Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  Finally, the antique clock chimed midnight in its usual tinkle of muted bells, rousing him from his memories. He reached out to stroke Katie’s face but paused fingers above her. He couldn’t even touch her without causing pain. Wiping tears from his face, he rose from the bed, donned a coat, and left the house.

  The full moon threw faint light on the ghost-like silent dark houses that made up the bulk of the compound. The pale strip of road twisted ahead, a jagged path between him and the chemical storage area. His breath came out as puffs of smoke in the freezing air as his boots trod the pavement. Once there, he ripped through boxes, dumping contents on the ground searching for the supplies. Eventually he found a handful of wrapped syringes and a small glass vial of clear fluid. Thirty minutes passed in the journey to the lab and back but Mitchell remembered it as only an endless collection of one leaden step in front of another.

  Once back, he first stood beside Katie’s side of the bed, white satin pillow stained brown with blood tears. He touched her limp blond hair, whispering, “I love you,” before driving the needle into her arm. Only one cc of clear fluid poison caused her breathing to become shallow then stop. Her last breath came out in little more than a hiss before her limbs lost their rigidity of life. He pressed his lips to her still hot forehead, his tears falling on her closed eyes. “Goodbye.”

  Caroline’s eyes fluttered open at his voice. She felt Katie going still next to her and watched him fill the syringe again. Tears blurred his vision while he whispered, “I’m sorry."

  She smiled cracked lips and nodded, moving her arm out towards him. “I love you,” he said looking into her brown eyes as he plunged the needle into her arm. Despite the pain, she reached for his hand and held it for the moments it took for the breathing to slow. When her hand lost strength and fell back onto the bed, Mitchell’s body shook with sobs.

  A ten-cc vial of botulinum toxin and syringe became a permanent fixture in his coat pocket for the next week. He helped those who retained some hope of recovering and granted mercy to those that desired an end. Most sought the peaceful end.

  In the early morning of the eighth day, he banged the steel doors of the lab open again. He found the botulinum toxin in a less secure room than the other horrors they had cooked up in the past. The toxin came from protein harvested from Clostridium stocks but the poison itself was stable at room temperature. The vials sat packed for shipment in metal boxes near the other chemicals. The lid was left askew displaying four empty spots. The fourth vial sat tucked away into Mitchell's pocket.

  As he moved through the tiled hallways, he saw into the glass sections of each high security workstation. All the cabinets were closed up tight, glassware stored away in boxes and cages sat stacked and clean since all the animals had been destroyed in preparation for the great move.

  The hum of the equipment beckoned him further in. Out of a perverse curiosity, he stripped out of his dirty coat and jeans and pulled on the spaceman-like biohazard suit. He attached the oxygen hose to the suit’s valve once inside the great double glass doors. The gas hissed in, smelling stale and cold. The waist high cryo-units sat packed along the eight-foot wall. Strips of wide, colored tape lined the top of each of the now empty gleaming steel cabinets: red for microbe, blue for vaccine, and white for antidote. Each two-unit freezer had labels of the stored biological agents and their possible vaccines: Marburg and its cousin Ebola, Clostridium, tulemia, haemmeragic fevers, and Q fever. Mitchell pulled each container open, checking each frost encrusted tube, numbered and recorded against the clipboard lists magnetically hooked on each unit. All the glass vials gleamed in their padded white boxes except for two of the ten vials of Marburg, the ones that contaminated them all.

  Mitchell mentioned this to Geller that night. One of his children, Melissa showed signs of surviving but Geller suffered from the red glow of pain as his skin cracked and leaked in a dozen small cracks, symptoms of stage two infections. Most of his family was already dead. Mitchell filled him up with the last of the morphine and waited for clarity to peer through the veil of agony in his eyes.

  “Ray, can you hear me?”

  He nodded the smallest of movements.

  “Our stocks, everything we’ve developed is still here. What do I do when they come?”

