The Genesis Plague

by Michael Byrnes

  82

  Meat descended the ladder while monitoring the scene directly below: rats streaming up and down the ramp leading into the container, as if staging a raid.

  ‘Make sure you don’t get bit,’ Jason warned, as he gripped the ladder’s side rails and swung his foot out on to the top rung.

  ‘Duh,’ Meat muttered. Reaching the lowest rung, he leaped out over the horde and landed safely in the shrinking circle of clear ground that surrounded Crawford.

  When Jason looked over at the colonel, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Crawford was now hammer-swinging his mangled hand at his walkie-talkie, trying to smash it. ‘Meat! Stop him!’

  Meat dashed over to the colonel and grabbed the thrashing arm with both hands. ‘Give it up, Crawford!’

  ‘Fuck you!’ the colonel seethed, grimacing from the pain.

  Cranking the arm down, Meat dropped his knees on to it, pinning it hopelessly to the ground.

  Jason jumped down off the ladder and came up behind Meat.

  Crawford’s entire body quaked from the adrenaline coursing through his system. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ he ranted madly. ‘Don’t let them win! It’s them or us! Don’t you see?!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . .’ Meat said, snatching the blood-covered walkie-talkie from Crawford’s belt. ‘I’ll take this, thanks.’ He tossed it to Jason.

  Crawford spat in Meat’s face. ‘You’re a disgrace!’

  Using his sleeve to wipe the saliva from his cheek, Meat replied sarcastically, ‘And aren’t you just sweet as a cupcake?’

  ‘Take his grenades too,’ Jason said.

  Meat plucked the three grenades from Crawford’s flak jacket and clipped them to his own belt.

  Meanwhile, Jason went over to retrieve Crawford’s fumbled Bowie knife, which had landed within inches of the advancing wall of vermin. Crouching to grab the knife, he stared at the mind-boggling infestation – a sea of beady eyes filled with unnatural bloodlust. He was certain that plague DNA alone couldn’t account for the rats’ wild behaviour. What had Stokes been feeding them? He stood and paced over to Crawford.

  ‘You’re responsible for quite a few deaths today, Crawford,’ Jason said. ‘Mostly good men who believed in you . . . trusted you. That’s a lot of blood on your hands. As far as I see it, it’s high time for you to pay for what you’ve done.’ He dropped the knife on to Crawford’s chest. ‘You can keep that, tough guy. See how well you do against them.’ He motioned to the rats. ‘Capeesh?’

  Crawford’s jaw jutted out, his eyes boiling with rage and defeat.

  ‘Come on, Jason. Let’s get outta here,’ Meat said, motioning to the entry tunnel.

  ‘Just a sec,’ Jason said. He unclipped the light from Crawford’s M-16 and set it on the ground to illuminate the spot.

  ‘Wh— . . . what are you doing?’ Crawford demanded.

  Slowly backing away, Jason grinned while holding up the sputtering walkie-talkie. With each step, the ultrasonic barrier retreated from Crawford and the hungry rats encroached a few inches more into the circular void – countless hungry eyes glinting red in the light.

  The colonel tried desperately to grip the Bowie knife with only the limited function of a thumb and a pinkie. The blade slid off his chest and landed just out of reach. ‘Aaaaaaah!’ He propped himself up on his good elbow, and tried to drag his crippled body away from the rats. That didn’t work either.

  ‘Hazo!’ Jason called out.

  ‘Yes, Jason. I’m still here,’ came the Kurd’s weak reply from high up on the platform.

  ‘Can you see this?’ He glanced up at the platform and saw Hazo’s head pop into view.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is for you, buddy. Godspeed, my friend.’ Jason took another step back. The rats spilled over Crawford’s paralysed legs and began feeding.

  Crawford screamed bloody murder. ‘Damn you, Yaeger!’

  Holding the flashlight to his watch, Meat reported, ‘We only have twelve minutes left.’ But he could tell that Jason was determined to make the colonel suffer.

  Jason paused for a long moment to let Crawford wallow in terror. Then he took another step backwards. The rats scurried up the colonel’s thighs and genitals, clawing viciously, gnashing and tearing away flesh in chunks. Crawford couldn’t yet feel the pain, but the sheer horror that showed in his eyes consumed the last ounce of his bravado.

