Eden Plague - Latest Edition

by David VanDyke

  “DJ!”

  “Zeke. Really good to see you, man. Is that Spooky back there?”

  “You know it. Still doing his thing.”

  Spooky was a little Asian guy, what Daniel’s dad would have called a Montagnard. His name, what ended up on his documents anyway, was Nguyen Pham Tran. The Vietnamese equivalent of John Smith. He had come over as a teenager in the Boat People wave of the 1980s, and joined the US Army as soon as he could. Ninjas had nothing on Spooky in the bush. His family had been anticommunist insurgents until they got sent to the reeducation camps. Spooky didn’t talk about it much.

  “Hey, Spooky,” Daniel called over his shoulder, now that he felt he could move without getting shot. He heard a grunt in reply. When he got out of the van, he didn’t see Spooky anymore. He’d faded back into the woods.

  Daniel hugged Zeke, slapping his back. “Good to see you, man.” He stretched, then bent over, touched his toes, loosening up his muscles after the long drive.

  “That physical therapy must be working, if you can stretch your back like that,” Zeke observed. “Let’s go inside. Spooky’s enjoying having woods to play in. We’re lucky he was between jobs.”

  The little man kept busy working for defense contractors, personal security. Sometimes that meant just what it sounded like – keeping VIPs safe in rough country. Sometimes it meant off-the-books clandestine and covert work, all plausibly deniable.

  “You still teaching at that gun club?” Daniel asked.

  “Yep. Certified Master Instructor, senior Range Safety Officer, all that. Once the relic holding the top job finally retires or croaks, I’ll be in charge of all range operations. Nice and cushy.” He paused, chewed his lip. “Too cushy. Run your van into the barn, will you?”

  Daniel did that, as he opened and closed the big door behind him. There was a Jeep Cherokee, a Land Rover and a Porsche Cayenne parked inside. I bet the Porsche is Spooky’s. He always did have champagne tastes.

  As they walked out the side, man-sized door, Daniel said, “Well, if what I got to tell you doesn’t get your cushy butt off the couch, I don’t know what will.”

  They went into the cabin, grabbed a couple of cold ones out of the fridge – Zeke a beer, Daniel a diet peach iced tea. They sat down in the dim glow from the coals of the fireplace, no artificial lights on. Daniel breathed in the familiar, comforting smells of canvas and wool, old fish and deer’s blood, wood and smoke.

  Setting his tea on a side table next to his elbow he stared across at Zeke. “I only want to tell this once, so can we get Spooky and anyone else you got around in here? He needs to hear it too.”

  “It’s just Spooky and me so far.” He pulled a little sport walkie out of his jacket pocket and keyed the mike twice, then twice more. Private code for “bring it in,” Daniel guessed.

  A minute or so later he felt the faint stir of air that accompanied a door opening, but try as he might he didn’t hear a thing until the hot pot in the kitchen started boiling. He saw Spooky moving around in the next room with a stainless steel tea ball then heard him pour. He came in with the mug, sat down across from Daniel. His face was sharp and closed, wary as always. He wasn’t Daniel's friend, but he was Zeke’s, and that was good enough for now.

  Daniel told them the story, then, from the open door at his house to departure from Quantico, leaving nothing out but some of his own private thoughts.

  Spooky’s face showed nothing. Zeke’s more open countenance showed doubt and wonder. He ran his left hand repeatedly over his face, smoothing his beard, his eyes distant, thinking. Daniel was sure his mind was running down some of the same tracks his had, and he would come to some of the same conclusions pretty soon. Now he would see what these guys were made of.

  Zeke got up and began pacing. Spooky nodded at Daniel, then slipped out of the cabin again, probably to make another sweep. Daniel would have bet cash money there was nothing to worry about out there, but Spooky wasn’t taking any chances. Hopefully he’d swept the van for bugs, too.

  “Got anything to eat?” Daniel asked, uneasy in the silence.

  “Yeah…” They went into the kitchen and Zeke turned on the little light over the stove. He pulled out a fragrant pot of something from the fridge, set it on a gas burner and lit it. “Cass sends her love. And her stew.”

