Plague

by Victor Methos

  “Suzan, is there anything else you can tell me that you think could help?”

  “He lived a hard life and I know people judge him for it. I can see it on your face. And don’t deny it—you nearly pissed your pants when I said he might’ve had a drug problem. But he’s a good man. He takes care of anyone that needs it. Someone broke their leg on one of his tours and he walked over a hundred miles to get help for him. That’s the kind of man he is.”

  “I appreciate you telling me that.” She stood up. “I better get going. We’ll call you with any news.”

  “When can I see him? They told me on the phone that I wasn’t allowed to see him anymore.”

  “That’s just a precaution,” she said. “If it is a virus, we need to expose as few people as possible to it and only those that are necessary.”

  Suzan rose and began walking toward the front door. The dog followed her, rubbing against Sam’s leg. She bent down to pet it and rubbed his ear a moment.

  “Please tell him,” Suzan said, “that I rescheduled his next two tours. He was worried about that. Tell him they’re rescheduled and he has two months to get better before his next one.”

  Sam realized that no one had told Suzan her husband was unresponsive. Or they had, and she wasn’t processing the information. Sam had seen cases of denial so extreme that people had come to the hospital to pick their loved ones up to go home days after they had been informed they had passed away. The mind had many barriers to protect it from harm, and most of them occurred without the conscious part of ourselves even being aware of them.

  As she left the house and walked to her car she took out her phone and noticed a message. It was from the hospital. She listened to it and heard Amoy’s voice come on the line. It was a simple message; only one sentence:

  “Clifford Lane is dead.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Duncan Adams went home directly after work and took a long, hot shower. He let the water run over him until his skin grew water-logged and then he quickly soaped himself, shampooed, and conditioned, and then began his routine of lotions and body creams. His father had died of skin cancer so he had developed a detailed skin-care routine.

  After he had finished, he dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a sports coat and headed out the door.

  He checked his watch as he drove down the interstate and noted that he was twenty minutes late. It would take him ten minutes to get to Circle Lounge Bar and that, he figured, was perfect. A date would be waiting for him there. His friend Hank had set him up in the past to no success but assured him he would fall in love with the woman he was going to meet tonight. However, it was a double date and there wasn’t a doubt in Duncan’s mind that he was just posing as wingman so Hank could date her friend. But still, a date was a date and he’d had a long dry spell in the romantic arena.

  Circle Lounge was located on a busy street near a tattoo shop and a dive restaurant. Surprisingly, the best Indian food in all of Maryland was also located on that same block. When he got to the block he looked at Circle Lounge and saw there wasn’t a line out front or even a bouncer and it gave him the impression that is was more of a restaurant than a bar. In fact, the west half of the building was a sushi restaurant that operated until five in the morning.

  He parked across the street in paid parking and checked his watch again. He was half an hour late. Most women would tolerate a man that was ten or fifteen minutes late, but half an hour was too much for most. They would complain or make snide comments the entire night. One girl had even thrown her drink in his face.

  But it was a trick he had been taught by his father. He had told Duncan that any woman that had the patience and grace not to mention your being half an hour late or let it bother her was one he needed to keep.

  Duncan got inside and stood by the entryway to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The restaurant smelled of strong perfume and he guessed trace amounts of scented air were being circulated through the vents to cover the smell of vomit or urine. No matter how classy the bar, over time, they would all stink like bodily fluids from drunks that were unable to make it all the way to the bathroom.

  He saw Hank seated at a table on the restaurant side. He had two women with him, one on either side. Hank waved, irritation on his face though he tried to cover it with a smile. Duncan made his way over.

  “How are you guys?” Duncan said. He held out his hand to the attractive blonde seated to Hank’s right. “You must be Rebecca,” he said. Rebecca was whom Hank had said he would bring. Duncan then turned to the other woman.

  She was also attractive and wearing a revealing black dress with white stockings. She was dipping a toothpick into her martini, trying to get the second olive.

  “And you must be Heather.”

  She acknowledged him with a quick hello and then went back to the olive in the glass. Duncan sat down next to her.

  “Hank’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Heather said, not turning to him. “Like what?”

  “Like he said you were at Georgetown right now getting your masters. In environmental studies, right?”

  “Yup.”

  Duncan could almost feel her irritation coming off her like an electrical charge. He turned to the menu. Hank sent him a quick glance and then said to Heather, “So, Duncan’s a microbiologist.”

  “Hm,” Heather said, nibbling on the olive. “What made you want to do that?” She asked it in a way that let him know she wasn’t curious, more disgusted by the ridiculous career choice.

  “The Congo,” Duncan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was in the Congo as an intern for the United Nations when I was an undergrad. I was there during the Ebola outbreak in Tuwintu.”

  “I haven’t heard about it.”

  “No? Few people have. There’s so much horror there, an outbreak usually doesn’t catch people’s attention. But this one was particularly savage.”

  Duncan glanced to Hank who gave him a look that said, Please don’t tell some gross story and ruin this. Duncan smiled at him.

