Earth Keepers

by Jorge Alejandro Lavera

  Luckily, there was a lot of open space and very few were trampled. The police approached the body carefully, then called the explosive experts and disarmed the bomb before taking it off of him and taking away the body.

  Everyone who touched the body, the bomb or his clothing were infected.

  The crowd was saved from being infected that time. But in a few hours, they were infected by dozens of other sources of the virus that had been planted all over the country.

  Huckabee got infected in his car by touching the door that his driver, who was already infected, had touched.

  MOSQUITOES

  Rio de Janeiro, November 20, 2027. 11:17 a.m.

  The small plane purred effortlessly. He looked at the beach below and saw people sunbathing on the hot day. It was always beach time in Rio.

  He took a wide turn and descended to the height for fumigation. He went around to the end of the beach, and at the right moment, opened the sprinkler.

  He went the length of the beach, miles of coastline full of thousands of people. And mosquitoes. Many mosquitoes that transmitted dangerous diseases, that he was going to kill with his sprayer.

  This morning when they hired him for this job, he was happy. He could use the extra money this season, and besides, he hated mosquitoes. Generally, they hired him to spray pests in the fields, but spraying to kill insects, especially with a chemical that was harmless to people, was a pleasure. If he didn’t have to pay for fuel and the plane payment, he’d have done it for free. But they’d paid him well for the work and even brought the tanks directly from the factory so he didn’t have to go get them. All of the paperwork was in order, and hard cash.

  A good day, yes, sir—for him and for the hundreds of fumigators all over the world hired for the same job in areas with remote or isolated populations.

  NO CLUES

  Langley, November 20, 2027. 10:25 p.m.

  “We’ve received reports of attacks all over the world, sir. It seems like something strangely coordinated, but until now very few victims. In London, for example, there was a suicide terrorist, but the explosion only killed him. There were also strange reports of people or devices exposing crowds to a liquid, but it doesn’t seem to have any immediate effect. We haven’t been able to get any samples yet, but given its effects, it isn’t an acid or a neurotoxin. We’re thinking it’s some kind of virus. We’ve received reports of some people getting sick after being exposed, but the symptoms don’t seem to be more serious than a common cold.”

  “Who is behind this?” asked Director Mitchel.

  “Sir, we don’t have any idea. The thing is... if it’s a virus, we’ve received reports of attempts all over the world, sir. Between twenty and fifty situations in each country, sir. In every single important city. Our intelligence team says that whoever is behind this, if it’s an infection, it has infected its own people as well.”

  “Are you sure it’s an infection?”

  “No, but we don’t find anything else that makes sense, unless there has been a coordinated attack worldwide to spray people with water. Our analysts have inferred that we’re looking at bioterrorist attack, but up until now we don’t have any idea who, why or what for. We only know how.”

  “No matter what it takes, get a sample of whatever it is they used. And I want a complete analysis, now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And captain...I want all active personal on alert. All vacations cancelled, and everyone on alert and ready for whatever.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Damn it, thought Mitchel, “Who has the resources to organize something like this?” He studied the reports, and the intelligence people were right. If it was the Chinese, the Afghanis, the Russians, DAESH, whoever, they were attacking themselves, too. He looked at the computerized map, and almost the whole world was red. It didn’t make sense.

  He thought about what to do next.

  He identified himself on the computer and accessed the agency’s program. He entered into the menu that he never thought he’d use. “Total Evacuation,” submenu “Viral Emergency.” On that window he chose “Out of Control.” Status “Under investigation.” He wrote in his computer: “Maximum CIA alert. This is not a joke. A bioterrorist attack has occurred in every urban and suburban center in the world. Origin: Unknown. Effects: Unknown. Those exposed directly are already sick though they don’t show symptoms. Those who don’t, are being infected right now. Immediate action to be taken: Isolation in bunkers or remote locations, minimum thirty days. Time is of the essence. If you’re not infected now, you will be in a few hours. Don’t take a chance.”

  He selected some options, copy and pasted, and without hesitating, sent the message, which went out to a list of important government officials—the President, Vice-President, senators, legislators, judges, and other bigwigs—as well as some friends to whom he owed favors.

  The order was given. Now to explain it to the pigheaded President, who always wanted to do what he thought was best, not what they recommended to him. Well, this time he had to make him understand what was at stake. Otherwise, the country would be leaderless in a few days.

  VIRAL SAMPLE

  Langley, November 21, 2027. 7:35 a.m.

  “Sir, we’ve found an intact sample. The subject who was going to detonate it died of a heart attack before doing it. It was yesterday at Huckabee’s political gathering.”

  “And just that guy had to die?” thought Mitchel. He tried to keep a poker face.

  “And what are we dealing with?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid it isn’t good news. The liquid has no color or flavor and it’s lightly perfumed, but it’s a viral concentrate. The CDC and USAMRIID are working as a team around the clock to sequence and analyze it, but it is very bad news.”

  “What’s so bad?”

