Chimera

by Sonny Whitelaw

  Accustomed to dealing with their dead, others used sheets or rags in a vain attempt to wipe the blood and filth from the boy's lifeless body, unmindful that they were aiding the spread of a replicating monster.

  Shaking in impotent horror, knowing there was nothing he could do now to prevent the inevitable, Nate backed away. The villagers would not blame him for this; they were much too fatalistic. But he no longer had a place here. Nothing he could say would stop them from taking Tom's body away. Tonight, they would try to wash him clean, kiss him, hold him, and say farewell in a way that would assuage their grief more than the antiseptic funeral rights of urbanized societies. In the morning, after ensuring that every person in the village down to the youngest toddler had touched Tom's suppurating body in farewell, they would bury him.

  Sweat dripped into Nate's eyes, blurring a scene strait from one of Bosch's paintings, playing out before him. He had to get away. Now ! Gingerly helping Judi to her feet, he led her outside into the hot, humid night air.

  It was raining again. One more thing to worry about: how to get things washed and dried in this weather. Nate laughed maniacally. What did it matter? The whole fucking clinic should be burned to the ground! Inside, unless he missed his guess, there were enough hot organisms to wipe out every man, woman, and child on the planet.

  The smell of human waste and blood and vomit clung to Judi. "I…I'm all right, Nate, just give me a minute. I'm so sorry, I-"

  "Jesus, why didn't you tell me?" his voice cracked in desperation. "When did this start?"

  "This morning, I guess. Maybe. I don't know! I had a headache, but I didn't take much notice. Then I started feeling sick while you were checking the village. I thought it was just the smell, lack of sleep, and…fear, you know?"

  Swallowing his raging panic, Nate took a few breaths to steady himself. "All right. I want you to take a shower. Can you do that by yourself? Then change into fresh clothes and go to bed. Do you want Alice to help you?" He looked back inside the clinic. "Where is Alice?"

  "Went home about an hour ago, to check on her mother and sister. I'll be okay, Nate. You'd better go back inside."

  His stomach heaved at the thought. There was little he could do, not now. God help us what is this thing? He had to focus on Judi. Walking her to the cottage, he said, "What have you taken-aside from pain killers? No aspirin, I hope!"

  "No. No, of course not." Her voice quavered. The darkness could not hide her terror.

  "Fine, that's good," he said, more to inject some calm into himself as he tried to work out what he could do.

  "What about Tom?" Judi asked.

  "He bled out. He's dead, and…and I couldn't stop them from taking him. I want to get a drip in you now before-"

  "Before you can't," she finished. "Oh God, Nate, I'm scared!" Inside the cottage, she turned her bloodshot eyes to his and wrapped her arms about herself. "Not so much of dying, I don't think, but dying like that …"

  Returning her gaze, determined not to flinch from her breath, he said, "We've got one oxygen unit. I was going to use it on Tom, but I think the best chance we have is setting you up with everything we can."

  "And if you get sick?" Her hands fell away and hung listlessly by her side.

  He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  When Judi had closed the bathroom door behind her, Nate ran outside, stripping off his clothes as he went. Standing naked in the rain, he filled two laundry tubs with a solution of bleach. One was for his clothes. The other he poured over his head and scrubbed himself until his skin burned.

  The rain was warm, but he couldn't stay outside forever. After changing and checking on Judi, he went to the living room and sat in front of the computer. Would anyone in at the CDC have seen his email? No doubt shit-for-brains Marshall had called Noumea and screamed blue bloody murder. But the WHO was slow off the mark at the best of times, and Marshall was just an Australian administrator, not an epidemiologist. Nate's word accounted for a lot more.

  And the evidence was now inarguable. This was not haemorrhagic dengue, or even Ebola. His fingers were shaking as he opened the laptop and typed in the password. His momentary relief at seeing message from the CDC was instantly replaced by dread. There were messages from the FBI and USAMRIID. The mere sight of the agency names confirmed his worst fears.