  Jason counted slowly to ten. Another step backwards brought the rats over the colonel’s chest. They chewed wildly at his flak jacket, digging for flesh. When they attacked the mangled arm still trapped under his torso, the ungodly pain finally registered. Shrieking in agony, Crawford swatted madly at them with his other arm, but the effort was futile.

  After another ten-count, Jason took a further step back.

  Now the rats fought for the tender flesh of the colonel’s neck, ears and face. Crawford’s thrashing arm, thick with clinging rats, was now useless. When he screamed one last time, a rat buried itself in his throat, while two more clawed at his eyes. The body went into spasm.

  Satisfied, Jason dashed towards the tunnel where Meat stood anxiously waiting.

  The black wave crashed over Crawford’s body.

  ‘Feel better now?’ Meat said.

  ‘Much,’ Jason said, setting the transmitter on the ground just inside the narrow entryway. ‘That should hold them back long enough. Now let’s get the hell out of here!’

  83

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ one of the marines outside the cave entrance asked. ‘I heard explosions . . .’ He was clearly shaken by the urgency with which Jason and Meat were making their exit.

  Jason hooked him by the arm as they passed, pulled him towards the slope. Meat grabbed the guy’s partner by the shoulder and goaded him along right behind them.

  ‘I need you to help me get everyone down to the MRAP . . . right now,’ Jason said.

  ‘Why? What’s—’

  Jason quickly conveyed the seriousness of the situation. He verified the elapsed time on his wristwatch then said, ‘There’s a nuke inside this mountain that’s going to blow in less than four minutes.’

  ‘A nuke?’ Hearing his own words rattled the marine even more. ‘Get outta here!’

  ‘A really big nuke,’ Meat said with extreme drama.

  ‘Now go!’ Jason said, prodding the marine down the slope. ‘Everyone needs to be inside the vehicle!’ He took a moment to survey the camp and confirmed that the backup platoon still hadn’t arrived. For once, he was grateful for their inefficiency. Down below, six more marines were in plain sight, including the wounded.

  ‘You too,’ Meat said to the second marine, who was showing signs of disbelief. ‘Get going.’

  ‘But where’s Crawford?’ he asked.

  ‘Dead. Same as Holt and Ramirez,’ Meat told him. ‘Same as us if we keep standing here.’ Meat wasn’t about to debate the issue. He turned and started down the slope. If the guywas smart,he’d follow.

  ‘Dead?’ the marine muttered in disbelief. He stared at the cave for a long moment wondering if he’d just been fed a line of bullshit. Then he came to his senses and hurried after Meat.

  Jason secured the MRAP’s rear doors the best he could since the massive indentations made by the earlier boulder collision had misaligned the hinges. ‘All clear. Go!’ he yelled to the driver.

  The engine roared and the hulking troop carrier lurched forward.

  ‘How much longer?’ Meat asked.

  He glanced at his watch again. ‘Less than a minute.’

  Jason hoped that the walkie-talkie had enough juice left in it to hold back the rats for just a little longer. But even if the brood managed to break through the ultrasonic barrier, they’d have a tough time squeezing through the rubble pile Meat had plugged up using Crawford’s three grenades.

  He scanned the worried faces of the marines huddled tight along the side-wall benches. One of the soldiers had his left arm in a sling, two others had bandaged heads, and the cut
e robot operator with the pageboy haircut had a makeshift splint wrapped tight over her right shin. ‘Everybody all right?’

  Some nods, some affirmative responses.

  ‘Sergeant Yaeger,’ the driver called back. ‘I just received confirmation that 5th Division has turned around again and is returning to base camp. They’re about three klicks to the west.’

  ‘Good,’ Jason said.

  The MRAP gathered speed as it climbed on to the roadway and headed south.

  ‘Jesus, what happened in there?’ one of the marines asked.

  Casting his eyes to the floor, Jason wasn’t sure how to respond. Would anyone really believe the truth?

  Meat answered for him: ‘A weapons stash. Huge weapons stash. It was booby-trapped. Crawford must’ve hit some kind of tripwire that activated a timed detonator.’ He looked to Jason for corroboration.