  Daniel laughed. “Ditto, and I get to enjoy the stew.” Then his face fell. “Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned me to her.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m fresh out of the habit of lying to my wife.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell her precisely where you were going.”

  “I’m not that out of practice. I just told her I had to help you out for a few days, and I couldn’t tell her where. She’s a Special Forces wife and a retired spy. She understands.”

  He got out a loaf of bread and sliced it up, next to a bowl of butter. They waited for the stew to warm up, and for Daniel’s story to sink in.

  Zeke opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, then closed it, false starts. Finally he said, “All right. So you say you got this XH in you, whatever it is. So you can heal like magic, almost, if you’re the same as Elise now. If it doesn’t take longer to get to its full strength. If it doesn’t have some unknown freaky side effect. And you can pass it in a bite. But maybe you’ll turn into a werewolf when the moon is full, or maybe you’ll burn up your years of life, or maybe you’ll get a taste for blood and go Dracula on our asses, or who knows. But I have to see it for myself. I mean, I wanna believe you, man, but…”

  “Trust but verify, right? Yeah, I figured. Well, as far as I know it doesn’t protect from pain, so pardon me if I don’t chop off a pinky. This ought to do.” Daniel picked up a paring knife, put his hand down on the butcher-block counter, palm up. He stabbed the tip into the meaty part of his left hand. He had some callus on it from working the bags, but it still caused a pretty deep little cut and a welling of purplish blood. He held it over the sink and dripped for a minute, just for proof.

  Daniel could feel something happening, a nervous surge, like a jolt of adrenaline. His mouth started watering, and he had a definite attack of the munchies. He buttered a piece of bread one-handed and ate it, which calmed them down for a bit. After a couple minutes of waiting, he ran his hand under the cold tap, rubbing the spot with his other hand until it was completely clean.

  Then held it out for inspection.

  Zeke grabbed it and looked closely, pulling Daniel’s hand over under the stove light.

  The wound was gone.

  The stew was starting to smell really good.

  “And all that happens besides the healing is you get hungry?”

  “Yeah, so far, just like I told you Elise did. She was tore up and she wolfed down four or five pounds of food like it was nothing, and a quart of orange juice, and I bet she needed more. It must take energy and building blocks – sugars, protein, amino acids, vitamins and minerals, stuff like that. Just like recovering from a hard workout but a thousand times more and faster.”

  “Not much of a downside, if you get your bum knee and your bad back and your concussions and whatall fixed.” He licked his lips. “I wonder about Ricky.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows, shrugged sympathetically. Ricky was Zeke’s son. He must be about eleven, and he had muscular dystrophy. Duchenne’s. He would already be in a powered wheelchair. Daniel had volunteered at a Jerry’s Kids’ camp a few times, so he knew. He also knew that pretty soon Ricky wouldn’t even be able to use his hands to control the chair. By twenty or twenty-five he would be almost helpless, probably bedridden. Most people with DMD didn’t make it to thirty. It made Daniel feel a little guilty, because it smacked of manipulation, holding out a cure for his friend’s son.

  Zeke wondered, “But what happens if it heals him, then whatever ticking time bomb of a side effect is even worse? Until we know that, we can’t even try. What if it didn’t cure him, but did…whatever? Turned him into a monster? His mother would never forgive me.”

  “You�
�re starting to get it, what I’ve been agonizing over. We have to know what the downside is. And there’s only one person I know of that knows anything.”

  “This Elise Wallis woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we have to find her and spring her.” He made it sound like running to the store to pick up a quart of milk.

  Daniel frowned. “Spring her, I can see. But how do we find her? I’m just an operator, and a pretty fine stitch. You’re an A-team leader; hell you were, what do they call it, a detachment commander? There are a couple more guys I could call that I can count on, but nobody with the skills and contacts to find someone like that, just from a name.”

  Zeke smiled, wicked. “Spooky does. His company also does corporate intel.”

  “Cool.” And it was. It was a ray of hope.