  Unlike Jordan, Nate Sturgess was quite capable of believing the worst of his peers. He had always taken a close interest in unusual outbreaks around the world, especially when they appeared to offer solutions to inconvenient political problems-like the suspicious occurrences of exotic diseases amongst the Kurds. Nate had studied the siege of Stalingrad in World War II, and agreed with a conclusion that few held credible. Of the massive death toll on both sides, the most astonishing was the loss of over one hundred thousand German troops to a bacterial disease first seen in Tulara County, California. The Russians had successfully weaponised the plague-like disease, Tularaemia, and used it in a desperate, and arguably successful attempt to cripple Hitler's army.

  Nate had also closely monitored UNSCOM reports. Despite his sympathy to the plight of the Iraqi people, as an epidemiologist, Nate was terrified by Hussein's biowarfare capabilities. That had resulted in a few heated discussions with his French colleagues, who were appalled at the effect the post Gulf War trade embargo was having on Iraq's medical system-and the French economy, whose key trading partners were Middle Eastern countries.

  A scenario that Nate had dismissed as pulp fiction just half an hour earlier, now offered the only plausible explanation for what was happening on Mathew Island. But this was the South Pacific. Who would want to attack them? And why?

  Water from Nate's wet hair dripped down his collar, mixing with the perspiration that had already begun to form. He had to start thinking clearly. This wasn't just about Mathew Island anymore. This could be playing out elsewhere, including Vila. What had Gene Marshall said? Eight cases of haemorrhagic dengue in Vila that day? They had to locate and quarantine Katie and Mike.

  Opening the FBI email titled 'secure line', he read the instructions and began typing.

  -Chapter 18-

  Quantico

  Dispersal: Plus 67 hours

  "The doctor is in!" announced a technician.

  Jordan had just finished making her eighth call to Port Vila. Despite the late hour, she'd located an air traffic controller. Warner and Wood had boarded the Air Pacific flight from the helicopter without passing through the terminal. It was the sort of thing you could do in a small place like Vanuatu, where customs officials knew the locals and regulars, like Warner and Wood. The only people that had had any physical contact with them or their baggage were either on the Air Pacific aircraft or still in Port Vila. No other flights had arrived or departed since.

  "Get everyone up here," Wilson called. Dropping his sandwich into a trashcan, he rode his swivel chair across to them. "How long will it take Sturgess to access the secure chat room?"

  "Give him a minute," replied the tech, moving back so that everyone could see the screen. "The connection is kinda slow."

  "What have you got?" Brant demanded, striding across the room.

  Wilson turned to answer, but the tech pointed to the screen. "Sturgess is in the secure chat room we set up."

  A line of type appeared. I'm assuming you have my first report , it began. The situation here has deteriorated rapidly in the last hours, with a confirmed fifty percent and estimated seventy percent of the island's entire population now showing symptoms of an unknown haemorrhagic disease. First fatality was what I believed to be the index case, Tom Kaleo, who died a few minutes ago. He had a seizure, and then bled out through skin lesions reminiscent of haemorrhagic smallpox. The Peace Corps nursing sister, Judi Harris, is now symptomatic.

  This is not-I repeat, not-haemorrhagic dengue. I cannot now be certain that Tom was in fact the index case, or that he brought this with him from Vila on Tuesday's flight. To the best of my knowledge none of the other passengers who were on that
flight are sick, although their family members are displaying symptoms. It is imperative that you locate Katie Wood and Michael Warner .

  The message continued; describing the symptoms and funeral rites that virtually guaranteed infection of the remainder of the village.

  Jordan stared at the screen. McCabe moved closer to her and whispered, "Does it fit?"

  Disturbed by the measured way in which the FBI agent had used her the previous morning, or perhaps embarrassed because she'd responded in a less than professional manner, Jordan was uncomfortable around him. Why did he stand or sit so close to her? For a psychiatrist, he showed a surprising lack of respect for personal space. She crossed her arms and returned his gaze. "I think that's a question for the Major, Agent McCabe."

  "Does the time frame fit?" he repeated.