  Geller whispered, each word coming slow and with great effort. “We’re embarrassment…know too much.” He paused and gestured with one finger towards a cup on the side table.

  Mitchell took an ice chip from the Styrofoam cup by the bed stand and carefully placed it between the man’s cracked lips before Geller continued. “They’ll kill all they find alive.”

  Mitchell sat stunned next to the bed. Geller’s eyes closed and it seemed like the morphine had pushed him into sleep. After a few minutes, his eyes slit open and he whispered, “Don’t know about you…kept your accident out of reports.” He began to smile but the movement made his lips crack and ooze again. Mitchell placed another chip of ice in his mouth. “Afraid to lose our jobs. Only reason you’re alive.”

  Mitchell nodded. His accidental contamination of weakened Marburg years ago might have lead to the whole Bio Lab-4 shutdown back then. The potential disaster had been averted. Instead, it pushed the vaccine research ahead by months. Vaccines in the animals simply didn’t work.

  Geller gestured again for ice. The shadows from dusk crept several inches across the room before he regained enough strength to speak again. “They’ll be back. You be prepared.”

  “I don’t understand, Ray. Be prepared for what?”

  “Escape… tell others.”

  “It’s not just me. Five others are getting better. One's your daughter, Missy. They won’t kill us.” Nevertheless, as he spoke, the cold realization dawned on him that everyone was dead, still breathing or not. No government that poisoned their scientists for the sake of secrecy would gladly welcome back the survivors. No witnesses could survive to tell others. They may be taken somewhere else for examination and dissection but they all died the night of that party.

  “Ray, I don’t know what to do. Where would I go? I don’t have an identity anymore.”

  “Look for box in closet.” A thin finger pointed towards the wardrobe behind Mitchell. “Key in desk. Money… contacts … people who’ll help.” Ray rasped for breath and the arm dropped. Mitchell began to move away when the bony hand grabbed his arm with surprising strength. “Others have stash too… look for them… old money… IDs. Escape and tell others.” The hand fell off, flopping back to the bed as Ray’s eyes closed.

  Within a few minutes, his breathing stilled and he passed into oblivion.

  It took little effort to find the attaché-size black fire safe that blended into the stacks of shoeboxes in the closet. Although one blow with a hammer could disabled the lock, Mitchell hunted down the silver key in the study. The room displayed typical Geller personality, disarrayed order of filed piles here and there. The wood and leather antique desk sat quite at odds with the flowery overstuffed chairs.

  Mitchell placed the box on the desk, but its key proved elusive until his probing fingers touched some cold metal taped just inside the bottom section on the center drawer. With a little pull, the tape gave way easily and a set of keys dropped down.

  Inside, the box was compartmentalized into top and bottom sections by a plastic tray. Ray’s marriage certificate as well as birth certificates for all his family members filled the top tray. Using a letter opener as a wedge, the tray popped up and out of the way. Underneath were fourteen small blue books: two sets of seven passports, one for the Geller family and the other using identical photos referred to the Mike Chisholm family.

  Mitchell pulled out a clear zippered pouch with five sets of IDs: social security cards, driver’s license, food cards, and credit cards, each with five different names but all with Ray’s and his family’s photos. The rest of the compartment was occupied with hundred, fifty, and twenty-dollar bills, old greenbacks minted more than fifteen years ago. Such a treasure was useless
in the stores but precious for the thriving tax-free and largely unrecorded black market transactions. The bundles of cash added up to $20,000 in neat little groups.

  Finally, Mitchell found the last item, a sheet of yellowing paper listing the names, phone numbers, and Internet connections of twelve people. The typed names had notations here and there in Ray’s cramped handwriting, “Rory Benson – over priced electronics” or “Tabitha – food cards.” Overwhelmed, Mitchell slumped back into the deep padding of the leather chair. Why had Ray planned all this? Was he a spy or black marketer planning to disappear some day? His head throbbed while thinking through the implications. Ray said others owned stashes of cash too. Had they known that this day was coming?

