by Jim Wurst
There was no money, no drugs, no weapons. Not even a stun gun. Wendy had one a few years ago but a guy had found it and shot his girlfriend point blank between the eyes. Her frontal lobe fried. Wendy took her chances.
She was used to hustlers wanting to use the Haven as a drug drop, but the police helped her on this front. If they approached her, the police turned up the next day. Wendy was a bulwark against collecting more bodies and filing more reports. Muscling dealers was far easier than writing another autopsy report. So, when a shaky guy with Iks-stained teeth walked in one day with a proposition, Wendy wasn’t surprised at first.
“I’ve got a deal for money.”
“I don’t pay for information.”
“No, I get the money from someone else. A reward.”
Wendy knew where this was going. It didn’t happen much anymore, but occasionally well-connected parents would offer a reward for the safe return of a runaway child. As the years wore on, most people gave up on the quest.
“So, go collect it yourself. Why do you need me? I will not help you find her.”
His limited grasp of the situation was shaken. “Did I say it was a girl?”
“It usually is.”
“Well, it is. Rich. Big reward. Some old chick posted an alert, promising serious money. I’ve seen the girl. I can find her. But she’d never come with me. She’d come with you.”
“Not interested. I’m not a bounty hunter. Besides, how do I know this isn’t kidnapping?”
“Because she’s the daughter of the stiff running for president. He could afford a real kidnapper. Now are you interested?”
“Cranston?”
“Yep.”
She knew Cranston had a daughter but didn’t know the girl’s name. That was easy to find out. What would not be easy was finding out her club name.
“No,” she said, “I don’t do that. People come to me. I don’t go searching for them.”
He turned, muttered the usual obscenities, grabbed a bar and left.
CHAPTER 65
Most of the food was canned, vacuum-packed, or some other form of preservation. The only fresh foods were those of clearly local origin cheese, eggs, seasonal fruits and vegetables, lake fish, bison steaks, chicken and turkey. Mrs. Anderson quickly collected some basics mechanically, the products she bought all the time. Afterwards, she entered, somewhat semi-hesitantly. A section was isolated from the rest of the store and had a guard stationed at the entrance.
These guards were well-attuned to potential thefts. It was harder to distinguish between gawkers and nervous shoppers working up the nerve to walk inside and spend money. Inside there were few people. Display cases are all closed. Nothing was sitting out in the open. She seems a bit abashed, like a pauper in a jewelry store. These were the now exotic and expensive food stuffs: prime cuts of beef and veal, salt-water fish, shellfish, roe, not caviar, fine wines, avocados, mangos, kiwi, bananas. Most large stores had some version of this section. Some stores rubbed their customers’ noses into it: “Platinum Club members,” “Restricted Area,” “Elite Shopping” let everyone know their place. Mrs. Anderson liked the Minnesota-nice version in her store: “Specialty Items.” Yet she suddenly felt embarrassed by the ordinary food in her cart. Finally, after window shopping, she stopped in front of the fish counter.
“The salmon, it’s farmed, right?”
The clerk answered, “Yes, we don’t have any wild salmon. And if we did, it would be double the price.”
“That’s clearly out of the question.”
“Sure, I only sell about two kilos a month.”
“The haddock?”
“Wild.”
“My son loves seafood, but he’s, well, usually pretty far away from the sea.” Her little joke amused her. “But he’s coming home for a visit and I have to make fish.” As she studied the fish pretending, she knew what she was doing the clerk was studying her.
“Haven’t I seen you on television?”
She was taken aback. That was not a sentence she ever thought she would hear about herself.
“I suppose so. It wasn’t very long, though.”
“Don’t tell me. It was about… your son! That’s it, your son is the space hero!”
“Well, yes, but I’m not really, you know, looking at him that way…”
“Ron Anderson! That’s it. Saved the Prescott kid and now he’s assigned to the Mars mission.”
She responded with a mix of pride and terror. “Yes, he’s going to Mars.”
“Well, well. Amazing. So a celebratory dinner? I think I can give you a break on the salmon, I can recommend a great white wine for that. But I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the prices of the wine.”
“I know. It’s overwhelming, but few occasions can be more special than this.”
“Absolutely.”
That night, Mrs. Anderson was handling the salmon as if it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. “What? Salmon again?” came the mocking voice behind her. It was so strange to hear that beloved voice without static. She turned to see her boy with his silly grin and tightly trimmed hair leaning against the doorway. He was dressed in civilian clothes and had a small bag at his feet.
“Oh, praise the Lord!” She embraced her. “You looked famished. Why didn’t you tell us what time you were arriving, your father could have met you at the airport?”
“And waste fuel? Mom, the government’s paying for this trip. I’m allowed a leave, under the circumstances.”
They both heard the running feet on the second floor and then the stairs. His father dashed into the kitchen and joined the hug. Tugging his wife and son into the living room, he said, “Come on, come on, we can cook later.” Ron didn’t resist, but he did cast a wistful eye towards the fish. He restrained himself from saying, “Don’t let it dry out.”