  Jason nodded.

  ‘But you said there was a nuke in there,’ the second marine who’d been guarding the cave entrance challenged. ‘How are we supposed to believe—’

  ‘Hey, wise guy, I think you should shut up and grab hold of something,’ Meat advised sternly, counting down the final seconds in his head.

  The testy marine wisely clammed up and clasped the handle hanging over his head, tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

  The others also hunkered down. Tension and anticipation filled the air.

  Nobody spoke.

  Five seconds later, a brilliant white light flashed through the rear window, accompanied by an earsplitting explosion on par with a thunderclap. There was a deceptive delay that preceded the shockwave. When it hit, the MRAP groaned and bucked, jostling everyone inside. Arms and legs flailed and bodies rolled. The hull filled with screams and expletives.

  A barrage of heavy debris pounded the roof, clanging the vehicle’s thick armour plating like a gong. The white light dissipated and a second wave of pelting debris came raining down over the truck’s exterior.

  Then came an eerie calm.

  The intensity of the blast had Jason feeling confident that even if some of the rats had managed to escape before the nuke detonated, either the searing heat wave would have vaporized them, or the crunching pressure wave would have pulverized them.

  ‘Told you it was a nuke,’ Meat said to the sceptical marine.

  EPILOGUE

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  ‘I feel like I’m hanging from a noose,’ Meat grumbled as he tugged at the starched white collar that strangled his eighteen-and-a-quarter-inch neck. The rented black tuxedo paired a size 46 long jacket with a pair of 34 × 34 pants. But it all felt too restrictive, particularly at the shoulders and crotch. The shiny black patent leather 14 EE shoes were no great shakes, either; he hated the way they clicked along the marble tiles of the museum’s Great Court. ‘God, I hate playing dress-up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jason said, fixing his own bowtie and taking extra-long strides to keep up with Meat. ‘Dressing up is all we’ve been doing for the past five years,’ he reminded him. ‘Except this time we get to shower and shave, even smell nice. Nothing wrong with looking classy once in a while.’

  Jason gazed up to admire the deep cerulean sky coming through Norman Foster’s glass and steel canopy – a segmented dome of triangular glass panels which covered the hectare Great Court that was the heart of the British Museum. At the court’s centre, he scanned the mingling VIPs who sipped champagne in front of the circular Reading Room. Still no sign of Flaherty.

  ‘Doesn’t look like Tommy’s here yet,’ he said, claiming a spot beneath a life-size statue of a Roman youth riding a horse, in search of conquest. Giving the statue only a cursory glance, he couldn’t help but draw a parallel to Randall Stokes’s lofty ambitions to chart a new course for human history.

  A tuxedoed waiter carrying a tray of long-stemmed glasses brimming with bubbly immediately came to them. ‘Champagne, gentlemen?’

  ‘Cheers,’ Jason said to the waiter as he took a flute by its stem.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ Meat said, grabbing his own glass by its narrow bulb as if were a chopper control grip.

  A lithe brunette wearing a skimpy cocktail dress and high heels strode by, gazed at Meat appraisingly, then flashed him an approving smile. Meat smiled back, and miraculously the tuxedo felt comfortable. He reconsidered his position, saying, ‘I suppose classy isn’t so bad.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  ‘I’m just not used to getting all dressed up like some rich socialite.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Jason said. He slid his hand under his lapel and pulled out a white envelope.

  Meat looked at it suspiciously. ‘If that’s another goddamn subpoena—’

  ‘Calm down . . .’ Jason said.