  Motioning for them to follow her, Broadwater led them away from the crowding agents. "He's asking you, Dr Spinner, if this outbreak is commensurate with what we can expect from a weaponised chimera? The short answer is, yes, it's within the parameters. But we need to get hold of it, eyeball it, run experiments-"

  McCabe stabbed his finger at the wall map. "There's your experiment. Don't bank on the test subjects being alive when you reach them."

  Suddenly, Jordan understood. McCabe was six steps ahead of everyone else. Was it because he ignored inconvenient evidence and jumped to his own preferred conclusion-which in this case might be right? Or because he had analyzed the available data, discarded the clutter that bogged down everyone else, and come to the only viable conclusion? Either way, she needed more than gut instinct. As the major said, they had to see the evidence: the pathogen itself.

  "When a microbe is breathed in," Jordan replied, "it doesn't immediately go to the bloodstream. Depending on the type of organism it can remain in the alveoli of the lungs from an hour to several days."

  "So most of them could have inhaled it simultaneously, but while some fell ill within hours, others might remain free of symptoms for days?"

  Broadwater nodded. "You're trying to establish a time line. We'll need that to track the disease."

  "More importantly, to figure out when it was deployed," McCabe said. "Why was the Kaleo boy hit first? Was the aircraft he arrived on responsible for distribution, maybe via the cargo hold? Did the kid inhale the chimera while he was onboard?"

  "Maybe he was already sick, and it attacked his weakened immune system, first," Jordan ventured.

  "Major," Brant called. "Everyone else, back to whatever you were doing. Can we get this chat room thing on a larger screen?" he asked the tech.

  "Yes sir, but it'll take me half an hour or so to rig one."

  "Do it."

  "Sir?" Broadwater replied.

  "Can you answer Sturgess' questions?"

  "What exactly do you want me to say? If we tell him what we suspect, he's likely to email the Washington Post and CNN."

  "Tell him something, or he'll know you're stalling," McCabe said.

  Brant leaned over the keyboard and typed, We understand your situation is urgent. We are currently notifying the relevant authorities and locating Dr Warner and Ms Wood .

  "Ask him to send timelines on the outbreak, treatments and-" Wilson began.

  "He's one doctor on an island with potentially one hundred and fifty victims of a BW attack," interrupted Broadwater. "His only qualified assistant is symptomatic. He's not gonna have time to fill out reports,"

  McCabe shook his head. "Sturgess knows he can't help the villagers without outside support. He's terrified of it spreading off-island, repeatedly making reference to Warner and Wood and the possibility that haemorrhagic dengue is masking outbreaks in Vila."

  "You're right." Jordan looked at McCabe. "Nate's an epidemiologist, not a doctor."

  "What are you talking out?" Brant demanded. "He's a medical doctor."

  The tech left to set up a larger screen. Broadwater sat in the vacated chair.

  "Sturgess is an epidemiologist, and he knows he's in the deepest kind of shit." McCabe looked at the text on the screen. "He's more worried about the spread than he's concerned with saving the villagers. They're dead or as good as dead. He's not gonna call CNN if he believes we're taking him seriously."

  Dr Sturgess , typed the Major. My name is Susan Broadwater. I'm an epidemiologist with USAMRIID. Your report arrived just hours after we received limited anecdotal evidence suggesting that you may-repeat, may-have been exposed to a hybrid virus. Until we receive the samples you sent, we cannot confirm the nature of the organism. We take the matter very seriously and are currently tracking the whereabouts of all personnel who have recently been on the island. We appreciate your status is extreme and are preparing a response team. Please do not communicate this matter to anyone outside this secure email address .

  Before Broadwater could hit the send button, Wilson cried, "Whoa! Why the hell are you telling him it's a hybrid?"

  "Would you prefer I told him it was a weapon?" Broadwater countered.

  "Send it," McCabe said. "He'll cooperate now he knows we're all over it-and that we're not bullshitting him."

  Although the FBI, in the person of AD Reynold, was technically in charge of the overall investigation, while USAMRIID was the designated response unit off US soil, Broadwater's briefing the morning before, the one that featured the phrase, 'no one left to investigate', must have hit a raw nerve, because Jordan had never seen such a level of interagency cooperation before. The look on Wilson's face said that it might now start to unravel.

