“What, you think a terrorist with a Ph.D. in chemistry watched a sci-fi flick and thought ‘Hey, that’s a good way to kill Americans’?”
Hu shrugged. “After all the stuff I’ve seen in the last week, I wouldn’t be surprised. Now, there may be some higher brain functions but if so it would be far lower than the most advanced Alzheimer’s patient.”
“An Alzheimer’s patient is still going to feel pain, and I beat the shit out of Javad and he didn’t so much as blink.”
“Yeah, well, we’re getting into one of our many gray areas. Remember that we’re not dealing with a natural mutation, so a lot of what we know will be based on field observation and clinical testing.”
“So… if we’re talking disease why are we also talking living dead? How does that work?”
“That’s something we’re working on with the walkers we harvested from St. Michael’s,” Hu said, and for the moment there was no fanboy smirk on his face. “This disease cluster reduces so much of the body’s functions that it goes into a kind of hibernative state. That’s what we’ve been calling ‘death’ for these cases, but we’re wrong. When you shot Javad his body was already ravaged by the disease and the injuries hastened the process. He slipped into a hibernative coma that was so deep that the EMTs who checked his vitals got nothing. Consider this,” he said, shifting in his chair, “animals can hibernate and to a very, very limited degree so can humans. Not easily, but it sometimes happens. You see it once in a while in hypothermia cases. But when a ground squirrel hibernates its metabolism drops down to like one percent of normal. Unless you had sophisticated equipment you’d think it was dead. Even its heart beats so infrequently that a cut wouldn’t bleed much because the blood pressure is too low.”
“Can’t some yogis do the same thing?”
“Not even close. Even in the deepest yogic trance their metabolism is maybe ninety-nine or at most ninety-eight percent of normal. These walkers, on the other hand, are going into hibernative states as deep as a ground squirrel’s. Much deeper than a hibernating bear. Almost anyone who checked their vitals would declare them dead. We had to use machines to establish this and even then we almost missed it. What we have here is someone who has managed to either splice ground squirrel DNA to that of humans—and before you ask, no, they are not compatible according to what we know of modern transgenics—or they’ve found a way to alter the chemistry of the body to cause artificial hibernation. Either way, we can see the effect but we’re nowhere close to understanding it.” He set down the Slinky and leaned forward. “Once the victim is in hibernation this disease cluster reorganizes the functioning matrix of the body. It somehow uses the fatal familial insomnia protein to wake the victim up again and keep them awake; but during the hibernation the parasite has closed off those areas of the body that have been severely injured—as with the gunshot wounds. Our walker gets up because the parasite has kept the motor cortex going as well as some of the cranial nerves—the ones governing balance, chewing, swallowing, and so on. However, most of the organs are in shutdown and the reduced blood and oxygen flow has caused irreparable brain damage to the higher functions such as cognition. The heart pumps only a little blood, and the lungs operate at an almost negligible level. Circulation is so significantly reduced that necrosis begins to occur in disused parts of the body. So, we have nearly a classic brain-dead, flesh-hungry, rotting zombie. It’s beautiful, man, absolutely freaking beautiful.”
The urge to hit him was getting tougher to control.
“Can they think at all? Are they problem-solving?”
He shrugged. “If the walker is capable of conscious thought, we haven’t seen evidence of it. But really, we don’t know what they can’t do, or what variations might emerge in a larger cross section of the population. Maybe that’s why they had the kids today—trying the pathogen on a new test group. Body chemistry is different in kids. But overall, these are brain-dead meat machines. They walk, growl, bite, and that’s it.”
I blew out my cheeks. “Can they feel pain?”
“Unknown. Certainly they don’t react to it. There’s not even a flinch mechanism that we’ve seen. Though at St. Michael’s we learned that they’ll recoil from fire. They appear to be oblivious to, or are capable of disregarding, other forms of pain and the threat of pain.”
“They die, though,” I said. “Brain and brain stem injuries seem to do the trick.”
“Right, and if I were you I’d stick with that. But whether they can be otherwise injured in the classic sense… that’s complicated. Our walkers have a hyperactive wound-healing capacity. Not on the scale of Wolverine from X-Men who regenerates back to complete health, but more on the lines of car tires when they’re filled with a can of that sealant stuff. Wounds do seal, as we know, otherwise we’d bleed out from a paper cut. Proteins called fibrins and high-molecular-weight glycoprotein-containing fibronectins bond together to form a plug that traps proteins and particles and prevents further blood loss; and this plug establishes a structural support to seal the wound until collagen is deposited. Then some ‘migratory cells’ use this plug to stretch across the wound, during which platelets stick to this seal until it’s replaced with granulation tissue and then later with collagen. In the walkers this whole process is running at superspeed. Shoot one and the wound closes right away. If this were a natural mutation we’d consider it an evolutionary response to a highly dangerous environment; fast healing in the presence of the potential for frequent cuts. But this is designer stuff; and again, our Dr. Evil has a gold mine of a patent in his hands because that process alone might be a potential cure or treatment for hemophilia and other bleeding disorders. And the battlefield uses would be worth billions.” He leaned close. “And if you and your Rambo squad can take out the geniuses behind this then I’m going to swipe this shit and file the patents, and then I’ll buy Tahiti and retire.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sighed. “What about treatment, something to kill these prions? Can we give people something to amp up their immune systems?”
