“Dr. Aslam. I’m leaving. You are now in charge.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Dr. Hughes has full confidence in you and will give you all the support you need. I’m convinced you can do it. But keep in mind that Dr. Hughes is a pretty tough customer. Don’t screw this up!”
“Uh… Okay.”
“And more thing.”
“Yes.”
“Please bring me my stethoscope.”
AUGUST 22ND, 3 P.M., VIA APPIA ANTICA, SOUTHEAST BOUND, ROME
Ahmed El-Hamasy hit the brakes and shifted down to second gear. The engine of the Fiat Iveco huffed and puffed as the vehicle jerked violently. It had been years since he’d driven a truck this size, and it showed. The old roman pavement didn’t exactly make it easier. As the vehicle decelerated, they passed Catacombe di San Sebastiano, its Gothic arched entrance, usually occupied by Asian tourists, but now completely abandoned.
Underneath the church were the catacombs, where scores of Christians, buried throughout the centuries, had been laid to rest. Ahmed thought this would have been a natural destination for their current cargo, but the imam had disagreed. They were not to disturb the burial grounds of those already passed.
After another 200 feet they turned onto Via di San Sebastiano, stopping just by the field they now used as a graveyard.
They had embarked on their mission as soon as the burial services collapsed. It started small, burying the sick from their own community in Tuscolana. Then, as the bodies started mounting on the streets, they set out in trucks to find other Muslims and ensure them a proper burial.
Early on, it was clear that the amount of bodies would be too numerous for their usual burial grounds, so they set up camp at a two-acre open grass field west of the catacombs. It was pristine ground in a central location. It was here that they bathed, shrouded and buried their fallen with their heads towards Mecca.
So far all had been good, but once they were catching up with the Muslims the imam proclaimed their duty to bury the others as well, be they Christian, Jewish or pagan. They weren’t sure of the proper rituals, but they put them into the ground and prayed for them.
Ahmed wasn’t wild about the idea, but since he was one of the few in their group who could drive a truck, he didn’t have much of a choice.
He kicked open the door of the truck, jumped out, and walked around the back. Sherine came around from the other side, grabbed the truck’s handle, and turned to Ahmed. “You ready?”
Ahmed reached into his pocket and pulled out his vinegar-soaked scarf. He put it on and gave Sherine a nod. Sherine popped the door open and they started unloading the bodies.
A dozen men, all with scarves covering their mouths and noses, came over to carry the corpses away towards the burial field. And with them came the dogs. The two stray shepherd dogs that they couldn’t seem to get rid of no matter how much they shooed at them.
In the distance, Ahmed could hear loud bangs interlaced with the screeching of tires. This had to be the women coming. Ahmed had given one of them a crash course in truck driving, but she’d only had time to acquire the most rudimentary skills. It was the willpower of the driver as much as the motor that propelled their vehicle forward.
Whether it was in the tradition of the diseased they were burying or not, they stuck to their own ways in this respect. Men handled men and women handled women
The imam came jogging over and embraced Ahmed and Sherine. “You are back. Safe and sound, al-Hamdullah.”
“I’m not so sure about safe,” said Ahmed pointing at Sherine’s scarf, which was speckled with blood, both fresh and coagulated.
The imam grabbed the back of Sherine’s neck and looked deep into his eyes. “Life and death are in God’s hands, Sherine. Whatever happens, God will show mercy to you as you showed to his creatures. You were striving in His path, and for this, you will be shahid.”
“Shahid? A martyr? How do you know? How can you be so sure?” Ahmed struggled to conceal his discontentment with what they were doing. “Dying for people who do not even believe in our God?”
“Our God? What’s this talk, Ahmed? ‘Our God and your God is one, and unto Him we surrender.’ This you should know.”
“But…”
“God never asked you to judge his creatures. He only asked you to show compassion to them, whatever their beliefs and deeds are. He is the only judger and to whom we will all answer.”
