Independence Day Plague

by Carla Lee Suson

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?”

  “A biological, possibly a virus.”

  His face was grim when he nodded. “We can run a quick spectrum analysis for biological material in the truck. We get a hit on the presence of some biological material on any dirty areas but once we get a sample of the fluid, we can test it for large numbers of just one type of bug. All it will say is that we have large amounts of protein and DNA. A quick microscope check will tell us if the bug is bacteria. If it is a virus, we can't identify it in the field. We’ll have to quarantine everyone then and do a complete site cleanup. Do you know how many people are down there?”

  “Station Master’s working up a list but I’m guessing about 350 or so.”

  “Shit. DC General Hospital is on alert for a quarantine situation but they can’t handle that many folks. We’ll have to bring in Johns Hopkins as well. If the contamination’s that high then we’re almost fucked already.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need to quarantine them then.”

  The trip back to the Mall area included thirty-five minutes of standing in line at the security checkpoint. As he waited for his bag inspection, one of the brown-uniformed Park Police officers repeatedly glared at him, frowning. He pushed the cap farther down over his head, hunched his shoulders and turned his head downward. Once past the metal detectors, the inspector poked through the backpack without glancing up. The inspector spoke, “Move on” and shoved the bag aside. Picking it up, Mitchell quickly left the white tent area. He turned sideways a few steps beyond the tent pole and leaned down to tie his shoe while watching the frowning officer. The man opened his personal com unit while glancing in his direction. Mitchell stood up quickly, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder and then took off into the crowd in a quick pace. Once inside the Mall, the sea of humanity swept him up and pushed him further down the gravel and dirt lane. Stopping proved impossible unless he sidestepped close to one of the fences delineating the different areas.

  He swallowed down the panic rising in his throat. Glancing at his watch, he gritted his teeth. The next message needed to go in seven minutes. He looked around for relatively quiet place to pull the next com unit out. The stake and wire half fence at his back separated the walkway from the craft area while in front; the huge white food tent loomed with ten lines of waiting customers. He pushed through to the back of the food tent, near the garbage cans. Despite the flies and stench of food and beer, a few people lingered in the open spaces around the back. He ignored them and turned towards the tent, quickly unzipping the backpack. A force bumped into him and he fell into the side of the tent before he could regain his footing.

  “Sorry guy” the blond teenager grinned and ran back to three other kids waiting.

  Teeth clenched in frustration. Mitchell pulled the mini-com out and zipped the pack up. The false bottom lid flapped open on its hinge but he only pushed the wrapped food over the top. He'd fix the bottom later. He scanned the area, barely seeing the crafts area tucked into the tree line that separated the street area from the central open grassy Mall. Twenty small demonstration booths dotted the long area, corded off from the main gravel path.

  He forced his way through the crowd flow on the sidewalk to enter the craft area. Once inside, the crowds lessened to a slightly more spacious cluster. He followed the flow of foot traffic deeper among the booths, making frequent nervous glances at his watch. Finally, as four families gathered around a weaver, watching the craftsman shift and thread the string on the six-foot loom, Mitchell opened the com-unit, checking the signal strength that was small but adequate. He pulled the email up for a final check and then pushed send.

  As with the other com-units, Mitchell looked around for a way to dispose of it immediately. An overflowing garbage can sat in one corner lodged between a doll seller and an exhibit of native instruments. Yet the machine had a value as collateral evidence if found. He walked over to the doll seller, standing at the edge of the table already crowded by visitors. Silently he set the com-unit down on the corner then shifted his bag. He picked one cloth doll up to examine then placed it back on top of the com-unit, then turned and walked away.

  A child’s voice rose, “Hey mister, you forgot your phone. Hey mister!”

  Ignoring the voice, he quickened his pace as he slipped out of the corded area and back into the main flow of the Folklife traffic.

  Dorado finally ordered the release of the surly subway passengers from Navy/Archives station by 2:00 after each had signed their name and address to a list. The HAZMAT workers confirmed that the fluid contained only harmless saline water. Upon entering the station, he looked over the large, curving honeycombed design of the place. Taylor walked with him over to where Ortega stood on the train platform near the three-foot wall. Metal framed plastic advertisement signs broke up the wall area. The fractured plastic on this sign was in four different pieces with the light bulbs inside blown out. Four other signs had similar cracked plastic facades and broken glass around their base.

  Ortega pointed at the palm size box and long tubular attachment hanging inside the frame at the top of the five-foot sign. "It's a simple device. A small explosive blew a hole in the plastic, allowing the spray a full 180-degree path. Anyone nearby was going to get hit with the spray."

  The men looked closer. Dorado sighed and touched the phone piece in his ear. "Com Control, this is Dorado, get me in touch with Henderson at Metro Central Police Command."

  He paused for a few moments before continuing. His voice reverberated across the train tracks as he spoke into the headpiece. “Yes, you can start the trains through Navy/Archives but I want all the stations swept again. Use the dogs. That includes this station, Arlington Cemetery, L’Enfant, Federal Triangle and Gallery Place/Chinatown stations.” He paused, listening to the response. “I don’t give a damn how stretched you are. Get men in there and search the places again. Terrorists stay very loyal to one method. Check the damn advertisement signs. Rip them apart if you have to.”