He shook his head. “The body’s immune system doesn’t react to prion diseases the way it does to other diseases; it doesn’t kick in and the disease spreads too rapidly with nothing to slow it down. Once it takes hold there is no treatment.”
“Terrific.”
“And killing a prion is incredibly difficult. In labs, where growth hormones are cultivated from extracted pituitary glands, solvents of various kinds have been used to purify the tissue; these solvents kill everything… except the damn prions. Even formaldehyde won’t kill them, which really boggles me. Radiation treatment and bombardment with ultraviolet light doesn’t kill them. We—and by that I mean my fellow wizards in the scientific community as a whole—have tried virtually everything to kill TSEs including treating diseased brain tissues with all manner of chemicals including industrial detergent—and the prions simply won’t die. They don’t even die with the host organism. Bury a corpse with a prion disease and dig up the bones a century later… and the prions are still there. They are, after all, simply proteins.”
“Is that all of it?” I asked.
“I could go on and on about the science—”
“I mean, are those all of the highlights? Is there anything else I have to know if I’m going to lead my team into that crab plant?”
Again Hu looked at Church and now the distant look was gone from Church’s eyes. He nodded to the doctor. “Well,” Hu said, “there’s the issue of infection.”
“Right, it’s transmitted through a bite. I saw enough of that firsthand about three hours ago. I saw those bastards biting kids.”
I looked to see how that hit Hu but there wasn’t a flicker of compassion on his face. He was too caught up in how cool he thought this all was. I wondered how he’d feel if he was in a locked room with a walker.
Hu gave me a devious grin. “It’s a bit worse than that. A whole lot worse, actually.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
The DMS Wa
rehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, June 30; 9:39 P.M.
“WHAT’S WORSE?”
We turned to see Grace Courtland entering the lab with Rudy right behind her. Rudy looked terrible. His face was the color of old milk, except for dark smudges under his eyes; his lips were a little wet and rubbery, and his eyes had the glassy and violated look of a victim of some dreadful crime.
“Jeez, Rude, are you okay—?” I said quietly as I moved to intercept him.
“Later, Joe. It’s been a hard day for everyone, but let’s talk later.”
Church got to his feet and joined the group. “Captain, your friend Dr. Sanchez has already been entertained by Dr. Hu. And I believe Major Courtland has shown him the St. Michael’s tapes.”
Rudy looked at the floor for a moment, then he took a deep breath and tried to master himself. I hadn’t yet seen those tapes, so having gotten my own tour of hell I could pretty well imagine what horrors were banging around in his head. It made me feel like a total shit for having gotten him dragged into this.
“You’re about to tell him about the rate of infection, Doctor?” Rudy asked in a voice that was steadier than I expected.
“Yep, but he’s your friend… why don’t you break the news to him.”
Rudy nodded. He cleared his throat. “Joe… I’m not sure which I think would be worse, a real case of supernatural zombies like out of the movies or what we have here.”
“Definitely what we have here,” Hu said. Courtland agreed, and even Church nodded.
“This is a lousy way to start a conversation,” I said. “I would have thought that zombies would pretty much be your worst-case scenario.”
Rudy grimaced and shook his head. “You understand what prions are, right? Okay, with any disease there is an incubation period, and for prion pathologies it’s typically very long, anywhere from several months to thirty years in humans.”
“I told him about the parasites,” Hu said.
Rudy nodded. “Prions, though extremely dangerous, are far from being short-term weapons and could at best represent a time-bomb effect. Whoever made this disease pioneered some new way to speed up the process of infection. Now it happens in minutes.”
“Seconds,” I corrected. “Like I said… I saw it.”
Hu said, “We’re seeing all kinds of variations in terms of infection, time of death, and speed of reanimation. We’re only just beginning to build models to study it but we’re nowhere near understanding it. The pattern’s funky, and I’ll bet you my whole set of Evil Dead action figures that we’ve either got mutations or more than one strain. In either case we are seriously screwed.”
Rudy said, “I think we can safely say that when the carrier and victim are in an agitated state, as we had in the hospital and in Delaware today, then the process happens very fast. Adrenaline and ambient temperature both accelerate the process.”
“This is why this is such a major threat,” Church interrupted quietly. “There has always been a lag factor with diseases, even weaponized diseases, and we don’t have that here.”
“Okay. Message understood. If any infected people get out we’re screwed.”
“And when in doubt, Captain,” said Church, “shoot to kill.”