  “See,” Duncan continued, “it infected an entire hospital. The staff, the doctors, the administrators, all the patients…the military was there and not allowing anyone to leave. Anybody that tried was gunned down in front of the exits. The bodies eventually piled so high you couldn’t open the doors.”

  The waitress interrupted them to take Duncan’s order and he got a plate of sushi with a sparkling water.

  “So,” he continued, “you have about two hundred people stuck in the same building, all of them except five shooting blood out of every orifice in their body. Ebola itself doesn’t kill you; it causes you to bleed to death. But the blood that comes out of people doesn’t look the same as what you see when you get a cut. It’s black and it has the consistency of coffee grounds.”

  “Duncan,” Hank interrupted with a grin, “I’m sure the ladies don’t want to hear about that while we’re about to—”

  “The blood doesn’t stop,” Duncan said, ignoring him as he took an edamame and peeled it. “It comes out of the eyes, the ears, the mouth. But the worst places are the genitals and anus. When you have a bowel movement the blood comes pouring out and doesn’t clot. It can actually take pieces of organ with it. The patients were finding long strands of a thick, gelatin substance when they went. I didn’t realize until later it was part of their colons and intestines.”

  Heather had stopped playing with her olive and had a look on her face like someone had just vomited in her purse.

  “I have to use the restroom,” she said, standing.

  “Me too,” Rebecca said as she followed her.

  When the girls were gone, Hank threw his napkin and hit Duncan in the face. “What the hell are you doing? They’re in there right now talking about how to get out of this.”

  “I never had a shot. The blonde’s still going to finish the date with you, though. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Well, now you really don’t
have a shot—”

  “She’s awful, Hank. She’s pretentious and feels life owes her something just for existing. Those are some of the most unpleasant people to be around.”

  “And you can tell all that from five minutes of conversation?”

  “I could tell as soon as I said hello and she didn’t even look up from her drink.”

  A couple walked by and the male did a double-take of Hank. He came over and said hello and asked if Hank remembered him from some engineering conference last year. He did, or at least said he did, and they began speaking about people from the conference and what they’d been up to. Duncan could tell Hank didn’t know who any of the people were, but was keeping a grin on his face.

  When the man left, Hank said, “I have no idea who that was or what conference he was talking about.”

  “I don’t think he picked up on it.” Duncan sighed and put his elbows on the table. “I think I’m just gonna go.”

  “What? No you’re not. Rebecca is Heather’s ride. If she leaves, Rebecca does too.”

  “What’re you gonna do for me if I stay?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A new Xbox game.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “We all have our weaknesses.”

  “Fine, if you stay so I can score with Rebecca, I will buy you an Xbox game.”

  Duncan smiled as the sushi was brought out. The waitress placed it down and asked if they needed anything else. It was another few minutes until the girls came back. Heather seemed in a much better mood and Duncan wondered what they had been doing in there. She was asking about his time in the Congo and Duncan glanced over to Hank who tapped one side of his nose with his finger and nodded.

  Duncan was about to say something when his phone buzzed. It was a private number from the USAMRIID dispatch. Duncan had only received a call from that number once before, when he was still an intern in grad school, on September 11, 2001.

  “This is Duncan…yes…yes…”

  The phone nearly dropped out of his hand. He felt weak and his stomach was queasy. He looked down to the sushi and it suddenly made him feel sick.

  “You okay?” Hank said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I need to go,” Duncan said, standing up and nearly falling over his chair.

  “What? Where you going?” Hank yelled as Duncan made a beeline for the front door.

  “To Hawaii.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was two o’clock in the morning when Samantha received the first call.

  It was a nurse from Queen’s Medical. Sam didn’t get to the phone in time and the nurse left a message stating that Dr. Jerry Amoy had asked that she call him. Six new patients had been admitted, exhibiting symptoms of the “UF”: the Unknown Flu. It was what the staff at the hospital had begun to call the disease because they had to call it something and just calling it a flu made it sound less toxic than it was. Even though Samantha knew that influenza was one of the worst serial killers of all time.

  Just as she had rolled over and was going back to sleep, her phone rang again. It was a long distance number with an Atlanta area code.

  “This is Dr. Bower.”

  “Sam, glad I caught you. This is Dr. Pushkin, from the lab.”

  Even though Sam had known him several years, Stephen preferred that everyone call him “Dr. Pushkin” rather than Stephen.

  “Doctor, hi. What are you doing up? It’s four in the morning there.”

  “You haven’t spoken to Wilson yet?”

  “No, why?”

  “Sam, we received the results of the lab work. It’s black pox. It’s fucking black pox.”

  Samantha sat quietly a while and stared at the floor. “Are you sure?” was all she managed to say.

  “Yes. The symptomology matches the cultures. Wilson’s on his way down right now. He’s going to hold a press conference with a general or secretary of something. The military’s involved now too.”

  “Why?”

  “You know damn well why. I don’t have time for silly questions. Shake the sleep off and call me back in ten minutes. I’m grabbing the next flight and need to talk to you about our next steps.”

