Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  Olive-green military transports shuffled troops around the city, fanning out to strengthen perimeters around St. Mary's Medical Center and the Lincoln Park area.

  We swore to protect this country, Folkstone told himself as he studied the hellish fires and chaos below.

  “Captain? Get us outta here.”

  The helicopter banked and within minutes Dickinson Island and the airfield came into view.

  The island was perched in a crook of the Tennessee River with one road in, one road out, and one strategic bridge to defend. It was intersected by a single 3,500 foot runway. Asphalt taxi lanes crisscrossed the manicured grassy fields, forming a grid that led to several long, low metal buildings that served as hangars for the corporate and private planes based out of Knoxville.

  Larger buildings were huddled together close to the hangars. Administration and maintenance buildings, a fuelling station. There was a small terminal with a restaurant, observation window and ticket booths for small charter flights. It had everything McGhee had, only on a smaller scale.

  A thick stand of trees along the southeast shoreline helped cut down on wind shear. The military had taken control of the FAA’s mobile tower, and were landing helicopters on the groomed fields in the lee of the natural wind block.

  The field was dotted with big Chinooks, Blackhawks, and two new Bell Textron ARH 70-A helicopters. The Arapaho was equipped with hellfire missiles, Hydra 70 air-to-ground rockets, and two .50 caliber Gatling guns. It was a reconnaissance helicopter with teeth, a militarized version of the Bell 407.

  The Bell 430 carrying Folkstone and company was guided in by two flagmen and met by two young privates and a sergeant. The men carried M-16 A2 rifles. Standard army issue. The fuel truck waited on the pavement at a respectful distance as the skids of the helicopter touched down.

  Folkstone reached for his coat pocket. The depth and heavy wool muffled the buzz but the vibration had alerted him to the call.

  “Yeah?” Folkstone said. He already knew who it was.

  “Need a status report.”

  It was the raspy voice with the southern drawl. Always the same contact person.

  The main rotor slowed, already shutting down to refuel. There was always a danger of static discharge. Folkstone and his men exited the helicopter. Their mission had priority clearance and they were getting more than efficient service. They walked to a waiting Humvee which taxied them to a rest area for a much needed break.

  “We’re on the ground in Knoxville to refuel.”

  “Knoxville? It’s a mass clusterfuck. Our boys are pulling back to expand the quarantine area, but that just increases the numbers trying to escape the perimeter.”

  “Yeah, we did a quick fly over at the east end of the city. Looks like a fuckin' war zone.”

  “That bad?”

  “It’s a time bomb,” replied the major.

  “Since you’re in Knoxville, I guess I can surmise you haven’t located the target?”

  “We missed them in Spartanburg.”

  “I thought you had a lock on their OnStar?”

  “They swapped vehicles.”

  The man with the southern drawl sighed to show his displeasure. “What are they driving now?”

  “A 2006 Ford E 350 Econoline Cargo Van and a ‘93 Ford cube van with a 16’ box.”

  “Color?”

  “White with new body and paint, possibly using their old plates.”

  “You have a route?”

  “Nothing but a hunch. If they were unfamiliar with the drive, it’s possible they might access MapQuest. That’s the route we’re following.”

  “We have a team ready in St. Louis, but the doctor is no longer in play.”

  “Good,” Folkstone replied.

  “Leslie Sardis is trying to shop her story.”

  “She’s a journalist.” Folkstone wondered where this was going. Of course she would shop the story.

  “It’s one of our people.”

  “Who?”

  “St. Petersburg Times.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “She worked there years ago and became close friends with an editor by the name of Felix Morton.”

  “Where do his loyalties lie?”

  “We believe with her, so we put a trace on his office and home lines. His senior editor is more sympathetic to our cause and requested she fax them more of her father’s journal.”

  “Good. We’ll get an origin of transmission.”