  “We still don’t have any idea about the rate of infection of the virus, if it’s lethal or not, or what they were trying to do, but it seems to be rooted in the flu virus. They’ve temporarily called it H1N10. It’s a strain with greater contagious capacity than influenza A, and has a viral molecule that they can’t sequence, let alone understand. It infects extremely easily. Considering the quantity and distribution of the foci where it was planted... and considering all the possible places where it was sprayed and those places of which we know nothing, I’d say it’s impossible to contain it or have any semblance of quarantine. The virus is all over the world, those who haven’t been directly infected, are being infected right now.”

  “We have to evacuate.”

  “Urgently. But sir, the analysts recommend separating the President, the Vice-President, and everyone in the line of succession in different shelters.”

  “The Secret Service will take care of that. Do you think any of them might already be infected?”

  “Any of them? In my opinion, sir, all of them are infected.”

  At the entry, one of the guards sneezed.

  “God, they’re all completely fucked,” thought the CIA director.

  PROGRESS

  Rho, November 21, 2027. 9:00 a.m.

  Tzedek reviewed the reports on his screens. Everything was going well.

  He thought about those who had not yet gone to the cities. Well, soon they’d have fewer reasons to stay where they were. The retrovirus was already modifying the DNA of humans.

  Soon the world would be populated by billions of peaceful, kind, and happy primates. The last generation commanded by the desire to reproduce and to destroy everything unscrupulously.

  He leaned back, satisfied. For the first time in several decades, he had the luxury of looking the window and not doing anything. Just look.

  RETROVIRUS

  Missouri, November 22, 2027. 3:40 p.m.

  “Bless you!” said Sean, the first in line, to the man behind the counter. He didn’t feel that well himself.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” answered the employee, who was black, while he served coffee.

  Sean felt nauseated for a mome
nt. He thought it was strange that it didn’t bother him a bit that a black person was serving him. Normally, he’d have gone to another line. At the moment, he couldn’t remember why blacks bothered him so much.

  He took his tray and headed towards a table. On the way, he saw a girl cleaning another table. She had a nice body, especially looking at her from behind. Seeing a pretty girl like that always made him say something, usually something rude, since romanticism and poetry weren’t his strong suit. How strange, he thought, this time I don’t feel like saying anything. What’s more, he didn’t even feel excited looking at the girl’s behind.

  He considered himself a man of action, which seemed to conflict all the time with other people’s characters, ending up many times in fights which he almost always won thanks to pure brute strength.

  Sean sneezed and wiped himself up with disgust. He thought it was pretty sure that that black guy had given him a cold. Again, he was surprised at his lack of feelings about that. Thinking about it, he realized that at another time, having the same thoughts, he’d have given the guy a hard time about giving him a cold. And why shouldn’t he? It was clear that’s what happened.

  Sean got up suddenly and felt nauseated again. What was he going to do? Why had he got up? He sat down again. It was the black guy. He’d done something to him, but he didn’t remember what. He started to panic. What was happening to him?

  “Sir, do you feel all right?” the server he’d seen before asked him.

  Did he look that bad? His fear grew, as did his adrenaline. Suddenly, he started to feel very bad. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Jesús, call an ambulance now,” shouted the girl.

  Jesús? Who was she talking to, the black guy? He looked around and saw everyone was looking at him, and the black guy was talking on the phone. What kind of stupid name was that, Jesús, especially for a black guy? He felt like he was having trouble breathing—from the outrage, he thought. He tried to breathe more deeply and found he couldn’t. Now he had a real panic attack.

  He tried to inhale with more strength, and nothing. He tried to expel what little air he had, and a ball of mucus came up from his lungs and throat. He tried again to inhale and couldn’t get even a little air.

  People around him were shouting, and one or two came over to try to help.

  “Good God, look,” he heard one of them say.

  He never knew what they were looking at. Deprived of oxygen, his cells died. Long before the ambulance showed up, Sean was dead.

  When the paramedics arrived, they still had to deal with someone. Jesús was in the same situation, but still alive.

  They saw Sean’s body, a blue cyanotic color, and without wasting any time, they did a tracheotomy on Jesús. Unfortunately, his problem wasn’t just in his throat. Through the open passage in the trachea, mucus began to flow out.

  “His lungs are full of mucus, how is that possible? Where is it coming from?” mumbled one of the paramedics, shocked.

  Despite their best efforts, a couple of minutes later, Jesús was dead, too, with his skin the same cyanotic color as Sean’s.

  The emergency personnel had gloves and masks, however, one of them sneezed. They looked at each other, worried.

  EVERYONE SICK

  Buenos Aires, November 23, 2027. 8:45 a.m.

  Sofía was nervous. That fat horrible woman gave her a six out of ten on her language exam, without a doubt because she didn’t even understand what the hell they were asking in a couple of the questions. At the time of the test, she’d mentally reviewed all the exam topics, and none seemed to be related to the questions. Now that she had the test in hand, with the professor’s notes in red, nothing was any more clear. She knew it was useless to ask. Professor Renata was a sadist who enjoyed humiliating young people, so she had learned not to ask or answer anything. She didn’t count on her for anything.