“Dios mio,” Rudy murmured, but I met Church’s stare and gave him a microscopic nod.
“What about inoculation? Can you juice my team in case we get bit?”
“No way,” Hu said. “Remember, the core of this thing is a prion and a prion is simply a misfolded normal protein. Any vaccine that would destroy the prion would destroy all forms of that protein. Once we identify all the parasites we might be able to kill that, and maybe that’ll do some good. No, I think that your team has to consider prophylactic measures instead.”
“Is this thing airborne? I mean, if all we have to do is protect against a bite, then we can suit up with Dragon Skin or Interceptor, or some other kind of body armor. There’s plenty of stuff on the market.”
“I don’t think it’s airborne,” Hu said dubiously, “but it might be vapor borne, which means spit or sweat might carry it. In a tight room at high temperatures… you might want a hazmat suit of some kind.”
“Hard to fight in a hazmat,” I pointed out.
Church held up a finger. “I can make a call and have Saratoga Hammer Suits here by morning.” I guess all of us looked blank, so he added, “Permeable chemical warfare protective overgarments for domestic preparedness. It’s a composite filter fabric based on highly activated and hard carbon spheres fixed onto textile carrier fabrics. It’s tough, but light enough to permit agile movement as well as unarmed and armed combat. It’s been out for a bit, but I can get the latest generation. I have a friend in the industry.”
“You always have a friend in the industry,” Hu said under his breath, which got a flicker of a smile from Grace. A DMS in-joke apparently.
Church stepped away and opened his cell phone. When he came back he said, “A helo will meet us at the staging area for the crab plant raid by six A.M. with fifty suits.”
“I guess you do have a friend in the industry,” Rudy said.
“And the big man scores,” Hu said, and held up his hand for a high five but Church stared at him with calm, dark eyes. Hu coughed, lowered his hand, and turned to me. “If you go in with body armor and those suit thingees you should be okay. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless there are a lot of them.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“And unless there’s more to this disease than we think.”
“What are the chances of that, Doctor?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Damn,” I said.
Chapter Fifty
Amirah / The Bunker / Tuesday, June 30
THE PHONE WOKE her and for a moment Amirah did not know where she was. A fragment of a dream flitted past the corner of her eye and though she could not quite define its shape or grasp its content, she had an impression of a man’s face—maybe Gault, maybe El Mujahid—sweating, flushed with blood, eyes intense as he raised himself above her on two stiffened arms and grunted and thrust his hips forward. It was not a lovemaking dream. It had more of the vicious indifference of a rape, even in the fleeting half-remembrance of it. The most lasting part of the dream was not the image of the man—whichever man it had been—but from a deep and terrible coldness that entered her with each thrust, as if the man atop her was dead, without heat.
Amirah shook herself and stared at the phone on her desk that continued to ring. She glanced around her office—it was empty, though she could see workers in the lab on the other side of the one-way glass wall. She cleared her throat, picked up the phone, and said, “Yes?”
“Line?”
“It’s clear.” She said it automatically, but then pressed the button on the scrambler. “It’s clear now,” she corrected.
“He’s on his way.” Gault’s voice was soft and in those four words Amirah could hear the subtle layers of meaning that she always suspected filtered everything he said.
“How is he?”
“No longer pretty.”
Amirah laughed. “He was never pretty.”
“He’s no longer handsome, then,” Gault corrected.
“Is… he in much pain?”
“Nothing he can’t handle. He’s very stoic, your husband. I think if he had a bullet in his chest he would shrug it off as inconsequential. Few men have his level of physical toughness.”
“He’s a brute,” Amirah said, flavoring her voice with disgust.
There was a pause at the other end as if Gault was assessing her words, or perhaps her tone. Did he suspect? she wondered, and not for the first time.
“He’ll have some time to rest while he travels. He needs to regain his strength. We provided him with plenty of drugs to keep the pain under control; and let’s face it, stoicism only really works when people are watching. We don’t want him to fall into despair while he’s all alone in his cabi
n.”
Amirah said nothing. She probably should have, she knew, but the image of the mighty El Mujahid sitting alone and in pain in a tiny interior cabin on some rusty old freighter was compelling.
Into the silence, and as if reading her mind, Gault said, “Don’t fret, my love; I own the ship’s surgeon as well as the captain.”
“I’m not fretting, Sebastian. My concern is that his wounds not become infected. We need him to be in the best possible shape for the mission.” She was careful to use the word “mission” now, having slipped once before when she called it the “cause.” She wasn’t sure Gault had noted the error, but he probably had. He was like that.
“Of course, of course,” he said soothingly. “Everything is taken care of. He’ll be fine and the plan will go off as we planned. Everything is perfect. Trust me.”
“I do,” she said, and she softened her voice. “I trust you completely.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, a laugh in his voice.
“You know I do.”
“And I,” he said, “will always love you.” With that he disconnected the call.
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