  Still looking unhappy, Wilson shrugged. "Ask him about the airfield."

  The major hit the 'send' button. Several tense seconds passed, and Jordan could only guess at what was going through Sturgess' mind. Then, the reply appeared onscreen.

  Runway's a quagmire . With the wet season about to start, it's only going to get worse. The only access is by helicopter or boat .

  Nate-can we call you Nate ? Broadwater typed. We know you're on your own there and in the worst possible situation. We need for you to keep feeding us as much medical data as you can: timelines, symptoms, courses of treatment.

  "Let Spinner talk to him," said McCabe. "She knows him."

  "Not all that well. I just know that he does a great job." Nevertheless, Jordan pulled her chair across and sat down besides Broadwater at the keyboard. If her and Nate's positions were reversed, she'd appreciate being in contact with someone she knew.

  Nate , she began, my name is Jordan Spinner. We met a few years back. I'm an Escapee .

  "Escapees," she explained as she typed, "are expatriate children who grew up in Vanuatu and left to go to school. A lot of kids get stuck there and never amount to much. They always refer to us as Escapees-the ones who got away."

  Major Broadwater is heading up a rapid response team leaving here shortly , she wrote. Meanwhile, another team of epidemiologists and specialists will be available around the clock for consultation. Any additional online support we can give you, holler. Someone will be monitoring this at all times, and we'll keep you updated .

  Jordan ! Sturgess replied. Hey, I remember you; you left the bar before it was your shout. Maybe I'll let you make it up to me one day. Seriously, I'm glad you're there. Before her symptoms progress, I'm going to set up Judi Harris with our only oxygen unit and begin a drip to maintain her electrolyte balance, although I have little to control her blood pressure. I'm going to clean up the clinic as best I can, then I'll transcribe my notes and forward them to you, probably in around three to four hours .

  Okay, Nate , Jordan typed. I'll be right here .

  An hour later, Jordan was sitting with McCabe, wracking her brains as to whom else she could find to track down the helicopter pilot, Gary Teocle. It crossed her mind to call her parents, but there was no time to negotiate that minefield. Her mother's favourite pastime was emotional blackmail served up with a massive side dish of martyrdom. If Jordan hadn't abandoned her 'real' family to live in America, dear, sweet little Jamie would still be alive.

&
nbsp; Brant loomed over them. "I want you two packed and ready to leave in fifteen minutes."

  "Sir?" Jordan frowned and stood.

  "Major Broadwater's team needs a pathologist. You know the country and the people, you speak the local language-you're fluent in French too, right?"

  Before Jordan could reply Brant turned to McCabe and said, "We need FBI agents and forensic personnel down there to pursue the investigation, people we can trust and who know what they're doing in that sort of environment." Gaze turning back to hers, he added, "Do you have a problem with that, Doctor?"

  "No, sir, I've worked in a Racal suit before."

  "Orange is my favourite colour." McCabe offered up a tight, humourless grin.

  "Ours are green," Broadwater said when she joined them. "Josh, you okay with this?"

  "You mean my rampant claustrophobia or having to find a matching necktie?"

  Despite his lame attempt at humour, McCabe's face had closed up. Jordan's apprehension shot up another notch. He wasn't kidding about having issues of his own. There was nothing scarier and potentially more dangerous than a claustrophobic in a Racal suit wading through a hot zone.

  "I know you want to stay here and pick Adams and Williams' lives apart at the seams," Brant said to him. "But that's going to take time. I want answers, and right now Mathew Island is the only tangible evidence we have."

  Wilson came across and said, "The initial response team in Christchurch is gearing up now. They're using the New Zealander's Hercules aircraft to make a medical and supply drop to the island. They'll be there in about-" He checked his watch. "Five hours-just after dawn."

  Jordon looked doubtful. "Crappy terrain for a parachute drop."

  "They'll make a low pass over the runway and shove it out the back-standard procedure. We've notified Sturgess to expect the drop. Forecast is low cloud and rain, although the pilots can generally find a hole and skim underneath. You'll be using the same aircraft for your insertion."