End Time
Page 3
“Haha. It’s the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Neither democratic nor republic, but most definitely the Congo.” Mika chuckled at his own words as his fingertips hummed across the keyboard. Steele was always amazed that a man with his girth could type with such blazing speed using bratwursts for fingers.
Steele gave Andrea a look.
“Do we even go there?” Andrea asked, crossing her arms. She raised her eyebrows at Steele questioning the legality of the operation. Steele shrugged his shoulders. He was used to going to places that he had only read about.
“We do now,” Mika said. “Came down this morning. A couple of pen strokes from the President and off we go. Team Lead Wheeler wants you back here by 1700, and make sure Mauser knows, too.”
It was already 1300. It figures that they would let him train all day and then give him an extended mission. Steele thanked Mika and walked out with Andrea.
“All right, Andrea. I’m gonna hit the office gym quick and make sure Mauser’s awake. He’d probably sleep all day if I let him.”
Andrea snorted a laugh. “I think the gym has had enough of you,” she said, punching him lightly in the shoulder.
He flexed his bicep, bringing his arm level with his shoulder. “It’ll never be enough,” he joked in an Austrian accent.
“Don’t be late,” she called after him. “You know how Wheeler hates it when we’re late.”
JOSEPH
US Embassy Kinshasa, DRC
Joseph and Nixon barreled up to the embassy gate roughly five hours later in their battered, gore-stained government Tahoe. The embassy was a nondescript, three-story, tan building made of thick concrete. A twelve-foot, cast-iron gate topped with razor wire surrounded the compound along with two guard towers overlooking the street. Sometimes it reminded Joseph of a minimum security detention facility.
A smaller guard shack that housed Congolese soldiers, who assisted the Americans in perimeter security, sat outside the compound near the gate. The embassy, like the rest of the DRC, was a leftover from colonial times.
“Home sweet home,” Nixon said, eying the building with bloodshot eyes. Joseph paid him no heed. “State is supposed to be building a new one in the next few years. Update this monolithic prison looking place,” Nixon prattled as the guards did their security check.
Two DRC soldiers, slender men in baggy camouflage and AK-47s slung on their backs, rounded the government vehicle with expandable mirrors to detect explosives under the vehicle, while a Marine security guard reviewed their credentials. He scrutinized their vehicle.
“What did you hit, a deer?” the clean-shaven Marine guard with a vanilla Iowa accent asked. He poked at a chunk of pink flesh on the cracked windshield with his finger.
“Please don’t touch that, it could be contaminated,” Joseph said. The Marine pulled his hand away as if it had been slapped.
“Diseased with what?” the soldier asked, wiping his hand on his pants.
“Monkeypox, Ebola, AIDS, just don’t touch anything,” Joseph snapped at him.
The soldier gave him a skeptical look and pointed at his clipboard. “There are supposed to be four of you. Where’s Agent Reliford and your interpreter, Boo-wally?” the young guard asked, peering into the back of the vehicle.
Joseph leaned over Nixon. “They’re dead, and a hell of a lot more people are going to die if you don’t let us through.”
The Marine visibly gulped. “Let ‘em through, Ryan,” he shouted, waving his hands.
A couple of hours later, Joseph sat in an embassy conference room. He clasped his hands in his lap. The embassy big wigs sat in front of him. A standard, dark brown, wooden government table, that seemed a bit too wide for the conversation they were having, separated Joseph from Ambassador Brinkley, Dr. Edward Harkin and detachment commander Master Sergeant Snow, head of the Marine contingent stationed at the embassy. Holding the title of commander and being sergeant was not something that happened very often. He was surprised that Regional Security Officer Kline wasn’t there. He formed the Post Security Team with Snow. Must be out sick.
The conversation was going less well than Joseph expected, and now they all stared at Joseph as if he would be better off in an asylum. Always dressed to impress, Ambassador Brinkley wore a three-piece suit despite the unwavering heat. Brinkley had received his ambassadorship through political appointment, but never failed to make sure people addressed him by his appropriate title, as if he had earned it. Joseph was sure Brinkley had earned it through campaign donations.
