Ava Porter.
She turned and took in the sight of the once-familiar room. Trained as a research scientist, she was able to recognize some objects: the tissue culture incubators, the chromatography units, the large hoods of the HEPA filter systems, double‑headed Zeiss binocular microscopes, and immense refrigerator units for the storage of liquid nitrogen kept at ‑70 degrees centigrade. Inside the commodious freezers were samples of every virus and bacteria known to man. The collection equaled or surpassed those of the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, and the labs of the World Health Organization in Geneva, Switzerland. Very few people had ever heard of this room. Even fewer had been in it. And this was just level 2 biolab, you had to put on a moon suit to visit levels 3 and 4.
She tried to avert her eyes from the tables in the middle of the room on which lay four cadavers—two human and two victims of the MDR‑V6 virus. The pale gray corpses lay naked encased in plastic like frozen human fish sticks. Their faces were locked in an eternal grimace, each displaying their personal death story.
Lost in her thoughts she was startled by the sound of the air lock. The laboratory was kept at a negative pressure to prevent the escape of contaminants. Two figures entered the room, both wearing surgeon's aprons and gloves.
"Ah Ava my dear, you seem to have forgotten your scrubs," the first man said mockingly.
Dr. Puck was Ava's boss. He was Dr. Angus Puck, director of the center. He was a meticulous, waspish man, five‑foot eight and underweight. He had a regal profile, but when he turned full-face, people experienced a disappointment. His face was not handsome. The eyes were the flaw: they were vaguely pale, neither gray or blue, lifelessly devoid of expression. Though he wasn't what you'd consider ugly, few people liked his face: the face was too cold, the eyes too fleeting, nothing to lend him to endearment or compassion. His mousy brown hair was thinning and barely covered the top of his head. He bragged about saving money by cutting it himself with surgical shears and a mirror.
"No Dr. Puck, I'm just following your orders—I just came here to observe. Why are we not in level 4 or at least level 3?”
“There’s not a need—when the host dies, so does the virus. It’s not contagious, it’s completely inert.”
She wondered why she was here at all. She noticed the way he lingered over her body with his eyes. She unconsciously closed the front of her lab coat over her blouse.
"So how long has it been now that you've been the center's liaison to the CDC? Six months, seven?” Puck asked. He made it sound as if it were something for which Ava should be forever in his debt. He didn't wait for her to answer before he continued. "You haven't been away from the lab so long that you're getting squeamish around a couple of cadavers now pray tell?"
Ava watched Dr. Puck give a secret smile to the man that had entered with him, before turning to a tray of instruments. The second man, a Class A security lab technician, began preparing the bodies for autopsy. The large man with forgettable features unzipped the plastic coverings and removed the remains to the cold chromium tabletops. The horror of the sight was amazing. Differences appeared, and it was easy now, even for Ava's untrained eye, to tell which had died with the virus.
All the bodies had abnormal dents and indentations on their stomachs, chests, and legs, even their ears. Puck turned and beckoned her closer with a wave of his hand; it was a gesture that he made with a stiffened arm by simply moving his wrist. As she neared, the sight became worse. The corpse's fingers were flattened and strangely large. The nails protruded from the surrounding skin and were the color of sweet potatoes. The former smell of antiseptic was replaced with the pungent penetrating aroma of formaldehyde preservative. The odor attacked her nostrils. The sickly sweet and sour odor of decaying, rotting flesh radiated from the bodies.
The head, thorax and abdomen of each corpse had been violently violated. Rigor mortis had set in hard. The assistant moved the bodies with a series of pushes and pulls. No matter how assiduously the man tried to move them, they kept assuming their original positions. Puck had his back to Ava as he attached the blade on the handheld saw. When the assistant was finally satisfied with the positions, he placed a tray of tools on the chest of the nearest carcass.
"What you see here, Miss Porter, are four very different specimens." Puck said as he placed the saw on the tray and stood in front of her.
She noticed how he had used the word ‘specimens’ instead
of a more humanistic term.
He continued with no emotion in his monotone voice. "The first," he said pointing to the corpse on the right, "is an indigent brought into the Norfolk Morgue yesterday afternoon— succumbed to coronary thrombosis.” The body of the old man, even after being washed, still looked filthy.
“The second," he moved to the right and stood in front of the next body, "died of complications experienced after an attack from a virus carrier." Ava could see half‑healed scar marks on the torso of the middle‑aged woman. "Yes, those are the wounds from the attack." He said looking at Ava through his eyebrows.
"But they are almost healed. How long after the attack did she die?"
"Three and a half hours," he said perfunctorily. He moved to the next table. "This, Miss Porter is a carrier of the MDR‑V6 Virus." This was the first sign of emotion in him. She saw a slight widening of the eyes and what Ava appeared to be a smile. The body was that of a teenaged boy. He was frozen into an unnatural position; the legs slightly askew from the torso, knees and feet together. The face was welded with a look of agony. The specimen had achieved perfect maturity, untouched by the ravages of age.
"I love working with this kind of raw material," Puck said. “There's no excess fat to impede my scalpel slowing down my work. The arteries are elastic, strong and muscular. The lungs are clean and pliable, not tarnished by cigarette smoke or pollution. There are no rampant abnormalities to have to explain. Yes, working with this tissue is a real pleasure."
"I'm sure the boy would be happy knowing he was such a big help," Ava said.
Ignoring her statement Puck said, "And this is what killed him." He pointed to a gaping, purplish hole just below the boy's sternum. He then moved to the last table.
"And lastly, we have what we theorize to be a virus victim, a minimum week to ten days advanced." There were immense differences between the body of the boy and that of the fourth. They differed in more than just size too. The man, Ava guessed him to be somewhere in his thirties, was at least six foot five and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The neck had been nearly severed. The head was attached to the body by thin pieces of skin and the spinal cord and was tilted backward as if at the moment of death the cadaver had been watching a plane fly overhead. Its gums were pulled back from the teeth and the incisors looked incredibly oversized and malevolent. To say that the prone figure had anything approaching human skin would have been a gross misstatement. It was too dark, too deviant a brown. The texture looked scaly.
