The Devil’s Noose

by Michael Angel

  She slipped her hands into the secured sleeves and lifted one of the vials. She frowned as she realized that overnight, the bright scarlet of the blood had gone a sickly, rusty color. The color change indicated massive amplification of the virus.

  The vial wasn’t warm to the touch. But to an epidemiologist, it was ‘hot’. Hot as the surface of the sun. She easily had enough virus in her hand right now to infect a third of the people living on the Eastern Seaboard.

  Austen drew samples from the vials with a pipette and added them to a set of slides for later examination. Meanwhile, Widerman called up his own set of Crucero vials and began adding them to the centrifuge’s arm holders. The state-of-the-art device he’d had installed inside his biosafety cabinet could spin out the wrecked cellular matter from the liquid remains in under a minute.

  The work got routine in a hurry, so the day filled with small talk. This was one reason Austen preferred working in a Level 3 lab as opposed to a Level 4. In the lower level laboratory, they could speak easily enough over the PAPR’s hum. Level 4 meant that you worked inside a cross between a deep-sea diving suit and an isolation chamber.

  Widerman’s latest family issues took center stage today.

  “…so we finally found a Chabad in Lewiston that offers pre-Bat Mitzvah classes,” he said absently. “But of course, it’s going to be a drive, and God forbid that my wife has to get behind the wheel. She just won’t do it.”

  “That might be a blessing in disguise.” Austen pointed out. Elaine Widerman was a truly sweet woman, but she had a habit of putting dents in her SUV’s bumper whenever attempting to parallel park.

  A chime from the laboratory’s paging system cut into their conversation. Widerman nudged the speakerphone button next to his station with his elbow and kept on working. The admin’s voice sounded loud and clear in the laboratory.

  “Doctor Widerman, I have two guests to speak with you.”

  “I’m gowned up and in L3,” he replied, not bothering to look up from his work. “Tell them to leave a number and I’ll get back to them.”

  “Actually, they’re here in person. They’re from the WHO, under authorization by the CDC.”

  Austen filled the last pipette and removed her hands from the biosafety cabinet’s sleeves. The World Health Organization only worked hand in glove with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention when an international emergency cropped up. That made this visit serious.

  Widerman slipped the final vial into place and switched on the centrifuge. The machine hummed and he watched it carefully as he began to slip his hands out. Austen looked up and saw two men at the window. She didn’t recognize the first one, but a frown blossomed across her face as she made out the second man.

  Ian Blaine. I wondered when I’d see that son of a bitch again.

  The rattle of metal on metal broke her thoughts. A bang! like the report of a rifle echoed through the room. The centrifuge blew apart, tossing a deadly ring of shrapnel in all directions.

  The biosafety container’s acrylic sides held, but the vials of Crucero shattered, spraying liquid throughout the cabinet’s interior. Chunks of metal slashed through the sleeve compartments, shredding the gloves.

  Joseph Widerman cried out and shoved himself backwards. His eyes goggled at the deep slash across the back of his left hand. Scarlet dripped through the torn nitrile glove, mixing with the viral-infected blood.

  “Vey is mir!” he gasped. Alarms sounded shrilly in the air and the nearby monitor flashed red and green, making the spilled blood look black as tar.

  Austen didn’t hesitate. She threw open the emergency cabinet and grabbed a medical kit. She’d taken no more than two steps towards her boss when she realized that he wasn’t in danger from bleeding to death. He had a far worse problem in his veins.

  “Leigh, you’ve got to help me!” Widerman gulped. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his skin had gone ash white. “Get the fire axe! Take my hand off at the wrist!”

  She stared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t do–”

  “Quick! Before the virus can circulate in my bloodstream!” He staggered back another step, chest heaving, and yanked open the dissection drawer. His right hand came up with a scalpel clenched in its fist. “God help me, I’ll do it myself!”

  Austen moved in, hands out in supplication. “Joe, stop it! You’ll never get past the bone, and you’ll just sever an artery!”