  The Humvee entered one of the hangars through the half open doors. The doors were huge, wide enough to accommodate a large plane’s wingspan. Heavy steel framed sliders clad with a thick gauge galvalume, a cross between galvanized steel and aluminum. They moved on a railroad track driven by a motor hidden by a stainless steel cover.

  “Major Folkstone. You have three days to complete your mission, and then you and your team are to report to the Apple Tree.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ve had reports from our friends in Europe. The disease is moving faster than anyone expected. Even the studies we commissioned couldn’t have predicted its course. The vaccine has not been effective.”

  Toombs brought Folkstone a coffee, strong and black, just as he liked it. He nodded in appreciation. Have to throw the kid a bone now and then. As soon as Toombs was out of earshot, Folkstone continued.

  “Do they know why?

  “The pathogen has mutated.”

  The line was quiet while both men considered the implications of the disease unabated by any possible cure.

  “Major, our friends have already isolated. There’s no other choice. We have to get underground and let the pathogen run its course.”

  “Sir, my daughter?”

  “I’m sorry, major. She was on the vaccination list?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” repeated his handler. “Three days.”

  Folkston took a deep breath. “I’ll call you when we get a visual, sir.”

  “God willing, Major.”

  Folkstone clicked off and lowered his head in his hands.

  He raised his head, stone-faced, and whispered a single name so softly it was barely louder from a thought in his mind.

  “Emily.”

  Chapter 23

  Highway 64 saw-toothed laterally across the bottom of the state. They were running in tandem, west into a brilliant beaver moon. NASA would call it a beaver moon, but to the agricultural community around Adamsville, the Farmer’s Almanac was the bible, and that book called the November full moon, the snow moon. It was one of those cold, clear nights that felt like snow just might be a real possibility.

  It had been a long day, and by the time they hit the”Biggest Little Town” in Tennessee, Leslie and the kids were counting sheep. Highway 64 had become the David Crockett Highway, and then Main Street as it entered town.

  “How you making out back there Paul?” asked Jake, keying the ICOM radio.

  He preferred to use the radio manually rather than wear the headset. Leslie was curled up sideways in the front seat in what looked like an uncomfortable position, her head kinked hard, supported by her shoulder.

  “You’re an iron man, Jake. You must be exhausted. I'm dead tired, and Leslie drove part of the way.”

  “You’re still suffering from jet lag, Paul. A good night’s sleep and you'll be right as rain.”

  “Thanks for the excuse, Jake. I think I’ll use it.”

  Jake laughed. “We'll look for something around here.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Paul said, relieved that Jake agreed to stop.

  Leslie’s eyelids fluttered, twitching with the pitch of Paul’s voice. His voice had rattled her subconscious. Paul watched her, waiting as she settled down again. She scratched at her neck. It was an endearing habit that always made him laugh and something he always teased her about.

  After fifteen years, he was still completely captivated by her. She was gorgeous. Leslie stirred, feeling his eyes on her.

  “Where
are we?” she asked her voice coarse and dry. She craned her head, working out the stiffness. She scratched at her neck and rubbed her eyes causing Paul to chuckle.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Leslie gave him a look.

  “Really. It’s nothing.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Adamsville, Tennessee.”

  “Like that helps.”

  “Adamsville. Home to Sheriff Buford Pusser.”

  “Who the hell is Buford Pusser and why does his name sound familiar?”

  “Walking Tall,” Paul answered. “Movie from the seventies. Joe Don Baker.”

  “Oh, god. Wasn’t he the guy who beats on people with a two-by-four?”

  “It was a hickory club, and they always deserved it.”

  “Maybe he can help with those NSA guys.”

  Leslie sat back, quietly examining the downtown streetscape. A mix of small independent shops, some trendy, some not so much, past their heyday, if they ever had such a thing.

  Municipal and government buildings, newer, larger, definitely with deeper pockets dotted the road. All in all, it looked like any Main Street in any small town across America.