  -8-

  Elise walked into the office and sat down in the chair by Doctor Durgan’s desk. This put her well away from Miguel, who couldn’t exactly hover nearby with the Doc in his usual spot – the place of power behind it. She ignored the man, since she couldn’t do much else. She did notice he was wearing gloves, long sleeves and body armor.

  That made her feel better. The virus really terrifies him. If he gets it he knows no more rough sex with the hookers downtown. Actually, she mused, two Edens could have sex as rough as they wanted, as long as it was consensual. It’s giving up the genuine violence and the fear in his victims’ eyes that he’s afraid of, surrendering the power and the forcible dominance – call it like it is, the rape. Giving up that thrill. And he hates me all the more that I refuse to knuckle under even a little bit. He’s just another bully.

  Durgan cleared his throat, and she realized she had been sitting there woolgathering. “Look Elise,” he said reasonably, “we can’t have any more of this running away. Not just because you’re an important part of the team, even though I know you’re holding out on me. We can’t have you passing the Plague on before we perfect it. If you’d just figure out how to get rid of – or even just reduce – the undesirable effects, we would be able to start using it to help people. To cure people.”

  Elise sighed. “Look, Doctor, we’ve had this argument before. The best thing about it is that the worst people in the world won’t want it, and if they do have it, they will no longer be the worst. Like him.” She jerked her thumb sideways in Miguel’s direction, never taking her eyes off Durgan. “Infect him and you won’t have to worry about him hurting anyone anymore. How many times have you bailed him out of jail?”

  “Ah, but if I did that, he might want to run off too. One of the reasons he’s staying here, one of the reasons he is so angry with you, is that he does want the Plague. He just doesn’t want the side effects. If you alter it properly, if you give me a strain that we can use, he’ll be off your back. I’ll make sure he gets reassigned to some other project. In fact, I probably won’t have any choice. He’ll become so valuable to…those above us, they will want to use him for special tasks.”

  “You mean he’ll become a more effective thug.” She spat on the floor in Miguel’s direction, and laughed as he jumped back. “Wow. See? His biggest fear is that his evil will be cured.”

  “Come on, Elise. You’re a scientist. You don’t believe in evil.”

  “Oh, I’m beginning to come around. Just because evil has a basis in neurology doesn’t make it any less horrifying. I’ve seen that ‘good’ – to give it a simple name – can come out of a virus. That means evil is just mental illness. And you’re sitting here refusing to cure someone who is certifiable, because he’s useful to you. What does that make you?”

  Durgan’s voice was droll. “You are a master of the obvious, Elise. You know you are right. Miguel is useful.” His voice hardened. “And unless you want to suffer, you’ll stop even talking about spreading your infection. If I have to, I’ll have you confined and your food intake reduced. I can keep you at the edge of starvation for as long as I need to.”

  Fear shot through her but she refused to let it show. “I won’t be able to help in the research if you do that.”

  “But perhaps it would motivate the others, knowing how much discomfort you are in. And if that doesn’t work, perhaps I will reverse the roles.” Durgan leaned forward, his balding head shining with the sweat of stress – or perhaps it was excitement, power. “Perhaps I will have Miguel abuse someone you care about. Roger. Arthur. Or…how about Bobo?”

  In spite of her resolution not to show them any fear, she blanched. I can’t let them hurt Bobo. The chimp would never understand. She would never trust a human again. And even though primates could be carriers, it didn’t affect them exactly the same. They didn’t heal fast like humans did, not in body or in mind.

  She couldn’t let them do it.

  “All right,” she whispered. “I won’t cause any more trouble.”

  Durgan’s face broke out in a big, false smile. “You see? I knew you could be reasonable. Miguel, go get Karl.” When the man had left he went on, “You like Karl, right? Well now that we’re all friends again, he can be your minder. I can be reasonable too.”

  “Thank you,” she ground out. The courtesy cost her something. Self-respect, perhaps. But what could she do? Until Daniel showed up – and she hoped he would – she was helpless.

  ***

  The next morning at the cabin the men awoke at dawn. At least, Zeke and Daniel did. Spooky was already up and around somewhere. That guy doesn’t sleep much, thought Daniel.