  Taylor stood nearby, examining the hole. “I’m surprised the dogs didn’t pick up on the C-4. I know it was a small amount but they’re trained to be incredibly sensitive.”

  Dorado turned to him. “Take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.”

  Taylor did, his face creasing in puzzlement. “Wetness, mint. A lot, considering how dirty this place is.”

  “Yeah, the explosive was home-made. Anarchist websites recommend coating the outside with a strong aromatic to throw off the scent. Plus, people left lots of gum under the sign box. People leave their damn gum in lots of hidden places that are also perfect for bombs. We can’t train the dogs to search out a mint smell or they would be stopping at hundreds of false alarms.”

  Taylor looked at the many chewed lumps along the top and back of the sign. “We can test them to see if any have his DNA.”

  Dorado shook his head. “We won’t get results in time and I’ll lay you odds he’s not in the system. Everything about this guy has disappeared. No, he left us clues, we’re just not putting them together right.” He paused, brow furrowed. “About how many people are inside the Mall grounds now?”

  Taylor harrumphed and frowned. “People can hardly move in there. I’m guessing about close to a million maybe.”

  “But that doesn’t include the ones outside the fence perimeter, in the museums, or down by the monuments.”

  “Well, it’s just a guess. We’re more crowded now than I’ve ever seen this area.”

  “But they’re still coming in…”

  “I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of it yet, no.” Taylor replied. “Some folks will get tired and go home but most will still be arriving."

  “When do you think the crowds will peak?” Dorado and Taylor walked back towards the exit.

  Taylor looked around, watching the next train arrive, belching out people. “Most will arrive by seven to get seats for the fireworks. That is when everyone looks for a patch of grass to sit on. Why?”

&nb
sp; “Bombers tend to be very dedicated to their methods. He’s going to use a spray bomb because he's told us the weapon is some kind of disease. So we have an idea of the delivery method, and a large, general idea of where. Now we need a when.”

  "When the crowds are at their highest. I saw the first message when you posted it.” Taylor replied.

  “Yeah, that means we have about five hours to discover the real bombsite.” His phone buzzed on his hip and he tapped the earpiece on. “What?” he said flatly.

  “Mike, we have the next message. It’s a list of names of diseases and their symptoms and treatments.” Her voice sounded cool and professional.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes. All the diseases are fatal and I think most of them are rare. At least I haven’t heard of them before.”

  “Contact Col. Anderson directly by that number I gave you and give him the list. See if it has more meaning to him than it does to us. Also pass it on to the CDC and ask for their take on it.”

  “I’ll do that.” She paused. “I think we have something else too.”

  The noise echoed and increased as more people filled the station. He cupped his hand over the earpiece. “What’s that?”

  “Each message’s email comes from a different IP address. In other words, he uses a different computer each time. In addition, he’s piggybacked off of any Wi-Fi connection he can get. So far, they are all downtown with the last one in the Smithsonian area. The length of the email transmission sometimes gives us enough time to trace it back to a physical location but the machines are abandoned once the officers get to the location.”

  “So that doesn’t leave us with anything.” He tried to stifle the snap in his voice.

  “By themselves, no but the numbers are sequential.”

  “So?”

  “We know the next IP address he’ll use. Jacobson thinks we can program something to backtrack it to him so you’ll have a window to call him back before he disables the machine. You can talk with him. If we can keep him on the phone and occupied…”

  “We can track him down.” Dorado replied. “Good work, Sherrie.”

  Mitchell carried the backpack in his hands to keep from bumping into people as he weaved further through the crowds. It was five minutes shy of 3:00 and he gave up finding a private place to remove the next com-unit. Instead, he decided to rely on the general disinterest of those around him. Many of the people, particularly the kids were using some form of texting device, so one more person on a phone wasn't remarkable. He mounted the steps of the Natural History Museum, walking slowly behind a family of dark brown-skinned Indians. The younger male members were dressed in jeans and t-shirts while the two elderly women wore bright yellow and red traditional sari dresses.

  A uniformed officer stood halfway up the steps, his back propped up against the stonewall, gazing across the crowds. He took frequent glances at the screen of the com-unit in his hand.

  Mitchell silently cursed. Sending the message in the museum was safer but his timing was critical. He glanced at the cop as he unzipped the bag and pulled out the com-unit. Looking over again, he saw the cop scanning the line, pausing briefly on him as the com-unit in the officer's hand chirped. The man looked away, raising a hand to his earpiece. Mitchell turned his back and opened the machine. Ignoring the bored glances of the old women in front, he brought the message up and pushed send without reading it over. He knew the email by heart. The message talked about Marburg, the virus that killed his friends and family. He wrote how they evolved it over time. This microbe's DNA proved unique enough to only come from their labs. The message ended by telling them that it was the same virus he planned to release tonight.

  He watched the pop-up screen showing the messages departing along electronic waves to its destinations. He closed the lid and risked another look around. The cop spoke into the mic while searching the faces of the people sitting or standing on the white steps.