  Like most small towns, the sidewalks were mostly quiet after dark. Occasionally the silhouette of a lone figure would be caught in the web of light cast from the streetlamps.

  “Are we stopping soon?” Leslie asked.

  “Soon. We were looking for a little dive, but it looks like we’re out of luck in Adamsville.”

  “Paul, come in.”

  “Go ahead, Jake.”

  “Looks like a motel up ahead on the left.”

  “Thank God. I’m fading.”

  “And it looks like a winner,” said Jake.

  The Stage Coach Inn was exactly what they were looking for. It was a deep, U-shaped building, with three sides of a perfect square and a playground for the kids in the center. It was poorly kept, though, and would need a major dose of cash just to achieve a two star accommodation rating.

  The location was odd, which probably accounted for its condition. Anyone traveling east would likely hold out for something better in town. Anyone traveling west would likely have already made their mind up in town, not expecting to find a motel to the west.

  “Nice little dive,” Paul said.

  “Hourly rentals,” Leslie read out loud.

  “No way.”

  “Read the sign,” Leslie chuckled.

  Despite the run down condition, poor location, and the fact that it was obviously used for unscrupulous activities, the place looked busy.

  A short, slovenly man sitting behind the desk looked startled as Paul and Jake walked in. He had sparse plugs of long, dirty hair and a sickly, pale complexion. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt which rode too high on his beer belly under a heavy flannel shirt that had seen better days.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked. Paul was almost sorry Leslie was waiting in the van. She would have loved this guy.

  “We’d like two rooms,” Paul answered, “as close together as possible.”

  “How you gonna pay?”

  “Cash if that’s all right,” Paul replied.

  A smile crossed the man’s face revealing a few twisted black pegs.

  No shame there, Paul thought, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his head to look at the floor.

  The man turned and plucked two keys from a wooden shelving grid. “To tell the truth, if it wasn’t cash I’d have told you to keep moving on. Credit’s no good these days. Might as well be an I.O.U. from Joe Blow,” the slovenly man said, smiling again. “Twenty and twenty-one, right corner by the coke machine and pay phone.”

  The rooms turned out to be generic. Each had two double beds with rust-colored floral bed spreads as faded and worn as the night manager’s shirt. A dark wicker headboard was screwed to the wall above each bed. There was a long, mismatched dresser and mirror made of wood veneers, and an old 29" television sitting on one end next to a lamp and a phone.

  A small, round arborite table accompanied by two low wooden armchairs that were upholstered in a cheap gold cloth sat in front of the window. The window coverings were a heavy cloth and plastic that matched the bedspread.

  The only thing that looked under twenty years-old were new white bar fridges that sat like a nightstand between one bed and the wall.

  “Actually, it’s better than I thought,” Paul said as he stood in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room.

  “Forty-two dollars for six hours sleep. That's seven dollars an hour.”

  He pulled Leslie close and kissed the top of her head. “I married an accountant.”

  Jake knocked on the door and came in. “Nice place, huh?”

  Paul smiled. “Does the job.”

  Cassandra slid in under the covers and came out with a sock. Holding it by her fingertips, her nose curled up in disgust. “Gross.”

  “I guess the cleaning lady skipped a step, Cassie,” Jake said.

  Cassie tossed it on the floor by the fridge and climbed out from under the covers.

  “That won't do you any good, honey,” Jake teased. “The sheets haven’t been washed since last week, but the bedspread probably hasn’t been washed this year.”

  “Jake!” Leslie laughed. “Don’t tell her that.”

  “I’m just razzing you, Cass.”

  “Mom. Is that true?”

  “Don't listen to him Cass, I’m sure they washed them last month,” Leslie chuckled.

  Cassandra squirmed free and bounced to the other bed, to the amusement of everyone in the room.

  Paul clicked the heat on and sat down at the table, collapsing into the small chair.

  “Should we call Pat Michaels and see if he’s talked to our Andrew Bryce?” Paul asked.