  As always, Renata dedicated the first few minutes of class to give the corrections for the test. Her back and her feet hurt, as always, due to her obesity, but this damned cold was wearing her out more than usual.

  She checked and recorded the notes, sitting at her desk at the front of the room, as she called the children one by one. For each student, she had a repertoire of faces, tics and “comments.” Her nose was congested, as were those of several students.

  “Juan Cruz!” called Renata. When the boy arrived at her desk, she looked at him sarcastically.

  “What?” asked Juan Cruz. He was one of the last of a long file of make-up exams.

  “What do you mean ‘what?’ Here’s your test. You got a two,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “and it’s a shame that you’ve only written on one of the five questions. I’m gifting you a grade because what you did write wasn’t anything that brilliant.”

  Juan Cruz got red and exploded.

  “And what do you want when I don’t understand anything about the question? And we said we had questions, you told us not to ask you.”

  Sofía held her breath. That was exactly what they all were thinking, but of course no one felt like confronting the witch. Gasps and laughter were heard, and some even exclaimed “uh-huh!”

  Renata got up suddenly and breathed hard.

  “Young man, have some respect. You all should know what I was asking, it was all gone over in class,” she interrupted him. For a moment, she looked confused and disoriented.

  “Oh, really?” answered Juan Cruz. “How many got a ten?”

  “That’s none of your business!” she raised her voice. She was very red and was breathing hard.

  “I see—no one. Anyone get a nine at least? Or eight?” he looked at his classmates. “Seven?”

  No one said anything.

  “Go back to your seat and study for the next test,” Renata dismissed him. Her answer sounded hoarse. Her breath sounded like snoring.

  “My dad says that if no one passes the exam, the one who really fails is you, because it means you don’t know how to teach.”

  This time there were several who said “ooohhh,” and looked at each other, shocked.

  Sofía held her head. Even though Juan Cruz was one hundred percent correct, that would probably cost him a suspension. There was no hope that the professor would change, and the administration always backed up the teachers.

  Renata turned crimson. She tried to articulate words, while trying to inhale air with a snoring sound.

  “How dare you!” she shouted, gasping between each word. Suddenly her lips turned blue. She dropped in her chair, turning more and more blue. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Some of the kids laughed—she definitely wasn’t one of the more loved professors on the staff.

  “Hmm, Professor, are you feeling okay?” one of the girls asked. Renata tried to say something but couldn’t.

  “I think someone should go ask the director for help,” ventured Juan Cruz.

  “Why don’t you go, idiot? It’s your fault,” spit out another of the males. There was more laughter, mixed with coughing. Renata fell with a crash on the desk, as if she’d leaned over to take a nap, if indeed one turned blue like a smurf when napping. They heard a loud snoring, almost like belching, which caused another burst of laughter.

  “Professor?” asked Juan Cruz. He looked at her for a few seconds and ran out of the room. Several of his classmates saw him go running out and hurried over to the teacher. One of the girls looked at her closely. As Renata’s face was flat against the table, she couldn’t see it, so she touched the side of her head. As soon as she did, it leaned to the side and she could see that in addition to being blue, a kind of slime mixed with mucus fell from her half-open mouth and nose. Because of the immobility of the mucus that completely covered both nasal cavities, it was clear that she was not breathing. She jumped back in shock and fear, screaming at the same time. The panic was contagious, and suddenly they were all yelling. There was chaos. Several kids tried to leave at the same time, throwing the door open. Those who were further back pressed
against those trying to get out the door before they could get out, achieving in effect a stopper that smashed several of the children. Screams of fear and pain could be heard, and the children’s terrified crying. Several of those who were yelling started to choke and turn blue.

  Sofía saw the disaster that was happening at the only door. She found Marisol with her eyes. She was still far from the door and was pushing her way, trying to get out. She took her backpack and jacket and looked towards her left. She unlocked and opened one of the windows that faced the inside patio and moved quickly towards Marisol. She grabbed her arm, and said:

  “Come with me,” pulling her towards the window and they got out that way. The patio was at the same level as the classroom, so it was easy. She saw that other children had seen them and were following her, including Marisol, so she started moving away.

  She felt fine but couldn’t help but notice that most of her classmates weren’t. Even Marisol was agitated and had a runny nose. As she walked through the corridor to the exit, she took her cell phone out of her pocket and called her father.

  “Dad?” she said when she heard the phone was picked up.

  “Sofía? What’s going on?”

  “Dad, please, I want to come home,” her voice trembled.

  A silence of a few seconds and then:

  “But of course, daughter. Do you want me to come pick you up?”

  “A professor died in the classroom, Dad.”

  “Whaat? For real?”

  “Wait a second.”

  She’d arrived at the entrance, and the door was locked as always. The receptionist was in her place as always, and Sofía said: “I want to go home.”