  Panicked, animal sounds came from Widerman’s throat. He slashed at Austen as she stepped forward, missing her suit by inches. Beyond reason, he put the blade to his left wrist and started to dig in.

  Austen glanced at the windows. The two men outside were pressed to the glass, watching helplessly. She made her decision in that moment.

  “Damn it, all right!” she shouted, and she reached back into the emergency cabinet to grab the long-handled fire axe. “Table! Arm across the table!”

  Widerman scrambled desperately to comply.

  “My elbow!” he hissed, as he stretched out his arm. “Too late for the wrist, aim for the elbow joint!”

  Austen swallowed, hard. She raised the tool in both hands. Then she took one long, sure step as she swung. The axe’s razor-sharp blade hissed in the air as she brought it down.

  Chapter Three

  Austen turned the blade as she brought it down. Instead of aiming for Widerman’s left elbow, she brought the flat of the blade down on his right hand. He cried out as the blow made him drop the scalpel. The surgical knife landed on the floor with a ting.

  “Come on!” she said, even as she set the axe aside and moved towards him.

  Austen managed to prop up Widerman before he collapsed. She slung his right arm over her shoulder and steered him out of the laboratory. The man had a slight build, but it was hard to hold onto him in the suit. Her facemask was fogged by body heat and sweat by the time she got him into the decon showers.

  “Hold out your left hand,” she instructed him, even as she pulled the lever labeled EMERGENCY DECON. “Turn it palm side down.”

  The chemical showers kicked on with a hiss. Purple spray turned into sparkling white foam that cascaded down the sides of their masks and surgical scrubs. Widerman winced as the disinfectant flowed over his open cut.

  “I think you broke the middle finger on my right hand,” he groaned. “Dammit, I’m sure of it.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “Tell you what, when you get it splinted, you can shoot me the bird all you want.”

  “Leigh, you should have cut my arm off. That was a catastrophic exposure. You know what that means for me, don’t you?”

  “It means you get a vacation in Stoney Lonesome, yeah.”

  ‘Stoney Lonesome’ was the name that everyone at Whitespire jokingly called the medical isolation ward. Anyone exposed to a hot-zone environment won instant admission and 24x7 care from nurses and doctors wearing Class 4 safety suits. Those who died earned a thorough hazardous biowaste disposal of their body, HEPA-filtered incineration, and a page in the company’s ‘Lessons Learned’ manual.

  “Let Elaine know where she can see me, okay? Don’t sugarcoat it. Three days incubation, and then I get a first-class ticket straight to hell. All I’ve got is a 50-50 shot at walking out.”

  “You’ll be walking out,” Austen assured him. “And you’ll have both of your hands. Remember what you promised me after the bat mitzvah.”

  “I remember…” he said faintly.

  With a bustle of noise, a quartet of medical technicians entered the decon area. They carried a biocontainment stretcher between them. The first pair slapped a temporary bandage on Widerman’s wound, sealed him in the stretcher, and then carried him out.

  The second pair performed an integrity check of Austen’s suit. Once that had been confirmed, they brought in a set of pressurized tanks on rollers, filled to the brim with the nastiest of chemical cocktails. They snapped nozzles and brushes to sets of flexible tubing, hooked the base of the tubes to the tanks, and went into Biosa
fety Level 3 to obliterate all trace of the Crucero testing.

  Leigh made her way out, relying on her innate knowledge of the de-gowning process to get her back to the locker room in Level 0. She made it as far as the halfway point, where she stripped down and entered the water shower.

  The numbness that had enveloped her in the decon area dissolved like so much grime as the hot water jets thrummed against her skin. She let out a single sob and nearly collapsed upon the shower stall’s molded seat.

  Is this really what it’s all about? She shook her head as she contemplated the idea. Working every day with things that will reward even a tiny slip-up with excruciating pain and death?

