by Jeannie Rae
“Why did you have the vaccine on hold?” He lowered his head and locked eyes with hers.
“It wasn't flu vaccine. That's why it was on hold. The syringes were mislabeled,” she pursed her lips together tightly, glaring into his eyes as a lone tear crept from her eye.
Frowning, James sunk back into his chair. He motioned for her to sit in one of the two black, leather chairs before his desk. After a few moments of silence, he looked upon her once more.
“What was it?”
“It's a long story sir, which I will gladly tell you. This is very, very time sensitive. We need to find out who received those injections and locate them immediately,” she said in urgency.
“No, you will explain it to me right now,” collecting his phone, he dialed a few numbers. “Hello, this is James Meadows. I need the injection logs from this afternoon's flu shot clinic emailed to me immediately. No, I'll wait on the line until I have received the email. Also, are there any remaining injections left from delivery mishap this morning? I see, deliver them to Dr. Brandenburg’s laboratory immediately. No, I would like for you to deliver it, personally.”
He waited a moment looking at his laptop, almost as if Mara weren’t even in the room. He moved his finger across the mouse area. “Yes, I've received it. Thank you.”
He said nothing after hanging up the receiver, just clacked around on his laptop for a short time. Soon, crisp, white sheets of paper began to eject from his laser printer. He reached down yanking four sheets from the printer on a shelf, under his desk. Dropping them across the desk before Mara, a somber expression hardened his face.
“Dr. Brandenburg, there are two injections remaining, and they are being delivered to your lab as we speak. I would like that explanation now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roxy closed the animal science text book on her lap and set it on the coffee table, next to the three other weighty text books, as she began feeling lightheaded. The neighbors were speaking so loudly outside, and a lawnmower ripped to life. The noise volume made it seem as if the windows were open, but they were not. As the air conditioner in her house rumbled, it echoed in her head. Even the clock in the kitchen ticked at a thunderous volume. She clicked the television remote trying to find something compelling to watch, hoping that it would take her mind off of how she felt and silence the other annoyances.
After two commercials, she thirsted for water, her mouth feeling parched and sticky. As she stood, dizziness rippled through her head. She reached down to the couch armrest to steady herself, her body feeling achy all over. Slowly, she shuffled to the kitchen, grabbing her purse from beside the kitchen door to the garage. Filling a glass with water from the sink, she quickly sipped it. Her head drummed with pain, as she put her palm to her forehead. Her skin felt cold to the touch, yet beads of sweat stuck to her face. Wiping the sweat from her brow and upper lip, she gulped more water.
Going for her purse, she extracted a pamphlet that had been presented to her at the flu shot clinic. The cover had a generic picture of the building where she had received the shot with their company name and tagline at the top: ANGORA LABORATORIES, The Future is Yours. She opened it and began reading the warnings and side effects. Possible flu like symptoms.
That would explain the dizziness and achiness. This is sure coming on fast. Just a few minutes ago I felt fine. Looking at the time on the microwave, she realized that she had received the shot about three hours ago. She laid the brochure on the counter and pulled some generic cold and flu medicine out of the cupboard over the sink. Her dad always said-it’s just as good as the name brand.
Roxy eyed a mirror her mother found at a second hand shop a few years back. She studied her reflection in the framed mirror, on the wall, beside the sink. Her flawless skin had a collection of random beads of sweat. She fixed her left eyebrow with her finger, which had been disrupted when she wiped her brow. Her pouty lips were rosy, but felt parched, and her eyes struck her as peculiar. Not only were they bloodshot, but the actual shade seemed abnormal. Instead of the soft brown, which they had been all her life, they appeared lighter in color with little flecks of what looked to her as teal. She blinked her eyes, then shook her head, resolving that in her weakened state her eyes must be deceiving her.
As she swallowed the pills with a big gulp of water, she noticed Gypsy pawing in the space between the wall and the oven.
“What is it, Gypsy?” Roxy knelt down and looked beside the stove.
She hoped it wasn’t a mouse. Her thoughts went back to last year when their house had been invaded by the field mice. She hated the nasty, little critters.
Peering into the narrow crevice, she found herself surprised at how well she could see in the darkened crevice. A few crumbs, a fork and a blob of something could be spotted near the back. She inhaled through her nose and instantly could smell the pungent aroma of cheese. Munster, she thought.
She stood. I must be hallucinating. There’s no way I could smell a glob of Munster on the floor way back there, especially if I am felling sick.
Shuffling her feet sluggishly toward the living room with her head throbbing relentlessly, she thought a blood vessel may rupture at any moment. As she shambled along, her foot became ensnared by object that escaped her view. Stumbling forward, she caught her balance avoiding a tumble to the floor. Clanking aluminum sent her headache into overdrive as the clatter reverberated within her head. She found Kate’s duffle bag wrapped around her ankle. Four softballs and a metal bat had rolled out of the bag and across the tile floor. She bitterly shoved them back into the bag. I’m not zipping that thing up. Hopefully Dad does the same thing, and then Kate can hear it from him.