Joseph had voted for the President, who then in turn appointed this pretentious jerk. Ambassador Brinkley had a silver streak running through his dark hair and that, combined with his pointy nose and beady eyes, always reminded Joseph of a ferret. The ambassador sat back with his arms crossed, a smug look of disbelief settling in his eyes.
“Let me get this straight. Dead villagers got up and attacked you? This wasn’t part of some bizarre bush ritual?” He pulled a piece of paper up in front of his face. “What is it you do out there? Investigate AIDS or something?” The Ambassador continued to glare at Joseph disdainfully, awaiting a response.
“It was Monkeypox, and I am a disease surveillance specialist,” Joseph said under his breath, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “I was on a Monkeypox surveillance deployment. We do this to stay on the forefront of any emerging outbreaks within the country. There were reports of an outbreak in Kombarka, near the Congo River.”
How long has it been since I slept?
“And?” Brinkley pressed.
“I was observing and treating the people there with the standard Monkeypox medical treatment, and monitoring the effects it was having on the progression of the virus.”
“Wait,” Brinkley said, shaking his head. “Why should I care about Monkeypox, again?”
Joseph took a deep breath. “Like I said before, Monkeypox in itself is a highly contagious virus. It can be spread from bodily fluids, a bite or from consumption of contaminated meat.”
The Ambassador interrupted him again. “Contaminated meat?” Brinkley doubted, looking at Dr. Harkin and Master Sergeant Snow for the social go ahead to blow this entire thing off as some tribal voodoo. “Why would someone eat that?” He leaned back, laughing to himself. “I mean, come on, if these people can’t even cook their food, how can we expect to make any headway in business or developing new industry?”
I should have donated more, Joseph thought.
Joseph was tired of giving this cultural lesson on top of answering Brinkley’s arrogant questions, but he continued anyway, hoping something would penetrate the man’s wavy hairdo.
“It’s a common occurrence in the rural communities that run along the Congo River. Think of it as deer or duck hunting back home, except these people trap jungle rodents or animals.” The Ambassador sighed. Joseph wanted to snarl, but held it in. He calmed himself and continued.
“The disease that killed these people wasn’t Monkeypox. It was something else entirely. It is highly infectious and extremely deadly and we need to get a jump on it before it spreads too far.”
Master Sergeant Snow leaned in from across the table. He was more or less the opposite of Brinkley, aside from the fact that they were roughly the same age. Master Sergeant Snow was in his fifties and had the resemblance of a career soldier: crew cut, clean-shaven, an avid follower of a high intensity interval regimen. The only problem with Snow was that he was convinced that the embassy could come under attack at any minute, any day of the week. Joseph had avoided him in cafeteria on many occasions because of his hard grizzled unapproachable look.
“How many rebels were there?” Snow punched out from his emotionless mouth. It was as if he were some sort of robot.
Joseph ground his teeth together. At this rate he would have nubs for teeth by the end of the day. He tried to explain again.
“Sergeant, as far as I know there were no rebels. The people from the village were out of control, murdering each other.”
“This is vital to the security of this embassy and the national security of the United States as a whole,” Snow said.
“I can’t be sure, Sergeant Snow. It was dark, and people were screaming and shooting.” He massaged his temples. An oppressive migraine loomed over him. He hoped to God he hadn’t contracted the virus.
Snow leaned back satisfied, displaying neither anger nor happiness, a general air of duty surrounding him. “I have no more questions for the doctor.”
The Ambassador reviewed his notes. “What happened after you saw the dead people walking? What happened to Agent Reliford?”
Joseph closed his eyes, mentally replaying the flight from Kombarka in his head. Everything had happened so fast. It was a blur of violence.
“As we exited the hospital tent, I saw the village elder having his stomach ripped out by his own teenage daughters; presumably they had been infected with the virus. Agent Nixon pushed me forward and we ran to the SUV. There was smoke in the air and many of the village homes were ablaze, but nothing prepared me for when Agent Nixon flicked on the lights, illuminating a horrifying scene. Bestial,” he said, before stopping to collect himself.
