Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  Chapter 12

  June 29, 2026

  The Chinese delegation arrives in Washington today for what can only be termed as a tense attempt at peace talks. Washington is the last stop on their five-city tour, which included Los Angeles, Chicago, Dallas and New York. Their twelve-day visit here coincides with the 250th Independence Day Celebration. White House sources state that they are hopeful that the talks will ease tensions between the two countries and a new satellite-space agreement will be reached.

  During their visit, the delegates plan to tour the DC area and join the President and First Lady at the White House for a formal dinner and the viewing of the spectacular fireworks display planned over the Potomac River on July 4th.

  In further news, requested permits for parades and assembly have increased tenfold as political groups from around the country gather to protest both for and against peace talks with the Chinese. Local governments are overwhelmed and some are refusing all requests, a move that has some groups going to court…

  Mitchell turned off the radio and removed the earpiece as he wandered through the Springfield townhouses. Macon the wonder-wired amazed Mitchell in the high level of information he ferreted out about General Talbot. Among other things, the file included most of his military history, a clue into his family life, the name of his personal driver, when his wife died, and the address of his home. After watching the townhouse complex for three days, Mitchell knew that Talbot was a man of irregular habits. He came and went at odd hours. His only companion was a dog, a black-coat American Manchester terrier that looked a great deal like a Doberman with short legs. The dog stayed in the small, grassy backyard that was squared off by a six-foot tall cedar fence.

  The neighborhood was quiet at three in the afternoon, most of the houses devoid of any sign of activity. The white, two-story structure townhouse appeared almost identical to all the others on the cul-de-sac. The façade included almost no front yard, a driveway leading to a one-car garage and a small, fenced backyard. The gardens that edged the front near the door contained a few perennial bushes with empty dirt patches where the weeds slowly encroached. Dressed in utilities brown overalls, he sauntered along the houses with electronic recorder in hand, making a show of ducking between houses and pausing at the meters. An elderly person walked down the sidewalk, watching him with distrust. By Macon’s reports, Mitchell knew the General was a man of habits and high security. The front door was double locked and linked to a security system.

  At the Talbot house, he walked to the back fence and heard the barking of the terrier. Taking a plastic bag out of his pocket, he paused before tossing the contents high in the air. Raw hamburger laced with powerful sedatives sailed over the fence. Mitchell crouched out of sight listening to the dog eat until the jingle of the dog collar stopped. He jiggled the handle of the padlocked fence. Nothing reacted.

  The padlock loop easily cut in two with the use of a handheld laser cutter, one of several purchases from an electronics dealer on Geller’s list. Removing the lock, Mitchell stepped quietly into the backyard. The black dog lay across the cement patio near the glass doors, hamburger still clenched in her teeth. The yard was much like the front. A large shady oak grew offside, shading most of the back yard. The grass was clipped short, but it was losing the battle to the spreading bare dirt. Mitchell noted the wooden two-seat bench just to the right of the glass doors, still decorated with the day's paper and a half-drunk ceramic cup of cold coffee. He used Macon's instructions and a few select tools to enter the house through the sliding glass doors and disable the alarm.

  Mitchell wandered through the two-bedroom building for an hour, preparing the house for Talbot’s arrival. Painted in creams and tans, the house looked elegant and free of decoration enough to feel a somewhat sterile. The furniture was all fine woods and embroidered fabric on a thick padded, light brown carpet laid on top of high polished wood floors. The fireplace looked as though it never held ash. The dark stained wooden mantel held the only possessions indicating the personality of the owner. Various sized family photos of Mrs. Talbot, now deceased, their two boys, each at various stages of age covered its top. The last two small pictures contained snapshots of the grown boys and their families. Talbot had five grandchildren for his legacy. Mitchell sat opposite the fireplace and stared at the pictures for a long time during his wait.