  There’d been plenty of court requests over the past weeks since they’d returned home from their mission. The Department of Defense had begun what would surely prove to be a lengthy inquiry into the events that had transpired in Iraq. Accompanied by an army of counsellors from Global Security Corporation’s Legal Affairs division, Jason and Meat had endured exhaustive questioning at a Congressional hearing. They’d quickly been absolved of any formal charges, thanks largely to the tell-all video captured on the disc Jason had recovered from the camcorder in Crawford’s tent. The footage corroborated everything Jason and Meat had described in their testimony. It showed Crawford’s crude interrogation of Al-Zahrani, Jason’s unheeded demand to Crawford to call for backup, Al-Zahrani’s rapid decline in health as proof that the Genesis Plague was a very real threat, plus a chilling offscreen altercation between Crawford and Dr Jeremy Levin just before a gunshot rang out to silence the medic. The video’s grand finale, however, was when Crawford and Staff Sergeant Richards (dressed in nomad garb) appeared onscreen to hoist Al-Zahrani off the bed while Crawford barked orders to secrete the terrorist out the back door for a clandestine escape. Scathing testimony provided by the surviving troops of the 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Division Expeditionary Force, also emphasized Crawford’s schizophrenic behaviour, as well as the lifesaving air attack staged by the GSC mercenary unit.

  The day after he’d been taken into custody, Randall Stokes had suffered a miserable and poetic demise, choking to death on his own blood in a quarantine ward at Nellis Air Force Base. Shortly thereafter, NSA cryptographers succeeded in cracking the sophisticated encryption on Stokes’s computer hard drive, and retrieved all the operational details for Operation Genesis, including schematics for the breeding facilities installed beneath the Zagros Mountains and gene sequencing data for the Genesis Plague. There were even simulation models that forecast the spread of the disease – an expected 90 per cent kill rate of the Middle Eastern male population in just the first three months of the contagion’s initial introduction.

  Auditors had forensically reconstructed the money trail for the project’s financing to reveal a complex web of twenty-seven phantom accounts in Switzerland, the Cayman Islands and Bermuda, all funnelled into a numbered account held by Our Savior in Christ Cathedral. The majority of funding had been misappropriated from defence money earmarked for biochemical research at Fort Detrick shortly after the 2001 terror attacks. The balance of funding came from charitable donations to Stokes’s evangelical mission made by a veritable ‘who’s who’ of wealthy donors. Every contractor and benefactor associated with Operation Genesis was being vetted for complicity in the plot.

  Just last week, both Jason and Meat had been recommended for the highest commendations for their heroic actions in averting what might have been the most egregious act of bioterrorism ever documented. But the kudos didn’t end there. There were other rewards too.

  ‘Calm down, it’s not a subpoena,’ Jason said in a taming voice. He held the envelope out and waited for Meat to accept it. But Meat just stared at it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just open it. Come on . . . it won’t bite. Trust me, you won’t regret it.’

  Meat reluctantly
snatched it away from Jason. After confirming that his name and address appeared in the small window on front of the envelope, he began tearing at the seal.

  ‘After that fire at the safe house burned out,’ Jason explained, ‘six skeletons were recovered from the ashes. Five were unidentifiable. But one of the skeletons had a very unique dental implant, as well as a titanium pin implanted surgically in the left ankle to correct for an old soccer injury.’

  ‘All right,’ Meat said, not grasping the connection. He peeked into the envelope and saw the backside of what looked like a cheque.

  ‘Turns out the FBI matched the dental work with records already in its database,’ Jason explained. ‘The serial number on the titanium pin came up too.’

  Meat froze before fishing out the contents from the envelope. He looked at Jason in disbelief. ‘Al-Zahrani?’

  Jason grinned widely and nodded. ‘The only positive ID. Of course, those photos I took before we set the place on fire helped too.’

  Suddenly the piece of paper pinched between Meat’s fingers felt impossibly heavy.

  ‘Go ahead, look at it,’ Jason said, pointing at the paper.

  Meat squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. Slowly he flipped the cheque over. His mouth dropped open when in the numeric field he saw nothing but two threes and five noughts separated by two commas. For once, he was speechless.

  ‘Your cut of the bounty. Three-point-three million. A bit bigger than expected since Lillian had GSC match our share.’

  ‘I always liked her,’ Meat said.

  ‘And you’re about to like her even more . . . because she agreed to send Jam’s and Camel’s widows their cut. Hazo’s sister, Anyah, got his share. I’ve got an envelope for Tommy, too. How’s that for classy?’ He patted Meat on the shoulder.

  Finally Meat raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Whoa. Now that is a nice payday.’

  ‘Sure is.’ Jason raised his champagne and made a small toast. ‘Here’s to living to fight another day.’