Settling on the sofa, the father said, “God, we can’t tell you how proud we are of you.”
“Dad, I saved a rich man’s idiot son.”
“It also took bravery and skill. Do you think you’re less deserving than most of the rest of the crew? Do you think they are all there because they are the absolute best in their fields? Politics had nothing to do with anything. Money. You’re a hero and this is an election year. Ailes needs a hero, even one from the wrong church, but that doesn’t change who and what you are.”
Mrs. Anderson finally took her eyes off her son and looked to the floor. “That’s a pretty small bag. Can’t you stay a while?”
“A few days, but I’ll see you again. The Mars launch is three years away; until then, I’m only going to be on the Moon.”
CHAPTER 66
Following the grand tradition of believing whatever happens in Africa doesn’t matter elsewhere, the resurgent old diseases and the exploding new viruses were largely ignored when they wiped out tens of thousands of people in a blink. Anyone who might have thought AIDS might have changed that mindset wasn’t paying attention. As Africa got hotter and her people poorer, it became an even greater incubator of horror. It wasn’t until SARS III jumped from Congo to Mississippi that it finally dawned on most people that the Earth was one planet. But even then, there was the cosmic shrug that magically absolved the leaders. “Some things are beyond human control,” President Ailes would say.
As promised, the ships left at first light. They had spent the night carefully dismantling the equipment, taking care that the station had the minimum needed to maintain plants and humans until resupplies could arrive from Nairobi. Fortunately, since they had closed the Galma station, there was an uncharacteristic surplus of supplies. Theo divided up the supplies to keep the three ships balanced. The EuroNet jet was twice the size of the sand-huggers, so they loaded the larger purification system that was the most essential need for Lagos in there, plus a mix of medicines, food, and other supplies. Theo’s ship got the smaller Galma purification system a
nd some medicines. The sand-hugger Robert would pilot had the bulk of medical supplies and food.
They lifted off in a simple formation: the EuroNet jet above and slightly ahead of the sand-huggers so they could see any dangers human or natural approaching. Theo and Robert maintained a safe distance from each other but stayed within sight of each other. Raj was with Theo, and Robert’s companion was the staffer with the most medical experience. Altogether, eight people. They all knew but decided not to state an uncomfortable detail: none of them had any military experience.
Theo spoke to all three ships over the radio. “Forecast, as always, includes sandstorms. This time of year, they usually come out of the north, so pay attention in that direction.”
“How high up do these storms usually go? Our ship should be able to rise above them,” Sam popped in over the radio.
“Varies wildly, could be as high as a kilometer. But our ships can’t fly that high, they’re made for near ground observation, not long-distance flight.”
“Where exactly are we heading?”
“The World Health Organization compound. We offload our equipment and the WHO takes it to wherever they feel it will be of the greatest use. The idea is to get the purification equipment to a small hospital or clinic where the spread of the virus can be contained. In effect, a firewall. Once it’s safe to leave, we leave.”
“Safe?”
“The government doesn’t have full control of Lagos. Warlords hold quite a bit of territory, especially to the north and west. Among other things, they extract taxes…”
“Bribes,” Raj translated.
“… from anyone passing through their territory.”
“But we’re flying,” asked the Brit, who probably had spent little time in Africa.
“They have surface-to-air missiles,” Raj explained.
“Of course they do,” said Sam, feeling rather naïve.
“So, leaving is a question of security and health,” Theo explained, “If the virus is as viral as Dr. Asanti suspects, the UN or the Nigerian government will be forced to declare a general quarantine.”
“When was the last time an entire city was quarantined?”
“Calcutta was the first, Sao Paulo, Kula Lumpur after the ’34 tsunami, even Lagos has been quarantined once before. I guess Sao Paulo was the most recent, ’43.”
“I remember São Paulo. Seem to remember that it worked reasonably well.”
“The cholera didn’t spread, but 30,000 people inside the zone died before a vaccine was developed. Success is gauged on whether you were inside or outside of the quarantine zone.”
“I assume this is your tactful way of saying that by tomorrow, we could be in a quarantine zone.”
“Perhaps. Since it’s not safe to fly at night, the sooner we get there the better. We’ll take the long route, circling to the east out over the Atlantic and come into the city from the coast. It’s longer but safer.”
Sand, sand, sand. Mixed with grit and organic bits. The expanse was unbroken. Bland but still ominous, the hot sameness lulled the pilots into a light stupor despite themselves. The computers were sent to warn them if they were hypnotized into flying off course or too close to the ground. This was new desert, solid ground was only a few generations below, but there was still enough sand to course across the ground like a burning hot blanket, billowing and waving. Beckoning the flyers to come closer. Occasionally, a bizarre reminder that humans are stubborn. The smallest of villages dug in, clinging to a few resilient trees. A goat or two, something that had to be a well. And then it was gone. There were more abandoned villages than living compounds, trees blasted, roofs pulverized, useless walls holding up nothing. Someone’s grandfather tended cattle on this land.