  Zeke talked to Spooky for a minute before they started their morning run, out of Daniel’s earshot. He realized he wasn’t really one of the team. Not yet. All he’d done was fast-rope down to a bad situation and save Zeke’s life on a Kandahar mountainside, and knock off a bunch of Taliban. He hadn’t done any actual ops with him or his people.

  Zeke and Daniel walked down a trail that connected to a jogging loop. Daniel hadn’t run for exercise since the IED explosion, and he was eager to see how healed up he actually was. Zeke was an indifferent runner, and he was getting kind of flabby, but he wanted to see too. They started off slow, real slow, just a little airborne shuffle, but pretty soon Daniel had to hold down his pace. After about a mile, Zeke slowed to a walk, huffing.

  “Go on, man. I’m out of shape. I’ll make the circuit at my own speed.”

  Daniel nodded, then took off at an easy run. Soon he was feeling really good, kind of floating. Runner’s high, he guessed. The second mile took him around past the cabin, and he kept on going, waving at Spooky, looking out the upper barn window. He sped up again, stretching out. He breathed deeply and easily, and felt like he used to, before the explosion that broke his body. Better, even. He felt like he was in his teens again, qualifying for track and field. He might have had a shot at the Olympics if he hadn’t enlisted in a fit of patriotic fervor. He was pretty sure he was running at nearly a four-minute-mile pace.

  Fantastic. Whatever the downside, this makes it all worthwhile.

  He lapped Zeke in the last quarter-mile, blasting past him to the cabin, then jogging back, cooling down. He walked the last couple of hundred yards along with Zeke.

  Zeke looked at him sideways, like he had two heads. “Holy crap. Holy crap,” he kept repeating.

  “I try not to put those words together anymore, but I agree with the sentiment,” Daniel answered dryly. “I am a bit hungry, about what I expected. And thirsty.” He ran his head under the outside water pump, then took a bunch of swallows. It tasted metallic. He pumped it a few more times for Zeke, then they walked over to the barn to see what Spooky was doing.

  Inside, they found another vehicle, a Toyota SUV, and another, younger man of about twenty-five. He was talking to Spooky, and looked a lot like him, at least to Daniel's eyes. He was saved from a charge of racial insensitivity by the introduction.

  “Vinny Nguyen,” the man said as he stuck out his hand.

  Spooky gave him a glare.

  “Or Nguyen Van Vinh, if you ask honorable Uncle-san here.”

&
nbsp; Double glare.

  “I work tech and IT for Brownstone.” At Daniel’s blank look he went on, “The security contractor. Uncle Spoo-”

  Spooky lashed out like a striking snake, to slap Vinny on the back of the head. “You have not earned the right to call me that,” he said harshly.

  “Uncle Tran Pham,” Vinny started again, heavily, with a careful sideways look at his elder, “called me last night and said I’d be helping out. With something. Which he hasn’t explained yet. Nor has he told me how much it pays, or how long the job is, or anything that normal people get to know when they do a job.” He crossed his arms to glare back at Tran.

  Spooky snapped, “This is not normal job. Maybe pay a lot, maybe pay nothing. I don’t call you as a favor to you, I call you because you are family and supposed to be trusted. If you can keep your mouth closed. Do not shame me in front of my commander and his comrade.” He might speak English pretty well, but his heart was still in the mountains of Vietnam, and his diction tended to fall apart under stress.

  It occurred to Daniel that his dad and Spooky would get along famously.

  Vinny dropped his eyes, the rebelliousness of youth warring with his family, his inherited culture and the force of Tran’s personality. The latter bunch won, and he nodded his agreement. “Okay, okay. What do I need to do?”

  Tran pointed at Zeke. “You do what he tell you to. He your boss now.”

  Zeke nodded, said to Vinny, “We need to research someone – who she was, who she is, where she works, where she might be now, everything. And we can’t be noticed. There’s big mojo against us, maybe even NSA, so it has to be very clean and light. You up for that?”

  “Duh. Nothin’ to it.”

  Daniel noticed they had already set up some kind of satellite antenna and a control box up in the barn loft, aimed at the roof. Looking closer, he saw the ceiling looked different above it.