The 11th Plague
Page 17
He stood at the window and watched the sun of the new day begin to rise above the pine trees. The room was still except for the sounds of Lori’s labored breathing behind him and the monotonous, mournful, hissing sounds of the oxygen escaping from the plastic mask which covered her face.
With all the vigorous rebound of youth, Peter was well on his way to recovery. At 4 a.m. he had become afebrile; he was resting comfortably and was even taking fluids by mouth.
Lori was still in coma, but Alex’s fear was mixed with gratitude that she was still alive. If she would just wake up.
For a moment, he was lost in thought. From the little Carl Stafford and Matt Raleigh had been able to find out, they had hypothesized that a mutant strain of Staphylococcus aureus: 80/81 caused this disease by producing an exotoxin, a substance made within the bacterial cell and then released into its environment. They further speculated that this toxin was fatal because it destroyed surfactant, a type of fatty material in the lungs necessary to maintain optimum conditions for oxygen to get into the bloodstream and for the lungs to function properly; it also destroyed red blood cells to cause acute anemia, damaged the walls of small blood vessels or capillaries to cause bleeding into the skin and vital organs, and prevented white blood cells from acting properly in defense against infection. The result of these pathologic processes was the terrible disease that had taken so great a toll of life.
“Alex?”
He spun around at the sound of Lori’s voice and ran to the bed. “I’m here, Lori.” He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. It was hot and blue.
“How’s Peter?”
“All better.”
“Really?”
“Really, hon. He’s sleeping in a room right down the hall. His temp is down and he’s just about over it. How are you doing? Are the girls OK?”
“They’re fine, and I feel much better now that you’re here.” She squeezed his hand. “I was frightened, Alex, that I would die without seeing you again. How did you know we were ill?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it someday. Rest now.”
He bent over and lifted the oxygen mask to kiss her lips. She was a little cooler and the blue was beginning to fade. He knew now that she would be there tomorrow to share a new day with him.
Alex returned to Fort Detrick to tie up loose ends.
His predictions had underestimated the efficacy of the drugs. Within twenty-four hours of the first survivals, the number of deaths had started to decrease. As the program of prophylaxis was instituted and knowledge of the disease and the therapy were disseminated, the number of deaths dropped precipitously. The number of new cases decreased more slowly, but almost all recovered.
For the first time, a day had passed during which no deaths from the disease had been reported.
It seemed to be over.
Alex had an hour before the army courier assigned to drive him to Dulles Airport would pick him up. In the bright sun he walked around the small fort where he had spent that terrible week. He passed the parade ground. The grass had been freshly cut, and the smell was sweet. Only the rhythmic sound of the flag rippling in the breeze interrupted the peaceful silence.
He quickened his pace past the main gate. The guard booth had been rebuilt and fresh paint covered the burns of yesterday. A lone military policeman nodded to him and then turned back to watch the wire gate now open to the outside world. It seemed that life had returned to normal.
He walked along the black asphalt road surrounded on either side by the fields used previously for growing experimental corn. The old and naked stalks, now overgrown with weeds and sunflowers, bent in the breeze as if parting to allow the road to pass. He turned left onto the gravel path near the old barn, once a laboratory for large-animal experiments, and continued up the hill and then down toward the duck pond. His steps echoed across the small stone bridge. He continued around the far end of the pond and up the grassy knoll to the small plot of freshly turned dirt, and he stopped.
A few blades of new grass were making their way between the clumps of dry earth. He listened to the quiet and felt the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck. In the peaceful silence, head bowed, hands folded in front of him, he had come to say a last farewell to the man who lay beneath his feet.
“Max,” he said the name hesitantly. Never in life had he used Dr. Schwartz’s first name, but in death it reflected the closeness he had always felt and only now could put into words. “Your death has been a loss to all of mankind—but most of all to me. Part of you will live forever—in the minds and hearts of all who were fortunate enough to have shared in your wisdom. I will always remember you as many things—but, above all, as an extraordinary human being.”
Alex stood for another moment in silence and then turned and left without looking back.
Lori and the children would be waiting for him, and that was all that mattered now. The scars on his arm would remain his only visible reminders, but the past few days were imprinted forever in his memory.
He looked down at the Boston skyline as the plane banked into its final approach to Logan International Airport. He could see the runway rushing up to meet his plane. Other aircraft were taking off and landing; the parking lot was crowded with cars; people came and went. Life had returned to normal. This generation had survived; it would never know how close it had come to extinction or what might be the consequences to those yet unborn.
epilogue
Luis St. Jerome closed the copy of the Journal of Infectious Diseases and paused to listen to the thunder heralding the birth of the season’s first hurricane as it gathered momentum in the distant Caribbean. Alex Kahn’s article, reread for the hundredth time, had convinced him. “It will work! And this time, no mistakes, no hidden clues, no easy cure!” He slammed his fist on the desk and walked quickly from the small, humid office into his large, air-conditioned laboratory across the hall.
It was the laboratory of the commanding officer, Biomedical Warfare Institute; and he had worked very hard to earn it. Medical school in Amsterdam, internship and residency at Columbia’s Presbyterian Hospital, and finally three difficult years as a Fellow in Infectious Diseases with the famous Alex Kahn in Boston. He had gone to Boston for many reasons—most of all to prepare himself for today.
He unlocked the door of the large glass cabinet and removed the rack of cotton-plugged test tubes. He lifted a single tube and held it up to the window. Clusters of small, round, creamy yellow colonies glistened in the sunlight. “Staphylococcus aureus: 80/81. The Machdi strain.” He said the words in a hoarse whisper. He had memorized its every characteristic; he had studied its life history in detail.
The Machdi strain. A mutant strain of a simple, ubiquitous microorganism that had been fathered to study adaptation and that had almost destroyed the world. Now it was to be changed again—in a different place, at a different time, by a different “parent.” But its ultimate use would be the same—to attack, to kill, to conquer with disease.
Luis St. Jerome had no conscience, no allegiance to science for the good of mankind, no hesitancy to use any weapon to win for his country what he considered to be its rightful place among the nations of the world. The years of learning, the frustrations, the sacrifices had all been endured to discover the key to changing the Machdi strain—to make it the ultimate weapon.
His plan was complete. He had chosen his target; he had selected the method of delivery; all that remained was the final step in the mutation—to arm his weapon.
He looked again with satisfaction at the tube in his hand and then returned it carefully to the rack. He opened the door to the small computerized radiation source on the laboratory bench to his right, removed the cotton plugs from the tubes, placed the entire rack into the small dark chamber, and closed and sealed the door behind them. He paused momentarily with his thumb on the switch. Once it was pressed, there would be no turning back. Without hesitating further, he pushed the button.
It was done.
Those terrifying days when disease had dominated life were beginning again. Had they ever really ended?