She eased herself onto the couch, grabbing the sofa throw draped across the top. Her two dogs, which she often refers to as the ladies, followed. Gypsy crept onto the couch and lay next to her, while Rogue snuggled next to her feet on the floor. Roxy wrapped the throw around her shoulders and reached for the remote control and lowered the volume.
Dave strolled down Starling Avenue, taking in the last gulp of orange soda from the fountain drink he had purchased at the Fast Time convenience store down the street. The drink sated his thirst, but did little to ward off the blistering heat radiating off the sidewalk and asphalt. The bar was only a couple blocks down and he knew that it would be a satisfying seventy-two degrees in the place, but being cooped up in his studio apartment above the bar all day was taking a toll on him. The same routine day after day—left Dave sure that he’d soon die of boredom.
He crossed the next block eyeing the park across the street. There were a few joggers and cyclists on concrete pathways, a couple kids tossing a Frisbee on the grass and a woman walking—or make that—being walked by four dogs. He let his mind go as he crossed the street, heading toward the park. He imagined what the lives of the people in the park must be like.
Since getting back in town a few months ago after being discharged from the Marines, he felt out of place. The downturn of the economy left many of his old stomping grounds closed down. Foreclosure signs blocked the windows of too many businesses and were planted in front yards of homes on nearly every block. Most of the crew that Dave knew in his high school days had moved on, either due to unemployment or their families losing their businesses or homes. Port Steward was his hometown, but with no family and after being gone for six years, it felt like a whole new place. In the Marines, he had direction and purpose, but here, he feels that he’s just winging it through life with no real direction.
Tossing his soda cup into a trash can, he took a seat on wooden picnic table, letting his feet rest on the bench seat. The table rested under a giant, Eastern White Pine, offering a generous blanket of well needed shade. The picnic table had been painted green at one point, but now the paint curled and flaked off, clinging to his jeans.
Saddle Brook Park was one of the only places that’s the same as it had always been, soaring shade trees and thriving, green grass seemed to roll on endlessly. The lingering
aroma of a barbeque in the distance brought Dave back to when his family had celebrated his ninth birthday in this very park.
As a refreshing, gentle breeze ruffled his gray tee and snuck through his buzzed, black hair, he spotted a family of four. A boy of about ten, raced ahead toward the duck pond with a loaf of bread in hand. The parents trailed behind, each holding a hand of a toddler in a blue princess dress. Every now and again, they would count to three and swing the little girl off the ground by a foot or so. She giggled contagiously every time.
Dave thought nonstop about this family. What they must do for a living, where they might live and what their house could be like. He thought about what it would feel like to come home and have people there that missed him while he’d been away and to worry about him if he came home late. And he wondered what it would be like to be on the other side of that scenario.
After watching the family feed the ducks and geese at the pond, Dave felt as if the heat of the day had drained him of all energy. Disappointment with himself and his current situation of nothingness, weighed heavily on him.
It’s pointless watching other people living their lives instead of living one myself. I need to get a hobby or get out and meet some people. Something. I can’t just live all hermit style, over a bar till the end of time. I need a change—something to look forward to—something to break up the monotony that is my life.
CHAPTER NINE
The ordinarily soundless, library-like halls of Angora echoed with the sound of combat boots trudging down the hallway. Eight men marched through in soldierly fashion. Dressed in black, they all wore steel-toe boots, cargo pants and short-sleeve button up shirts. Their shirts all have silver and bronze badges pinned to the left-side of the chest and are embroidered on the back, across the shoulders with the word SECURITY. Each has a utility belt around the waist, which holds a satellite phone, a heavy duty flashlight, a hunting knife and a Beretta 9A1 pistol with two spare seventeen-round magazines.
Despite the expansive floor space, large enough to house at least six decently sized laboratories, the top floor of Angora holds only two rooms. The first, is largest conference room in the building, capable of accommodating up to two hundred people. The meeting hall, as it is referred to, caters to semi-annual personnel meetings, holiday functions and annual Board of Directors assemblies. The second, is the Chairman's office. Elevators occupy the north and south ends of the floor and there are two stairwells located on opposite corners—a general stairwell to the northeast and a maintenance stairwell on the southwest.
The men made their way to the entrance of the Chairman's office, which is marked with double doors, framed in oak, containing frosted glass with the name James Meadows etched. No title is etched, as he is a man that needs no introduction, the founder and chairman of Angora Laboratories. Within the doors, an intimate reception area creates an atmosphere of tranquility. A black leather loveseat nests along the wall on the right, and is mirrored by an identical one along the left wall. Half a dozen enlarged newspaper and magazine articles featuring Angora and James Meadows, within frames, are interspersed around the room. Gentle sounds of flowing water filter through two ceiling speakers at either end of the room. Muted lighting combined with taupe colored walls are pleasing to the senses in comparison to the harsh white walls that encompass the remainder of the building’s interior. A modest desk is posted to the right of an oversized oak door on the back wall.
James’ cagey looking assistant rose from her chair behind the desk as the men entered. “Go right in, he's waiting for you,” she whispered, her eyes darting around skittishly.
The men said nothing, forging past her and opening the massive door. Marching inside the office in silence, they bluntly shut the door behind them.