  Then there were the smells that plagued her every time she gowned up. The beating of the African sun on her back. The sickly-sweet smells of the jungle, mixed with the piles of bodies that–

  Austen shook her head. That was past, this was present. And she was learning to move on.

  I held it together today, she reassured herself. I held it together for Joe. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. Maybe.

  She stood and turned off the shower.

  It took another quarter-hour for her to complete the exit from the laboratories, get re-dressed, and confirm Widerman’s admission to the isolation ward. The report said that his hand had been successfully stitched up, and that he was in ‘stable condition’.

  For now.

  With these pleasant thoughts circulating in her head, Leigh straightened her sleek silver cardigan so that it slipped over her granite-colored ankle length slacks. She normally chose what to wear based on what was practical versus stylish. But Elaine Widerman assured her that supple gray-on-gray clothes set off her coppery locks and softened her lean, severe frame.

  Finally, she took a breath and stiffened her resolve. She pushed through the doors into the observation room to meet Widerman’s two visitors. The first man was tall and well built, with wide shoulders jutting out from an off-the-rack sports coat.

  His coffee-colored hair had been buzzed short enough to reveal the outline of his skull. Watchful eyes were set deep in a lantern-jawed face. That face might have landed in the outer suburbs of handsome, save for a jagged scar that wended down the left side from hairline to below the cheekbone.

  The second man had no such imperfections. Ian Blaine was a virologist and geneticist, but he looked as if he could have stepped off the cover of a catalog for an upscale men’s store. He certainly dressed the part. An immaculate center part threw back twin waves of golden hair. That in turn highlighted symmetrical cheekbones and a white, toothy grin that made women sit up and take notice.

  He certainly had Austen’s attention.

  “Of all the people to arrive on a day like today,” she said, as she strode up to him, her heels clicking and echoing on the marble floor. “It would be you, Ian. As usual, you have perfect timing.”

  The man seemed to be expecting her greeting.

  “It’s good to see you too, Doctor Austen,” he replied smoothly. “I realize that we didn’t part on good terms, but I was hoping for professional courtesy, at the very least.”

  “Then you can keep hoping,” came the blunt reply. “What are you doing here, and how can I move you along? Whitespire doesn’t handle government contracts, so I doubt the WHO or the CDC will have any interest in our work.”

  Blaine paused a moment before flashing his trademark winning smile.

  “As much as I’d like to catch up, I didn’t come to see you. In fact, I’m here to request the services of your top field epidemiologist. Someone experienced in handling emergent diseases outside a laboratory.”

  “That could be a problem,” Austen said, “since I just threw him into the medical isolation ward. As you saw, Doctor Widerman’s been exposed to Crucero. It’s a Bolivian virus that’s jumped species from horses into humans. The locals call it ‘Crucero’ because it inflames the nerve endings. Survivors report that it feels like one is being crucified.”

  Blaine, cool as ever, didn’t blink an eye.

  “About half the victims die within fourteen days,” she continued. “Doctor Widerman’s chances are slightly better. But either way, it’s the most lethal pathogen we deal with. So, my advice to you is to check back with me in a fortnight. I’ll let you know whether to make reservations for a flight. Or a wake.”

  The two men traded glances as they absorbed the information. For the first time, Blaine’s companion spoke up. His voice was deep, and it held the barest hint of western twang.

  “If Widerman’s out, then who’s the next best?”

  The question made her quirk a grin.

  “The next best? Well, that would be me.”

  Chapter Four

  Ian Blaine’s smile faltered for only a second.

  Then it winked back on like a neon sign.

  “Well, then perhaps I’m in luck,” he said. “It sounds like you’re the person I need.”

  Blaine moved to one side and set a shiny black attaché case atop the room’s conference table. He pressed a thumb to the case’s biometric scanner, and it opened with a click. He pulled out a folder and set it to one side. A stylized world map with a snake-headed caduceus adorned the folder’s front.

  “I’m here under the auspices of the World Health Organization and the CDC. Specifically, the CDC’s Division of Catastrophic Consequence Pathogens.”