The row of embassy leaders stared at him.
“No desensitization classes could have prepared me for this kind of gratuitous violence. People were burning alive, screaming, waving their arms wildly, while others stumbled around, seemingly unconvinced they were alight. Still more villagers lay on the ground, most likely dead. Some crawled, trying to get away from the others. Many appeared to be dismembered; arms, legs, heads gone. I couldn’t tell you who belonged to what. Other villagers, whom I deemed ‘infected,’ moved in small packs from corpse to corpse. After the encounter in the hospital tent, I realized they were consuming the fallen. I believe it is a symptom of the virus infecting the brain and nervous system,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. They tore pieces of flesh from their victims with their hands and teeth, like they were possessed,” he said, bile rising in the back of his throat. Why would anyone do such a thing?
“Savages,” Ambassador Brinkley muttered, amazed by the animalism of the native population.
Joseph paused and continued his rendition of his nightmare. “We sat in the SUV for a moment in utter shock. Then, one after another, they noticed us. The lights or the engine must have attracted them, but I don’t really know. Dozens of them came at us at once. They pounded on the windows with blood-stained fists, attempting to smash their way in.” Joseph had shrunk down in his seat that night, trying to get away from the windows.
“I saw a woman shatter her teeth on the window, with no recognition of pain or acknowledgement of what she was doing. I screamed ‘Drive.’ Bowali cried in the backseat. He kept mumbling and praying. ‘Please God. Please God.’ Agent Nixon gunned the vehicle into the mass of crazed villagers, bodies thudding off the front grill. It was the most sickening sound I’ve ever heard. The vehicle rocked as we drove over the bodies. They just threw themselves in front of the Tahoe, fingernails scraping the windows as we drove through them.” Joseph stopped as Brinkley raised a hand shaking his head.
“Wait.” Brinkley held up a halting hand. “Diplomatic Security Agent Nixon ran over a group of Congolese citizens in a government vehicle?” Brinkley wondered. He waved over an aide and whispered in her ear. The aide scurried from the room.
Master Sergeant Snow appeared amused. The only thing Joseph could fathom he was thinking was that he would have done the same thing in Nixon’s position.
“Please get to the part about Agent Reliford. Where is he?” Brinkley asked, taking a quick look down at a very expensive gold watch on his wrist.
“When we reached the edge of the village we saw a man standing with his back turned toward the road. It was Agent Reliford. His clothes were disheveled as if he had been in a fight. We couldn’t tell at the time, but he had been infected.” We should have known, thought Joseph.
“Agent Nixon pulled the SUV alongside him and Bowali opened the door. When he turned toward us, we could see it was too late. His face had been disfigured with multiple horrific human bite marks, and he was bleeding profusely from a severe neck wound to his carotid artery.”
Joseph could feel the tears forming at the corner of his eyes as he continued: “Agent Reliford leapt. He leapt so fast and he pulled Bowali from the backseat by his feet. Bowali never really stood a chance. He kicked and screamed, but nothing mattered.”
Joseph stopped. The sound of Bowali’s screams would never leave him. “Agent Reliford tore him apart with his bloodied fists and then, he bent low ripping out Bowali’s tongue with his teeth. There was nothing I could do. Agent Reliford is twice my size.”
“How did Agent Reliford die?” Snow asked.
“Agent Nixon shot him,” Joseph paused. “He shot him in the head,” he finished.
Snow and Brinkley exchanged a glance. “And the local embassy employee, Bowali?” Snow asked.
“He sustained extensive trauma to his face and neck. Nixon gunned the truck, and left him. However, as we drove away, I saw him stand up. I have never seen anything like it,” Joseph recalled.
“You left Bowali on the side of the road?” Brinkley questioned.
“Yes, we did,” Joseph closed his eyes.
Joseph’s supervisor, Dr. Harkin, was his only hope in understanding what had happened. Harkin simply stared at Joseph, wide-eyed behind his black-rimmed glasses.