Inside the chairman’s office, Dr. Brandenburg sat in a guest chair with her back to the door. James rose from his seat at his desk, striding toward the security team with a cavalier posturing, extending his hand.
“Randy. Thank you for getting the troops together and meeting with me so quickly.”
Randy shook James' hand formally. Standing before the Chairman at six foot-five, 235 pounds, in his early twenties, Randy felt certain that the work he does for James makes a difference. Randy smoothed his short, dark brown hair, grazing the spikes on the top. A cleanly shaven face revealed his darkly tanned skin and spotlighted his vivid blue eyes. Being in incredible shape, fitness is an obsession for him. As head of Angora Security, he holds his position with Angora in high regard. His job entails monitoring the entire building and surrounding property, with the help of his thirteen subordinates. He had been a in the military prior to working at Angora, as have many of the other guards employed at the facility. He utilized that same military mentality when it came to his job. He demanded perfection from his men, from their work ethic to their attire.
“Not a problem, sir. You mentioned an urgent situation, I ordered all seven of our core guards in,” Randy said officially.
James beamed, “You run a tight ship, Randy. In fifteen minutes, you managed to get all seven, including some off-duty guards, uniformed and in my office.”
Randy let a smirk sneak across his face. His eyes shifted to Mara, highlighting papers on James’ desk, looking more like a school teacher grading assignments than a scientist.
“We should get down to business,” James began. “You are welcome to take a seat, but this shouldn't take long,” he motioned to two more leather couches on the left and the conference table to the right, as he walked back to his desk.
The guards remained stationary, their eyes gazing attentively at James.
James’s office is colossal in size, utilizing enough floor space to encompass two ordinary three bedroom homes. The Port Steward facing wall, made entirely of tinted glass, is by far the most prominent feature to the space. His oversized oak desk is positioned before the glass wall, facing the entrance to his office. Floor to ceiling book shelves created with the same finish as the desk, wrap around the room displaying his favorite books, awards and other accolades that he and Angora have received over the years. The lighting in this expansive room is soft, giving it comfortable ambiance.
“Okay, then. We have a situation. The likes, I cannot fully discuss with all of you for security and confidentiality reasons. What I need, is for you to locate four individuals. They were here at the flu shot clinic this morning. It is of the highest importance that they be brought back to Angora as soon as humanly possible. This is completely off the books. No logs are to be written, secure radio protocol to be utilized. I am looking at you all as a specialized task force. This is a matter of extreme confidentiality. No one is to know what you are working on. In addition, I need you all to stay on task with this until all four patients are returned to Angora,” James paused.
“Sir, Buzz, here. If you don't mind me asking, are the patients ill or contagious?” Buzz asked, clearing his throat.
“Hmm, well that is a good question Buzz. The answer to that is a little tricky,” James paused again, as if he were thinking about what to divulge to them. “Here it is, and this is what you should tell them, when you find them. They have a virus. They contracted the virus roughly three hours ago. They will die from this virus without treatment. The incubation period is about four to seven hours. That means in one to four hours these people will be dead. The virus is contracted through the blood stream, so beware of any wounds. We want to save these people, and need to get them here right away.”
Mara stood and handed four sheets of highlighted paper to Randy.
“This is all the information we have on the patients,” Mara began, “You will find contact numbers and addresses for both—home and work, as well as emergency contacts and so on. I have already sent this information to your phone, Randy. You can forward it to your team members, if it would be more efficient for you access the information that way.”
“We won't let you down sir. Let's go boys,” Randy said, before turning back to James. “Oh, and sir,
if they refuse our invitation to return to Angora?”
“Any and all necessary force, we need them back here no matter what. I hope that we can get to them in time, before the virus takes their lives. But either way, we need them back here.”
“Understood sir,”
“Oh, and Randy, again, good job on the assignment this afternoon,” James said cryptically.
“Thank you sir,” Randy grinned, closing the door behind him.
James looked out the glass wall behind his desk at the town of Port Steward, sometimes referred to as The Port by locals or The Witch’s Boot by tourists. It is shaped very much how it sounds. The town is almost an island, except for a one hundred and fifty foot diameter, bottleneck that connects the town to the mainland or what would look like the shaft of the boot. The area from the tip of the boot’s toe to the bottleneck is called the cape. The land on the cape is shaped like an elongated crescent and with salty ocean waves lapping on the shores. A small marina is located approximately at the midpoint of the cape that caters to the population of fewer than four thousand. Route 97 runs the perimeter of the town and is the only way in or out of The Port by land. Tourism and the fishing industry are primarily what keep Port Steward afloat, so to say. The town is home to a number of recreation areas including Sandy Dunes Beachside Campground, Dampier’s Pirate Museum, The Port Steward Wildlife Preserve, seven natural ponds and more than twelve parks, along with a small metropolitan area near the bottleneck, which is where Angora is located.
“We don't have a treatment for the infected,” Mara said with concern.
“Mara,” James shook his head, without interrupting his gaze at Port Steward. "For being such a brilliant mind, you sure can be daft. I know you don't have a treatment—yet. But I am not going to tell them that, or the patients, for that matter.”