  As he leaned back into the chair, his leg kicked against a black soft-sided computer case tucked just inside the desk’s legs. Mitchell opened it up, removed the laptop computer and up ended the suitcase over the desk. Pens, memos, and an eyeglass case clattered across the leather pad. Mitchell secured the bills into an inside zippered compartment along with the lists and bag of IDs. As an afterthought, he also included Ray’s computer unit. Mitchell searched the desk drawers again but found little else of use except for an old version of the cell phones used before com-unit phones flooded the market. Taped to the top was a paper marked “pd. until August 2027, secured.” He added the phone to the case before zipping it closed.

  Chapter 4

  June 2, 2026

  Charro and Taylor walked through the conference room’s glass doors at five after nine, quietly shutting out the outer noise. Dorado nodded a greeting. The small mass of printouts before him represented the latest list of possible threats complied by Olsen.

  Taylor looked like the kind of man you didn’t want as an enemy. Six-four in height and broad shoulders made him look like he belonged on a football field knocking men down. However, he specialized in crime in the upper-class corporate world. Dorado thought the man’s intimidating size might work against him in that elitist world. But Taylor's handsomeness and his predator nature fit well in that world and he often turned on the charm when needed. Filled with similar predators, the corporate world easily embraced him as one of their own.

  On the other side, Charro belonged to the streets. With an average size at five-six and sporting slick black hair, he was a product of generations of minority gang activity. His hair had grown for years, braided with crisscrossing leather thongs throughout, and then pulled to one side of his head, a style fashionable in many Latino gangs. Most of his monochrome tattoos hid underneath the black silk t-shirt and expensive metal studded black jeans. When he moved, the silver implant lines became visible behind his ear and down the side of his neck. They disappeared into the thick coil of hair. Gangs often included nihilist members and nihilists were the ultimate technophiles, trading looks and often health in exchange for more body piercings, tattoos, and surgically graphed implants. Charro fit the description perfectly. Different from the average drug-using thrill seeker, the nihilists dressed in black and metal while sporting long, sometimes elaborate hairstyles. They went for the ultimate thrill: sex, drugs, overloaded sensory power-rushes and wiring directly into the sensory nervous system. What little circuitry Charro showed looked real but probably was fake. Cops never used implants, legal or otherwise.

  Olsen sat next to him, as different in looks as night was from day. Her frost blue blouse fit well into the white pantsuit. Her hair, pulled away from her face into a ponytail, made her features look more severe. She crossed one long leg over the other and tilted her head towards Dorado as he began the meeting.

  “Yesterday, I met again with members from the other local and federal task forces. We’ll have the cooperation of the other agencies because DCPD will be the lead agency in charge of crowds on the big day. We'll get manpower from the other local police agencies and they will patrol their jurisdictions but the command center runs through us."

  Charro let out a low whistle. McAfee shifted his weight against the filing cabinet. “Shit, nothing like a little pressure.”

  Dorado nodded, “Usually Park Police coordinate but DCPD takes the lead this year. The crowds will swell far beyond Park and Capitol Police borders. Hell, they’re expecting record crowds throughout Arlington, Fairfax, and Prince George counties at the smaller events too. Task forces in the suburbs will help us track down the threats as it crosses into their jurisdiction. It’s hoped that under the DCPD umbrella we can avoid jurisdiction issues. Of course, the Feds conduct their own investigations on anything out of the area or that connects to groups out of country. When we’re investigating perps with possible connections, we bring in the Feds on the bust but we question the suspects first. It’s our city folks and I don’t want to have any crap going on.”

  Olsen spoke quietly. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Anything and everything,” Taylor answered. His deep voice rumbled with only a hint of a Georgian accent.