  “I think we should wait until morning when we’re on the move. Just in case anyone’s listening,” Jake said.

  Paul nodded. “Good idea.”

  “Same for Felix. If we’re moving they won’t catch us sleeping.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Paul said.

  “Where are we going, by the way?” Leslie asked.

  Jake looked up at the ceiling. “The phone calls might determine that, but I think we should head somewhere like Montana or Idaho. Lots of open space and wild game.”

  “Isolation is our only guaranteed chance of survival,” Paul added. “The roads are getting busy. Look at this hotel. It’s starting. Everyone’s running scared.”

  “Calls in the morning then?”

  “Yeah,” Leslie and Paul said together.

  The kids had turned on the television, which buzzed, straining to focus. The ghostly shadow of one station seemed to overlap another. It didn't matter though. It was all the same. Announcements for the vaccination lottery, quarantine notices, and reports of the worldwide breakdown of society were on every station.

  They’d found shelter for the night, but it had become impossible to shelter the kids.

  The mouse pox had come home to roost.

  Chapter 24

  Encapsulated by fear, loose pungent earth and total darkness, Jake struggled to breathe, each breath more shallow than the one before. Snorting through his nose and afraid of suffocating, he clawed at the soil for trapped pockets of air. He grabbed hold of something solid and pulled. Disoriented, he struggled, unsure of up from down. His chest cavity swelled as he broke free and felt a pain rip at his lungs and ache his ribs. Still clinging to his lifeline, he fought to catch his breath. Focus. He brushed the soil from his eyes, wiping his face on his lifeline.

  “What the Fuuuck!”

  Jake scrambled against the dirt wall hard as if to smash open a door. He looked back at his lifeline, the leg of a young boy. Driven by empathy and a need to know, he pressed off the wall, inching ahead on unsteady trembling feet, questioning each step. Jake looked down into the boy’s blood-rimmed yellow eyes, wide and cold. The boy looks familiar. The young boy blinked sending Jake spiraling backwar
ds, hard to the ground. He shoveled at the dirt with his hands, scrambling to his feet and up the wall of the pit, fumbling and clawing desperately until he hit flat ground, half in half out. He cranked his head looking back for the boy then forward and up into the boy’s yellow eyes.

  He tumbled backwards into the pit, deeper and deeper into the black abyss.

  “Are te la monster?”

  Jake fell backwards. Tumbling deeper, and deeper, into the abyss.

  He started awake. Hands were holding him as he scrambled to get away. Tears soaked his face. Then June’s soothing voice cut through his screams.

  “Jake. It’s not real. It’s just a bad dream.”

  He wiped at his face, brushing the tears and imaginary soil from his face in disbelief.

  “Fuckin’ nightmares.” Jake was embarrassed and confused. The boy never talked. “Are te la monster?”

  “What’s that Jake?”

  “Are te la monster? He never spoke to me before.”

  “Who?”

  “The boy.”

  June could tell he was still disoriented. “What did he say?”

  “Are you the devil?”

  June hugged him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “It’s just a dream… Robert.”

  She paused. Jake lifted his head up to look into her eyes.

  “Robert suffered in much the same way. I don’t pretend to know what you or Robert went through over there. Robert would never talk to me and god knows you were never planning on opening up about it, but you’re a good man Jake. You have to let go and learn to forgive yourself. I love the man you are because I see the man you want to be. You’re not alone Jake. I’m here for you. I love you.”

  “I know you do. I….I just need to be alone.”

  Jake put on a pot of coffee and pulled one of the chairs outside.

  June left him alone. The truth was she needed some time as well. What have I done? We’re running for our lives and I choose now too complicate things. She had never told Jake she loved him before, not in that way.

  Revelations danced menacingly across the room. Dark images of social disconnect burned deep. Grim reality etched into the subconscious as CNN scarred their fitful sleep.