  She frowned. “I’m not familiar with that one.”

  “I’d be surprised if you were. The DCCP was formed only six weeks ago. They’re still getting on their feet, filling out the personnel roster, and getting their business cards printed.”

  I’m sure you got yours printed first, Austen thought.

  Out loud, she said, “All right. What did they send you here for? Especially if you’re searching for someone like me or Widerman?”

  Blaine spread his hands. “Everything’s explained in the file. Why don’t you sit down and take a look? I’m sure that you’ll find it interesting.”

  Austen remained standing. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase for me, Ian?”

  Again, the neon-bright smile faltered for second. Blaine ran a manicured hand through his hair and adjusted his necktie before answering.

  “As you wish. The WHO’s received disturbing reports of an outbreak in the Republic of Kazakhstan. Ever since they broke away from the Soviet Union, they’ve been finding defunct bioweapons sites. Maybe that’s what happened here.”

  She nodded. While the demise of the Soviet Union was good news for the West, the breakup hadn’t been without downsides. Along with their own land, many of the new nations carved out of the carcass of the Soviet state had ended up with leftover nuclear, biological, and chemical arsenals.

  “The reports on the ground are sparse, but troubling,” Blaine continued. He pulled a set of black-and-white photos from the folder and set them to one side. Austen stepped up to peer at the pictures. “These were taken four days ago.”

  They were aerial shots of a village, taken from a low-flying plane. Men, women, and children in nomadic tribal clothing lay outside, collapsed or sprawled where they’d fallen. The close-ups were grainy, but she immediately spotted signs that disturbed her.

  “I’m not seeing any blood,” she noted. “No gunshot wounds. These people weren’t shot, that much is for sure.”

  “We have similar pictures for three other villages, all taken around the same time. All we know for sure is that we’ve got an unknown pathogen on our hands.”

  She considered. “If it’s a new bug, then it’s operating under a very strict timetable. I can’t tell how many of these bodies are still in rigor, but to kill everyone in a village at the same time? That’s definitely a new one.”

  “Whatever’s out there is lethal enough that it’s got people at the WHO in Geneva very worried. That’s why they contacted the CDC’s new DCCP branch. They’ve already began moving hard assets into place.”

  That perked her interest. “What kind of assets?”

  �
��A full mobile field epidemiological lab and chemical decon area, complete with a set of the new Chiron hardsuits. They’re tougher than the old Chemturion models you’re familiar with, but a heck of a lot more comfortable. You’ll hardly even know you’re wearing one.”

  She threw him a disbelieving look. Blaine couldn’t help but revert to his standard patter: he sounded like he was doing a product pitch.

  That all very well and good, but what is he trying to sell me?

  As if in answer, the man went on. “I’ve been coordinating the shipment and assembly of the lab equipment and the field experts, but I’m missing the most important element – an Epidemiological Investigative Service officer to lead the investigative portion. That’s why I came all this way to see you, after all.”

  “Come off it, Ian. Widerman’s the one you originally came to see.”

  Blaine waved off her comeback with a gesture. “The world works in strange ways. But there’s one thing I’m sure of: that Joseph Widerman wouldn’t want you to pass up this opportunity. There’s not that many chances for an EIS to shine, particularly if there’s a brand-new species involved.”

  Austen bit her lip. Part of her quailed at the thought of listening to Blaine’s sales pitch a second longer. She knew his history all too well.

  But a deeper part of her already wanted in.

  “Who else are you recruiting for this venture?” she asked.

  “Here’s the list I’m pulling from.” Blaine took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to her.

  Austen accepted it, turned, and sat back against the table’s edge. She absently chewed her lower lip as she fished a pen from a pocket. With quick, surgical precision, she crossed off three of the people on the list. Then she put a circle around one listed at the very bottom.

  “Take Ted off the ‘questionable’ sub-list and get him for this dream team of yours,” she said, as she handed the paper back.