Joseph was not one to tell tall tales. He believed in science, logic and evidence, and it was incredibly frustrating to have these men, including his mentor, doubt him.
Joseph stared directly at Harkin. Believe me, Joseph pleaded with his eyes. Harkin returned his gaze concern written on his intelligent face.
“We’re glad you’re safe, Joseph. I’m sure the Ambassador will investigate this event thoroughly at a later date,” he said.
Joseph rose shakily from his chair, relieved to have the grand inquisition over.
“Wait,” Brinkley interrupted, holding up a hand. “How do we know you aren’t carrying the disease?” he asked, cut short by gunfire rattling from outside.
Master Sergeant Snow leered past Joseph a slight frown on his statuesque face. He slowly stood up, fully erect, and staring out the window toward the sound of gunfire. “What in God’s name? We do not have any ‘Reacts’ scheduled.”
He pointed at another soldier who stood near the door. “I need a full report from Post 1 on what the hell is going on out there,” Sergeant Snow ordered.
A Marine raced from the room.
Master Sergeant Snow turned toward the Ambassador, his face slightly perturbed. “Ambassador, we need to implement Evacuation Alpha and get you to a secondary location while we figure out what’s happening out there.”
The two didn’t even bother to dismiss Joseph. They just stormed from the room, a Marine accompanying the pair.
Joseph shuffled together his notes from the table where Dr. Harkin waited. “We should make our way to the emergency rally point. Talk to me, along the way Joseph. What are we dealing with?” Harkin asked as they walked. He was Joseph’s senior, and although they shared a mutual respect for one another, Joseph still considered the older colleague a mentor.
Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know, Ed. I saw a man with bullet holes the size of half dollars in his chest get up and walk around.”
Harkin took him by the shoulder. “Adrenaline could explain it, or maybe he was just a tough son of a bitch. The human body is an amazing system, incredibly resilient, yet so vulnerable at the same time.”
No. Adrenaline could not explain this. Neither could toughness. The villagers actions were inhuman. Non-human. Lacking any piece of humanity. Abominations. Corruptions of men.
Joseph blood rushed to his face. “The man was dead.
I checked his pulse and those of the other patients with gunshot wounds and, even if he had somehow been alive, he only weighed about a hundred pounds. That trauma would have ruined him.”
“I believe you. But what was it? There must be a scientific explanation as to how this happened.”
Joseph racked his memory about all he had observed of the disease. It had to be some manifestation of the virus, but how?
Other people walked quickly down the hallway to the emergency rally point.
He closed his eyes as he tried to think. “It’s not Monkeypox. At least, not the strain we know. I can’t be sure; we just need to do more testing. The only thing I’m sure of is that the virus spread rapidly through oral transmission.”
A couple of Marine guards ran down the hallway rifles in hand. This didn’t seem like a drill.
“Interesting, the virus is in the saliva, like rabies, Ebola, or Monkeypox. Is it possible that Monkeypox manifested violent tendencies in the patients, causing them to act this way?” Harkin inquired out loud.
Joseph sighed, unable to find the answer. “Maybe it mutated or melded DNA strains with another virus, or somehow changed its DNA pattern. It’s not implausible,” he said, eying Harkin for confirmation.
Dr. Harkin looked troubled behind his glasses. “Let’s get you some rest. I overheard the Ambassador say that when you and the DS agent arrived they went into a code yellow, which is a soft evacuation of the embassy. We’ll be back in the U.S. soon, where it’s safe.”
Joseph felt a little better. Maybe going home for a while was the best option. He could visit his parents for a couple of weeks down in Raleigh. They were his only family.
“All staff please report to the main cafeteria,” an announcement boomed. His momentary hope eroded, and an uncontrollable panic set about pummeling his gut, as though his stomach had decided to do continual somersaults.
Harkin looked at Joseph worriedly. “I’d like to see your blood samples when we get a chance. It appears we might get out of here sooner than expected.”