  Suddenly, the com-unit in Mitchell’s hand vibrated then began emitting a tinny but loud tune. He stared at it in shock. The screen still showed the transmitting popup window but now included an incoming call message. The family shifted around, shooting him irritated looks.

  “Sir!”

  He looked around wildly. The police officer slowly walked up the steps towards him, com-unit in hand. “I’d like a word with you sir.”

  Mitchell nodded, thinking furiously. He snapped the com-unit’s case shut, turning off the ringing and slipped it inside the unzipped bag. He turned and walked along the step away from the line. The officer stopped a few steps below. “Can I see what you’re holding there sir?” The officer held out his hand.

  “Sure,” Mitchell mumbled. He fumbled with the backpack then swung it at the officer’s head. It clipped the side of the man’s head and knocked him off balance down a few steps. Mitchell took off at a run, dodging the around people as he headed for one of the museum’s four brass-lined exit doors.

  He shouldered his way past two teenagers and through the door. The officer was shouting outside. Inside, a portly white-shirt security officer dove to intercept him “You can’t go this way sir.”

  Mitchell heaved a shoulder into the fat man’s chest, knocking him into the rope stands, and then took off, weaving through the crowds. Glancing back, he saw the police officer come in, pistol in hand and four other white-shirt security men diving into the crowds after him. The normally spacious rotunda was packed thick with people. The distance between himself and the police increased slowly as he continued to push and weave around the Mammoth display and towards one of the five hallway exits.

  Once into the walkway beyond the rotunda walls, the crowds thinned out, movement became easier, and he quickly dove through a marine exhibit. During the past month, he had toured many of the museums, familiarizing himself with their layouts. He slowed to a calm walk, progressing through the animal exhibit and exiting out the far side near a stairwell.

  Once upstairs, he walked near the edge of the balcony, peering down at the officers from the crowded circular balcony. The security men at the door stopped people from coming in while others slowly allowed some out. Several of the white shirt men attempted to make their way through the crowd in the rotunda but people were pressed tightly everywhere against the walls and exhibit cases. The cop stuck out from the crowd in his brown uniform, hand to his earpiece. As he watched, four other police came through the exit doors and dove into the crowds.

  Mitchell swore quietly. He backed from the railing and zipped the bag closed. He fought the desire to throw the com-unit away immediately, but curiosity on how they had tracked the machine down stopped him.

  He looked around, spotting the geology exhibit. Crossing the flow of traffic around the rotunda balcony, he slipped into one of the quieter room. Gleaming glass cases of rock specimens dotted the walls and central floors. The exhibit seemed almost spacious compared to the press of bodies around the centerpieces of the exhibit, the gems at the entrance or the Hope diamond located in the outside passageway. The lights flickered overhead and people froze in position. With the sound of the air conditioning system winding down, the lights dimmed then failed completely. Voices rose in anxiety but light filtered in through the few windows in some of the exhibit and through the roof of the rotunda area. Mitchell blinked a few times and then began pushing through the paralyzed crowds. The blackout lasted four minutes, allowing him to move deeper into the museum's bowels. Weaving through four packed rooms, he finally arrived at the small gift shop at the end of the exhibit.

  The shop's glass shelves and displays were filled with rocks of all sizes and many sculpted specimens as well as books on geology. Mitchell spied what he needed in one back corner. Standing near a harried-looking mother flipping through shirts, he found a dark blue tee shirt with museum logo and a black baseball cap with a mammoth in gold embroidery. Thus exhausting the store’s clothing possibilities, he reached for the card in his pocket. As he stood in line, he saw another white-shirt walk throug
h the rock exhibit. Mitchell looked around the little shop but it had only one doorway. As the security man moved closer, Mitchell dropped the cap and squatted behind the glass display to retrieve it as the man looked through the shop’s entrance and moved on.

  After paying for his purchases, Mitchell wove through another exhibit at a calm pace and then up another flight of stairs to the third level. The small restroom at the end of the Roman exhibit was decorated with pale tile and dirty with bits of wadded paper all over the floor. He stepped to the last stall, locking the door in place. The air reeked of unflushed toilets. As he slipped one shirt off and put the other on, he heard the door swinging open as men came and went. He froze as he heard the knock on the far stall.

  “Sir, this is the police. Can you come out please?”

  The voice rose from the first stall. “Yeah man, let me just finish up in here.”

  Mitchell bent and glanced through the stall crack. Brown pants and tan shirt of the Park Police reflected back at him from the grubby sink mirrors as the man moved down the stalls, opening each on. Heart pounding, Mitchell stuffed the old shirt into his bag and looked around wildly. The nightstick banged against his stall. “Sir, can you come on out?”

  The toilet flushed further down and Mitchell heard the snicking of the distant door lock. “Yo man, what’s up?”

  The cop turned towards the voice. “Just looking for a specific man. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Is it a brother?”

  “No sir, white man with brown hair.”

  “Well long as it’s not a brother, I guess I can go.”

  The cop’s radio crackled to life. “All units, we have a Code Red at the south east corner of the American History Museum. All available units respond on site for crowd control.”

  The cop swore, moving out of range of Mitchell’s view to answer. “Roger central on Code Red. 407 responding.”