  Dorado smiled grimly, “In a nutshell, yes. We’ve got to consider the possibility of small nukes, chemical bombs, biological weapons or the usual arsenal of semtex and guns. On the psychological front, we’ll look for suicide cults, nihilists with means and connections, gangs with an agenda or some dumb fool with a gun wanting to kill folks because his wife left him.”

  Sighs and headshakes greeted the news. Charro watched him with empty brown eyes. “That’s impossible. The seven of us can’t do jack-shit against all of that.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be the seven of us. As I said, the other police jurisdictions are using their tasks forces in a combined effort with us. We’ll pull in more DC officers as needed. On the Fourth, we’ll have around a couple of hundred officers throughout the metropolis, mostly concentrated downtown on foot patrol and reporting to us. The Secret Service covers the threats against the Chinese delegation and foreign terrorists’ threats. We’re to pass on to them any hints we get related to that. FBI and Homeland Security will investigate American-based terrorist groups so it’s only the local people we’re concerned with.”

  “What kinds of crowds are expected?” Olsen looked up from her notepad.

  “If the weather stays in the nineties, we’re facing about one and half million in and around the Mall area, Capital steps and all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. Another million may fill the surrounding streets. In all of DC, probably around three million.”

  “No fucking way,” Charro pulled himself upright out of his slump, “and we’re suppose to body search everyone?”

  Dorado leaned forward. “It’s all about controlled access. That area’s police will control each jurisdiction. Park Police covers the Mall and Memorials. Metro Police keep the subways flowing. Capitol Police take care of the crowd on their end and the Capitol steps show. The Smithsonian Metro Station closes by ten on Friday night and stays closed all the next day. Every street in a ten-block radius around this area will be closed down to vehicle traffic Friday night and stay closed. If people want in, they walk into the area from a distance or they come in on the subway through L’Enfant, Archives-Navy Memorial, Farragut, Gallery Place or the Union Station Metro stations.

  “DC uniforms will work crowd control on the bordering streets. Park Police are setting up the usual fence barrier around the monuments and the Mall to create a safe zone around the Smithsonian Folk Festival. All entry points include mobile metal detectors, Geiger counters and random bag checks. Patrol will use bomb-sniffing dogs brought in from all over Virginia and Maryland. If the dogs get a hit, police come in and take the person out of the area first, ask questions later. We'll talk more on this when the day is closer but the current plan is this. On that day, Taylor you’ll be the officer-in-charge on the Mall grounds to the Capitol. Charro, you’re OIC near at the Capitol area while Cardell works the area near the monuments and White House. Secret Service plans their own patrols around the White House and OEMB. Any trouble from anyone gets reported to me. Olsen is the communications liaison. She'll coordinate our movements and
manpower needs. Anything big happens, you call me and as many officers as you need. Olsen will get the nearest ones of whatever precinct to you."

  He paused to take a sip of coffee before continuing. "In the meantime, we get as proactive as possible. That means working to investigate possibilities, making arrests and driving troublemakers out of business. If we get a hint of home-based trouble, we investigate it and then work with Homeland Security and FBI to neutralize it. We, and that means you Sherrie, get full access to their resources hopefully without most of the bullshit paperwork. We’re asking for a liaison out of those offices for you to have quick access with.”

  Olsen nodded, “Thanks. That makes my job easier. What about the Chinese?” She leaned back into her chair, making quick notes on the small yellow pad.

  “You mean the peace delegation or the protestors?”

  “Either, whatever." Olsen shrugged. "The Free Skies issue comes to a head two days after the Fourth when we launch the GlobalNet satellite system. The President isn’t backing down. Historically, first strikes on national holidays can be a pretty damn good idea. Just look at the Israeli Yom Kippur War.”

  Dorado nodded. “I don't think we need to worry about the Chinese starting a war as much as a terrorist group attempting to precipitate one. Secret Service and FBI are handling the delegation’s movements. The FBI is doing what they can to discourage the groups expected to create protests.”

  “Discourage how?” McAfee leaned against the filing cabinet, twirling a pen through his fingers.