  The hum of the electric car pulling up and a door slamming outside pulled him out of his revelry. It was six-thirty, the time the general often came home for dinner. Peering through the curtains on the front window, he watched the car pull away and the general walk, briefcase in hand to the front door.

  The man stood five-foot, nine, slightly stooped. He looked solidly and squarely built with rigidness to the shoulders. His Army uniform hung snugly across his shoulders. His cap was drawn down low, hiding his eyes. Tired lines etched across the jowly face. Mitchell shook his head as if clearing his thoughts and then quickly crossed the foyer to the tableau he had set up in the dining room.

  He heard the general open the door, keys jiggling and then taking off his coat. The old man wandered through the kitchen head down looking through his mail, barely in Mitchell’s sight. As he stepped into the dining area, Mitchell spoke. “Good evening, General.”

  The man jerked up, eyes narrowing watching him from one of the high-backed oak dining chairs. “Who the hell are you?” Talbot snarled.

  “I’m one of your old employees.” Mitchell smiled and replied. Two glasses and a bottle sat on the table between them. Mitchell’s antique gun lay on the table within easy reach. He moved his hand on top of it lightly strumming his fingertips over the grip. “I thought I would join you in a drink.”

  Talbot’s face flushed with anger as he stormed into the room. He looked over through the thin curtains hanging in front of the glass sliding door. The porch area was empty. “Where’s my dog?”

  “She’s fine, just asleep. I’ve moved her around the corner under the tree where she’ll be in shade. She’s a beautiful animal, by the way.” Mitchell picked up the gun and pointed it. “You are a difficult man to see outside the office. Come and sit down. Let’s have a drink and talk for a bit.”

  Talbot gave him a hard look over before moving into the small dining area. He took the pulled out seat nearby so that the corner of the large table wedged between them.

  Mitchell watched him impassively; saw the general coldly assessing him. Talbot saw an ordinary man, average size, dressed in a business suit. Mitchell had worn the suit under the gas company jumpsuit. He wanted to be taken seriously. The general, like most others, judged men by their clothing. The jump suit implied invasion robbery or petty theft. It waited in a garbage sack in the kitchen.

  The general nodded at the two glasses of liquid between them. “Do you always have cocktail conversations at gunpoint?”

  Mitchell smiled. The general’s belligerence made what he had to do even easier. “In this busy world, I find it's one of the few ways to get people to slow down and really listen. People hear you but they rarely really listen. You, for example—you don’t know me but you're sure it's a matter of waiting me out until the security or police arrives. Have you wondered yet if I’ve disabled your system? I have just as I have disabled your dog.”

  “Who are you?”

  “James Mitchell, civilian employee for the U.S. Medical Corps, last assigned to Biological Research Laboratory 4 located near Dawson in North Dakota.”

  Talbot’s eyes narrowed and he waited a fraction of a minute too long before replying. “I've never heard of you or that place."

  Mitchell shook his head slowly, “Wrong answer, although technically correct now I suppose, since you ordered it burned to the ground.” He pushed one of the two glasses of clear fluid and ice forward. “Have a drink. It’s bourbon.”

  The general picked up the glass, held it to the light and peered through it. “You’re the one that killed Forester?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you expect me to d
rink this?” Talbot upended the drink, spilling it across the linen tablecloth.

  Mitchell reached over and poured more into the glass. He picked the glass up and took a swallow before placing it before the general again. “Relax, there's no botulinum poison. I’m not going to use that on you. I need you alive.”

  “What for?”

  “To tell the world that we existed. You see, you did a very good job destroying all the evidence of BL-4 and, I assume, the other labs. I don’t know where the other labs were located but Stegan knew. Unfortunately he’s dead, burnt to ashes, and his work erased completely.”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “I told you. I worked there.” Mitchell felt calmer than he expected. Here sat the man who destroyed it all. Mitchell felt no qualms, no fear. He sensed only a vague revulsion. The monster in his mind was unmasked to be just an old man, a widower whose kids had left him. Macon’s reports implied that the man had alienated his sons and they rarely ever visited. The man sat there hunched, alone in the world except for his love for his dog. Mitchell felt a small sense of disappointment. Sympathy for the old man welled up when he needed hatred of the monster. He drew out a digital recorder from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table between them.