The only thing that could break such monotony was terror. And it arrived.
Raj saw it first. “Theo, look at the radar, 38 degrees north.”
“Yes, that could be one.”
“One what? Sandstorm?” Sam’s voice asked.
“Yes. If that mass continues on this trajectory, we need to change course about ten degrees southeast, that will take us a bit off course, but it might keep us out of the path.”
It did not. The computers reported that the tidal wave of sand was six kilometers wide and at least one klick high. It was impossible to know how deep it was.
After some mental calculations, Theo told Sam, “I suggest you fly above the storm and keep heading for Lagos, you have the settings, so you don’t really need us to guide you.”
“No, we can’t abandon you out here. What’s your plan?”
“We land on relatively firm ground. Cover the ships to protect the windshields and the intake and exhaust chambers and wait out the storm.”
“We can do that. We can seal all the vulnerable components.”
Raj had some good news. “There seems to be an abandoned building or compound just ahead. It might provide some protection.”
It was the best shelter under the circumstances.
CHAPTER 67
While Theo was waiting out the storm, Emeka Idu was dying. She had noticed the rash the week before; it meant nothing unusual to her. The water was soiled, the food rotten, cleanliness absent. She got rashes all the time. The local clinic would give her some cream. It would help, but not much. The fever was different. Rash, yes. Fever, yes. But together was unusual. Plus, the fever got worse. Her joints ached. Bright lights caused terrible headaches. She finally went to the clinic on her day off. The nurse took one look at her, pretended not to worry, and took her to a back room.
Her first hint that this wasn’t normal was when the nurse put on long, thick gloves instead of the thin latex ones that they always used. Then the mask. Then the glasses. Then she got nervous. Then the doctor came in. He was already armored up. They took blood and saliva samples. They asked her to urinate. She couldn’t, it hurt too much. She was placed on a bed and told to wait. Ten, maybe twenty minutes later, two people wearing what looked like space suits entered carrying something rolled up. They pushed her and the bed in the corner and unrolled the package. It was a kind of inflatable tent that they constructed around her. Then they stood guard around her, their backs to her. No one had said a word.
Emeka was so nervous that she didn’t even realize that they hadn’t given her any cream, or medicine, or even water. One spaceman must have had a phone in his suit because she could sometimes make out words “too high,” “too late” but they never spoke to her.
Then the nurse brought in an IV drip and attached it. Giving her a glass of water, she said, “Please drink, it will help you sleep.” Emeka didn’t know she was supposed to sleep.
When she woke up, she thought she was in a different room but couldn’t be sure. It looked like the clinic the walls were white; the lighting subdued, but something was wrong. Then she realized that there was more equipment than she had ever seen in the clinic. She couldn’t find any word to describe what she saw. She lifted her head to get a better look. It was then that she realized her headache was gone. Cured? Was it possible? How long was she unconscious? Where was she? Did her family know?
A doctor she didn’t know came in. He was suited up, but not as anonymous as the spaceman. He looked at her chart and started tapping on his computer. When did she first notice the rash? The joint pains? Where did she work? Do you handle food? When was the last time you bathed? Where does the water come from? What does her stool look like? Where do you dispose of your waste? The anonymous doctor prepared to leave.
“Wait!” she called with more strength than she imagined she had. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You have a virus.”
She knew enough to know that meant nothing.
“Why doesn’t it hurt anymore?”
“We gave you a sedative.”
“What about medicine?”
“We’re working on it
.” He was practiced with words that said little.
She tried to remember what little she knew about hospital medicine. Aren’t sedatives for sleeping? Narcotics kill pain. Why narcotics and not medicine?
The answer came before she fully understood. With only the faintest hint of pain, she vomited and vacated her bowels at the same moment. Pain and shame strangled her mind. The doctor had stepped back. She thought he said something, but she was crying too hard. “What… what…”
The spacemen entered the room with sample cases and a large hazardous waste container. They lifted the tent, collected samples of her waste, vomit, blood, and saliva. They lifted her dress and took photos of her breasts, abdomen, genitals, feet. She didn’t object. Emeka had died 30 seconds before.
CHAPTER 68
The storm struck like a trillion ravenous fleas. The dry flood morphed from grey to black, but by then the humans didn’t want to look. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. Looking directly into the storm meant their eyeballs would have been shredded. Hunkered down in their ships, they could have watched from the ships’ monitors. But there was no motivation to look at the monster trying to devour them.
The walls did a decent job of protecting the ships. It didn’t take long to dig out and there was minimal damage.
Theo was shaking sand out of his boots when he heard Asanti’s voice over the radio. “Theo, how are you? I saw the storm on the satellite. Were you in it?”
“After a fashion. But we found some shelter. Everything survived intact, but we had to clean the intake and exhaust valves on two of the ships. We’ll be airborne shortly.”
“I see that. So if all goes well, you’ll be crossing into Lagos airspace near sunset.”
“Afraid so. Does Savimbi still control the northern district?”