He patted Ahmed on the shoulder and said, “Seek God’s aid, my son. And don’t lose your resolve.”
AUGUST 24TH, MIDDAY, INTERSTATE 95, SOUTH CAROLINA STATE BORDER, EN ROUTE TO COLUMBIA
A full infantry battalion traveling on the interstate is a mighty sight. Now there was not one, but two, the first and third battalions of the Third Infantry Regiment out of Fort Myer, heading toward Columbia with orders to establish a perimeter around the city. With Fort Bragg out of commission, they were the closest force of sufficient size and capability. Fort Jackson, with its 4,000 soldiers was based in South Carolina but wasn’t considered up to the task, as it was primarily a training facility. They’d provide bodies, but the Third Infantry Regiment would provide leadership.
Riding in the lead vehicle was the commander of the first battalion, Colonel Degan. It was not common practice for the commander to ride first in the US Army, but it was in the Israeli. It had caused horrendous casualty figures among the officers in the Six Day War, but Colonel Degan was convinced that the drawback was well offset by the morale it inspired in the troops. Also, General Patton always rode first, so that settled it.
As they neared the state border, the colonel saw what he assumed was the National Guards’ feeble attempt at a quarantine. It was a half-dozen Humvees parked in crisscross formation over the road. It didn’t look particularly professional. “Jeez,” thought the colonel, “about time we took over.”
Suddenly one of the Guardsmen yelled through a megaphone: “Halt!”
“What’s up with this guy? Who does he think we are? A band of looters?” said the colonel to the driver. “Keep on driving.”
The man on the megaphone shouted, “Stop your vehicles immediately or we will open fire!”
The colonel was more annoyed than concerned and shouted into his own megaphone. “This is the Third Infantry Regiment of the US Army. We are here to help you enforce quarantines around Columbia and all major populated areas in South Carolina.”
“Your presence is not wanted. We know the army carries the infection and we’re clean so far. We’re under orders from the governor to stop any and all attempts to enter the state, army or not.”
“Yeah, that’s all great but I am under orders from the president of the United States and that trumps your imbecile governor!”
A shot rang out. The driver hit the brakes.
“What the fuck is this guy doing!?” yelled the colonel to his driver. He once more grabbed his megaphone, “This is Colonel Degan of the US Army. I order you to cease fire! We are coming in to complete our mission with or without your permission.”
“We won’t let you, Colonel! We can hold our ground.”
“The hell you can! You’re nothing but a bunch of hacks, a not-particularly well-organized militia. You won’t stand a chance!” He told the driver to keep going.
A second shot rang out, this one hitting a soldier in the Stryker’s turret behind the lead vehicle. The injured soldier returned fire with his mounted M2.
The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control. The colonel a called out to cease fire.
“What is going on? The South Carolina National Guard firing at the army? Are these guys nuts?” the colonel yelled at his aide. “We better get a general on the line. Madmen they may be, I’m not gonna start a civil war without some form of authorization.”
“Technically, you could argue that they already have,” responded his aide.
AUGUST 24TH, NOON, AEOLUS’S QUARTERS, PRESIDENTIAL BUNKER TWO, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Aeolus clo
sed his jaws around the pill and as the crushed powder spread throughout his mouth, so did the characteristic bitter taste of Benzodiazepines. Chewing the tablet and absorbing the drug through the capillaries in the mouth was a much faster route to comfort than swallowing it with water. For addicts, the bitter taste was intimately linked to the relief from their constant anxiety that Alprazolam offered. To Aeolus, it meant nothing. He had always shunned all valium-like substances, having seen their detrimental effects even on men of great willpower.
Looking up from the sink into the buckled sheet of metal that served as a mirror, he saw the image of a weary man looking back at him. His eyes had lost their icy shine and were now a dull, darkish blue. His eyelids hung droopily and on the left side of his forehead, his latent rosacea had burst out into three pus-filled red lumps. There was little to do about most of these defects in his appearance. The only thing he could control was clearing his bloodshot eyes by constant application of diluted naphazoline hydrochloride.