  Sam was down to her rental car in five minutes. The night sky was glittering with stars. It was clear in a way she had never really seen before, as if a wound had been torn open in the sky and she was allowed to look into the innards of space. Along with the stars were planets, lit up brightly like incandescent bulbs, and farther off, galaxies. Even with the hotel, the light pollution was so minimal it was like looking at the sky from the top of a mountain.

  She drove down to Queen’s Medical and saw a news van from Channel 4 parked out front. Several Jeeps in basic green and two sedans were all parked illegally. Sam parked in employee parking and walked inside.

  At the entrance to the Emergency Room an MP in uniform was checking IDs and turning people away, giving them directions to the Straub Clinic and Hospital. Sam pulled out her CDC identification card.

  “One moment, ma’am.”

  He checked with someone on the radio hooked to his shoulder and they gave the clearance for her to come in.

  The hospital looked empty with the exception of the staff. Sam smiled to the receptionist and realized it was the same one from yesterday morning.

  “They’re all in the conference room down the hall,” the nurse offered without being asked.

  Sam made her way down and saw the news crew setting up. At least twenty men and women were meandering about in both suits and military uniforms. Bagels had been set out on the table with sodas and coffee. Only one man was sitting at the table. He was young with auburn hair and wearing a Depeche Mode T-shirt with canvas shorts and sandals. He looked more like a surfer than a doctor. Sam sat across from him and he glanced up and smiled as he spread cream cheese on his bagel.

  “Hi, I’m Duncan.”

  “Samantha, nice to meet you.”

  “Hm, you’re a doctor, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. You didn’t introduce yourself as a doctor. Everyone I’ve met in this room calls themselves doctor like they don’t have names.”

  “It’s ego. That’s probably why they went to medical school. Are you a physician as well?”

  “Sort of. I got my MD before my PhD but I never took the boards or practiced.”

  “That seems like a lot of work for nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing. It taught me that I didn’t want to be a doctor.”

  Ralph Wilson got up and stood at the front of the room. A PowerPoint display was on behind him and he flipped through a few slides and then said, “Ladies and gentleman, I’m Dr. Ralph Wilson of the Centers for Disease Control. I’m the deputy director of Infectious Disease Research for those of you who haven’t met me before. I know everyone’s been called out here in the middle of the night so let’s begin so we can get as much shut-eye as possible. We all have a big day tomorrow and tomorrow’ll be here sooner than we think.” He adjusted his glasses, and began with the first slide.

  It was a black hand with yellow, brittle nails that had fallen off. It appeared to belong to a body that was housed in a crypt.

  “This,” Ralph said, “is a victim of the plague of Justinian circa 541 AD. It afflicted the Eastern Roman Empire, after Constantine had split the empire and left the Western portion with Rome as its headquarters abandoned. Justinian was the emperor of the time and like with all leadership positions, whatever happens is your fault, so the plague was attributed to him.

  “It was, by all accounts—and modern forensics conducted by the University of Tubingen has confirmed this—the worst natural disaster in human history. Responsible for the death of over half the world’s population. We believe it had its genesis in China and spread from there. It went through the Middle East, devastated Africa, and was recurring in Europe centuries later. It would disappear and then reappear twenty years later to re-infect a new generation.”


  The screen shifted to a screenshot from under an electron microscope.

  “You can see here that it appears much like common bubonic plague, but with these ridges here on the periphery of the virus. In fact, we believed for a long time that it was the bubonic plague, but research conducted on the remains of priests in Constantinople—it was the common practice at the time to bury priests in underground catacombs, making a type of preserve for tissue—shows us that it was in fact some now extinct form of Yersinia pestis.

  “If you can imagine the scene in Constantinople, you can see how frightening this particular contagion really was. Bodies were piled so high in the streets that they were like roadblocks at every turn. Justinian eventually ordered the burning of the bodies on the outskirts of the cities and this calmed the contagion until the next iteration. But to be perfectly clear, we don’t know why this contagion occurred, or why it went extinct.

  “In my research into the plague of Justinian, I developed a coding system, a type of shorthand, for the infectibility of a particular contagion. I did this so that those outside the medical and scientific communities could understand the level of threat they were facing with any disease. I called it the T score and now it is a widely accepted rating model.

  “Its theory is simple: T-1 means that the contagion is such that each person infected, on average, will infect one other individual. The common flu is a T-1 contagion. The bubonic plague was a T-3 contagion. The plague of Justinian was a T-4. The scale goes to T-7, which, in effect, would cause the extinction of all mammalian life on earth.”

  Ralph looked up to the screen as it changed to a shot of the earth. It went through the different iterations of T, showing small red spots that grew as the infectibility rate progressed. At T-5, all human life on earth was extinguished. He looked back to the audience and adjusted his glasses.

  “This contagion has been determined to be a strand of smallpox. What strand, we cannot say for sure, though we have our theories that it could be black pox. Smallpox, and its derivative black pox, currently, only exist in two places on the planet earth: the CDC BSL 4 labs in Atlanta, and a remote outpost in the former Soviet Union. Other than that, man has conquered and abolished it. It has, to put it bluntly, come back somehow.” He shook his head. “Mother nature always has surprises in store for us it seems.