  “You can’t seriously think I’ll tell you anything?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know what Forester told you but just suppose for an instance that any lab like this exists. That information would be highly classified. Son, I don’t divulge classified information to anyone, particularly lowlifes like you.”

  Mitchell smiled and took a drink from his glass. “Ah, but I’m not a lowlife. I’m an ex-employee with a security rating at the highest level. We all had that rating. We passed your screening before being allowed to join the project. Lowlifes never passed the tests you put before us. They shipped out, disappeared, and according to Forester were killed on your orders. That was a lot of years ago of course but, hey we were very good at keeping secrets until the end.”

  His smile faded. Mitchell switched on the recorder. “It’s not like I don’t already know the details. Your voice adds corroboration. I’ll be revealing everything soon. It’s in place and there is no way for you to stop me.”

  “I could kill you.” Talbot said evenly.

  “Yes, but the story still leaks to the press no matter what you do today. You see, you have your grandchildren, your work. They represent your legacy to the future. You robbed us of ours. My child is dead; my work, erased. I find that killing you isn’t what I want. I want to rob you of your legacy. Your sons already avoid you. I want them to hate you. I want them to curse their name and connection to you. The world will know you for the mass murderer you are.”

  “They won’t believe you.”

  “Someone will, General. Someone always checks out the crackpot’s story and start investigating. I don’t believe you covered everything. Hints and clues still exist if people dig deep enough. For instance, you didn't kill the town of Dawson. They knew we were there. The story will get out.”

  “Then you don’t need me.” Talbot crossed his arms against his chest and leaned back.

  “Ah, but I do. Forester confessed to his role and yours. But I have to know why, General. My family, all my friends died in a span of twelve days. I find in my last days here that I need closure. I need to know why you suddenly had the urge to play God and kill everyone.”

  Talbot’s eyes blazed. “Go to hell,” he snapped.

  Mitchell took out two syringes out of his coat pocket. One filled with a clear reddish/brown fluid, the other with clear liquid. “I’ve been there. You put me there. I watched your men consume it with fire. The people were all dead but I could still hear them scream as they burned.” He put the syringes in front of them and watched the fear fill Talbot’s face. “Now I seek a way out. The nightmare must end, General. It’s going to end through you.”

  Mitchell put the gun down and picked up the red syringe, removing the cap with thumb and forefinger. Instantly, Talbot lunged forward, knocking him to the floor. Mitchell’s head banged against the cream marble tile. Pain shot through his head. Talbot rose up off him, one meaty hand clenched around the wrist that held the needle. Mitchell dropped the syringe, swinging his left up to block the punch aimed at his eyes. The two men rolled against the chair legs and grappled for the small plastic tube. Mitchell brought his knee up, rolling and kicking hard into the general’s side. Talbot flew against the near wall. Mitchell rolled over, searching for the syringe. Breathing hard, Talbot lunged across the floor, reaching for the gun on the table. As Talbot’s fingers closed on it, Mitchell grabbed the syringe and jabbed it into the general’s thigh, pushing the plunger down.

  Talbot grunted and swung the gun around. He pressed it hard against Mitchell’s forehead before looking down at the syringe. Mitchell grinned. He sat up, raising his hands. Talbot leaned down and pulled the needle out of his leg. Keeping the gun level with Mitchell’s head, he slowly rose back to a standing position. “What the hell was that?”

  Mitchell smiled wider, “Yersina Pestis.” He sat back to a relaxed kneeling position, lowering his hands to his lap.

  “Plague? You gave me the fucking plague?” His gun hand whipped up and punched the kneeling man with the barrel. Mitchell’s head shot back out of the way. The blow glanced off his jaw and blood ruptured from his lip. Talbot picked up the second syringe and held it up to the light. “What’s this? Penicillin? Streptomycin?”