It didn’t take long until he felt the Alprazolam taking effect. His heart rate gradually slowed and he could feel the pulsing in his veins reduce as his blood pressure came down. But it didn’t help. The headache kept hammering on.
He’d tried everything he could think of. Everything that would not affect his alertness or mental faculties: Simple analgesics just for completeness, beta-blockers for reducing the heart rate and sumatriptan to reduce the activity of the trigeminal nerve. There was nothing left but opiates, and even mild variants like codeine would slow down his brain.
It was a quick decision. It would be debilitating, but less so than the headache itself. As he gulped down the pill, he smiled at the thought of the resident physician’s violent protests against his rummaging through the bunker’s medical supplies. The thought of undergoing any form of medical examination or having another doctor approving his prescriptions was utterly absurd to Aeolus, and it had taken only a quick glance at the doctor to make him understand as much.
He splashed some water on his face in an attempt to shake his drowsiness, and returned to his desk. He sat down heavily and the aluminum chair screeched against the concrete floor. His current increased sensitivity to auditory sensations made the sound painful to his ears.
He returned to the manila folders in front of him. Reports on three possible cases. There were still many hospitals that didn’t have access to proper tests, and in some of these cases there was no time to wait as the presence or absence of the virus would influence the quarantine measures.
Most of them were resolved by CDC staff using rigorous clinical examination procedures put together by Kevin and Ed. The most difficult ones, however, were left to Aeolus’s judgment.
The clanking sound of a knock on the metal door announced Hank’s arrival. As Hank entered, Aeolus threw the folders on top of his notebook and gently the first one on with his index finger, announcing: “Case A I would call as a positive. I feel pretty confident that the others are negative though.”
“Great! That solves my last problem,” Hank said, spreading out maps on the desk.
Hank spoke rapidly, almost as if hypomanic, and raced through the current case spread, deployment lines and the choices they were faced with. Aeolus answered Hank’s questions calmly, and shared his opinions without really being mentally present. Hank, however, seemed too excited to notice.
After a half-hour of discussions their joint recommendation to the president had taken form. Hank gave Aeolus a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Get some sleep, old friend. Pardon my Hebrew, but you look like shit.”
After having escorted Hank out and reassured him that he would indeed get some rest, Aeolus returned to his desk and shifted the manila case folders aside. Below them lay the notebook he had hidden from Hank. It was open, and in large capital letters was written: “GAME OVER!”
AUGUST 24TH, 5 P.M., 107 OAKLEY STREET, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON
Glaring lights came on and Cain Philippi reluctantly opened his eyes, trying to understand where he was. It only served to add force to his already hammering headache.
He gathered his bearings and realized he was at home, in his bed. The reason the lights had been turned on was apparently a twenty-something blond girl standing by his bed, wearing nothing but a shirt he was pretty sure was his.
“Good morning, baby. A bit hung over, are we? I was just about to make you some breakfast. Looks like you have eggs in the fridge. Don’t know if they’re still edible, though,” she said, giggling.
“Oh, yeah, good morning…” Cain struggled to remember the girl’s name, “Sophie?”
“Sophie!? It’s Amanda! You don’t even remember my name?”
“Ah, sorry Amanda. Just a bit confused in the morning. Quite hung over, as you said. Had a great time yesterday though.”
“Yes, you did indeed” Another giggle. “Three times!
“You want those eggs, or you want to satiate some other appetite first?” the girl asked, slinking toward him like a cat.
“No, actually… Amanda, I can’t. I have to go. I have some things I need to attend to.”
“That’s fine. I can wait.”
“No, you see, you have to leave. There is someone coming round and you can’t stay.”
“Who?”
“Er… my mother,” said Cain with an apologetic smile.
“Your mother? Coming here? In violation of the curfew?”
“Yes, and she is quite conservative. Sorry, but you can’t stay.”
“So when do we meet up?”