  Mitchell sat motionless and stared at the thin plastic tube.

  Talbot swung the gun butt around and smacked it into his face again, “What's in it, you son of a bitch?”

  Mitchell reeled back, blood spurting from his nose. “I’m impressed that you knew about the plague. That's more than Forester knew. Why don’t you just shoot yourself up with that and see what happens.”

  Talbot swung on him again but this time Mitchell dodged the blow and grabbed the older man’s hand. The general stared at him for a few minutes and then curled his lips into a tight smile. “Black Death, huh? Rather stupid of you.” He stepped closer and placed the gun back against Mitchell’s temple. “I’ll just take care of you and then get myself a shot of a wide spectrum of antibiotics. The Black Death hasn’t killed anyone in industrial nations since the invention of penicillin. If you worked in a Bio Lab, you'd have known that.”

  Talbot pressed the gun hard against the man’s head, forcing it backwards. Mitchell closed his eyes, sighing gently. Talbot squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked audibly. Mitchell pushed himself upward, driving his head into Talbot’s abdomen. The general flew back, smashing against the glass in the china case behind him. Mitchell drove a fist into the old man’s abdomen then snatched the gun away.

  “I never intended to shoot you. That would be too easy.” He hammered the man’s head back into the wooden struts of the cabinet until the man’s head lolled to one side. Blood streaked across the cabinet. Mitchell backed off and watched the general fall to his knees gasping for breath. Taking a thin nylon rope out of his pocket, Mitchell kneeled to tie the General’s hands behind his back. He then picked up the second syringe and uncapped it. Holding it above Talbot’s head, he squeezed the plunger. Liquid squirted across the man’s forehead and trickled down his face. “I wanted you to have hope, to think this was antibiotics. It is a terrible thing to have hope and then watch it die. It’s just tap water, nothing more. Now, I find myself not caring that you have hope or not. You robbed us of it. We died knowing you deserted us. Now, the only way you get to live is if I get you to a hospital soon enough.”

  Mitchell swung a chair around and sat in front of the fallen man. He continued, “See, that’s the tortuous thing about hope. We had it at BL-4. As people lay dying in their beds from unimaginable pain, we all hoped someone would rescue us. After all, the product stayed there, ticking away like some damn freakish time bomb in the four cryo-units. Our work was too valuable, too deadly to be simply left behind. Everyo
ne knew. They waited and hoped until the day their hope died in a sea of pain.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, you bastard.” Talbot mumbled.

  “That’s the spirit, General. Keep arguing and evading. The longer you take in telling me the truth, the more time for the bacteria to grow inside you. The Black Death traditionally takes two to ten days to incubate. Then the symptoms start to appear. Once the first black spot, the skin lesions, appear, then the mortality rate rises significantly.” He reached down, hoisted Talbot up by the lapels, and placed him in an oak chair.

  The general’s head rolled back and blood smeared across the chair’s fabric. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” His words slurred together.

  “Fortunately for you, you don’t have that long. Plague was our first success. We vamped this little bug up. Fever and swelling of the lymph nodes will start in less than twenty-four hours. Lesions arrive shortly thereafter. It’s the weekend, General. I have days that I can sit here and watch you die.”

  Mitchell watched the man’s eyes close and his head slumped to one side. Mitchell sighed. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. When the man’s breathing became deep and regular, Mitchell checked the head wound. It bled a lot but now slowed to ooze. The bones felt solid underneath. He grabbed the old man under the shoulders and hefted him up. The trip to the living room couch was short but Mitchell felt his muscles straining as he lowered the old man down. He moved a recliner opposite the couch and then settled in to wait.

  Two hours passed before the general stirred. He blinked and squinted at the man across the coffee table. Two white pills and a glass of water were on the table within easy reach. He spoke low. “What do you want?”