“Er, when this whole thing is over. I am going out of town for a while. I mean yesterday was great, and I’ll call when I get back. I promise.”
“You’re throwing me out? Just like that?”
“Not throwing you out, exactly… but… yeah, you have to go.”
“And how am I going to get home? There’s no public transport. No cabs. There is a curfew, for God’s sake. I live in St. Johns Wood. That’s an hour’s walk!”
“Yeah, sorry about that...”
“You bastard!” she yelled, slamming the bedroom door.
It took Cain fifteen minutes to gather enough strength to get out of bed and by that time Amanda, or whatever her name was, was long gone.
As he stumbled into the kitchen, his brother handed him a Bloody Mary.
“Boy, you look like shit…”
“Nothing a little hair of the dog can’t fix,” Cain said, raising his glass in a toast. “What’s the plan?”
“I spoke to Daniel.”
“Getting that satellite phone was a stroke of genius. How did you know the mobile networks were going to go down?”
“TV, you know. The advantage of skipping that last Flaming Lamborghini is that I get up two hours before you…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah... What did Daniel say?”
“He says there’s a mother of all parties tonight at Maggie’s. They call it the Eve of the Apocalypse. Bastard to get in though, they say.”
“Bang on! Never heard of a party I couldn’t get into,” Cain said, waving his fingers in the V of victory.
His brother coughed, and when he removed his hand from his mouth, his shirt was stained with blood. For a moment, Cain saw a flicker of fear in his brother’s eyes.
“You sure you’re up for this?” asked Cain. “How is that fever coming along?”
“It’s a lot worse actually, but nothing a good dance with the White Lady can’t fix,” Joel said, pulling a zip-locked plastic bag filled with white powder from the pocket of his faded jeans.
“I thought we were out?”
“I managed to lift it from my date last night.”
“You really have no morals! Huzzah!”
“I know. Ain’t I great? There is one problem, though. How on earth are we going to get to Fulham? I hear even the curfew-defying cabs are almost impossible to get now.”
There was a moment of silence and then Cain broke out in a sly grin.
“I guess we could take Boris-Bikes.”
“Boris-Bikes? Are you joking? That is just so ninety-nine percent.”
“Well, there aren’t many alternatives now, are there? Have a shower and get dressed. It’s time to get going. Woof!”
The club was already pumping when they arrived. Inside was the share of the London beautiful who’d decided that, rather than fleeing into the countryside, they would make their last stand in the heart of the city.
As Bolli Stolis with Belvedere and Cristal were passed around and lines of coke and ketamine were cut openly on the tables, the music was turned down and Max, the club’s owner, climbed up on the bar.
“Friends! Welcome to the Eve of the Apocalypse! This is the party that will keep on going until none of us is left standing.
“We’ve all seen what’s happened elsewhere in the world. Societies are collapsing and people are fleeing like scared rats – running away as if they had no choice. What they don’t realize, but we do is that we do have a choice!
“On the one hand, we have the choice of submission. We could drive aimlessly through the countryside, hunted by fear, hoping to find a petrol station that still has petrol or a bed-and-breakfast with a bed left. The people who choose this will be the ones who die slowly in a tent on a field, surrounded by nothing besides the rotting corpses of their fellow travelers.
“But there is also another choice – our choice. We are the ones who choose not to run with broken backs. No! We are the ones who say: ‘To hell with it! If we only have a couple of days left, let’s make them our best.’ Let’s enjoy what little time we have, and do so to the fullest! Ours is not the choice of submission or surrender. No! Ours is the choice of accepting our destiny, embracing it, and making it our own!
“Even if the government says otherwise, it is clear to me that money no longer matters. There’s no way to get it, and even if you could, there is nothing to buy. Hence, we are running a free bar. This evening is on the house, and we’ll be serving vintage champagne until we run dry. The only payment we expect is that you stand in celebration with us, and make these last evenings of the apocalypse a worthy eulogy of our club!”
The Nightmare Scenario Page 31
