Immortality (20 page)

“
Unofficial death counts have reached into the tens of thousands. This is the worst disaster in our nation’s history. Two more kill zones have been reported: one in Ohio and one in Toronto. Initial government reports are referring to these as small events with under fifty victims. How can the death of even one person be called a small event?”

The Anchor’s voice was straining to hold back emotion. Mark felt nausea and dizziness. He knew he was watching the end of everything. Humanity had built such greatness and suffered far too much for an end like this. He looked over at Carl. There were tears running down the man’s cheeks. He turned to Kathy. A sheet of paper was partially crumpled in her fist.

“Mass extinction,” said Mark. “I’m not a religious man, but that’s changing.”

Kathy’s stare locked onto him. Hers eyes were bloodshot and livid. Mark thought about his extinction theory. He needed to tell them what they might be facing.

“I’ve been working on a theory,” he said. “For years I’ve been compiling evidence that links COBIC with the great prehistoric extinctions. There are very rare mats of COBIC layered into the fossil records at the same time as the Cretaceous extinction which took the dinosaurs and before that during the Permian extinction. We could be witnessing the same cycles that killed back then.”

“And you believe this?” asked Kathy, her voice was odd; there was an undercurrent of something seething.

“I don’t know,” said Mark. “What we’re seeing right now could be another piece to some very old puzzle.”

“Mass extinction?” she said. “The end of the world? No, it’s not!”

Kathy pushed back from her desk. She got up and started wandering around the room. She moved like a caged tiger walking in front of bars that separated it from something to kill. Carl seemed oblivious to the entire exchange, his eyes never leaving the television screen.

“Fuck!” yelled Kathy. “Fuck... fuck... fuck! What are we doing wrong? We can’t even figure out what’s causing this. Do we have a virus, a bacterium, an act of God? What?”

“It’s a seed carried in COBIC,” said Mark. His voice was calm.

“What are you talking about?” snapped Kathy.

“That ball inside COBIC is a seed or spore or something. It doesn’t belong there. Look, just because we can’t tie it directly to the cause of death doesn’t mean it’s an oddity we can put on a backburner
just a speck of mystery junk inside a microbe
– that kind of dismissive thinking will lead to disaster. We need to separate out the seeds for study. My gut is telling me it’s the killer.”

“All right,” said Kathy. “I’ll buy into this for now. There’s nothing else in the store that I can buy. What else does your gut think?”

“I think we better keep the bacteria frozen, and keep it in the dark, and not give it a chance to escape.”

Kathy stared at him as if he was either crazy or the smartest man alive. Mark was not sure why he’d said what he did. Microbes trying to escape… The idea wasn’t even a hunch. It was totally irresponsible to say such a thing. He had no evidence to support the claim, but his gut was telling him COBIC had some kind of basic awareness and was actively trying to escape capture the same way a cockroach flees when a room light is turned on. There were tantalizing clues that it was capable of this kind of behavior – things like synchronized swimming in schools, its conspicuous absence from over half of the victims, even the seed’s disintegration could be considered the act of a creature programmed to die rather than be captured. Suicidal microbes, now that was crazy. Part of Mark knew there had to be rational explanations for everything. Bacteria did not act with even rudimentary awareness. But then again, maybe rational ideas had nothing to do with any of this…

The night was quiet. Sarah felt like nothing was happening anywhere in the entire state. She looked up through the window of the patrol car. She was on the passenger side. She lowered the partially fogged glass for a better view. Cool air touched her skin. The sky was filled with millions of stars and a full moon. She heard her partner Trent muttering as he walked into the woods, small branches snapping under his shoes, as he found a place to answer nature’s call. They had been parked for hours on the same strip of gravel. The spot was a railroad “right of way” that had been cut parallel to the road. They were part of a two-car team stalking speeders, the most highly sought criminal type in the state of New Jersey. They were working a road that was fed by Interstate 287. Broadly spaced houses and trees lined the road. They were on the edge of a bedroom community for upwardly mobile professionals and stockbrokers that commuted to New York.

Sarah’s car had the role of catcher. The second car, the pitcher, had its radar buzzing and was tracking cars moving down a steep six-mile decline. During rush hour, it felt like they’d tagged half the county; but since then, things had quieted some. Still they’d made thousands of dollars in fines for the state. Cars hitting a fire-breathing thirty-five mph down that hill were fair game at a nickel over the speed limit. Sarah knew the importance of traffic safety, but what they were doing felt like something other than justice. This downhill stretch of road could easily have been driven at sixty by gray-haired grandmothers, two of which had received tickets this night. She was uncomfortable balancing the scales of law and revenue. It had been hard to look some of the offenders directly in the eye.

The driver’s side door opened. Trent piled in and pulled the door shut. The vehicle seemed to weigh down. His bulk made the inside of the car feel smaller. Sarah was keenly aware of his physical presence and strength. She admired the man. He began rubbing his hands together to warm them.

“Damn it’s cold out there,” he said. “I am not watering that tree again no matter how much coffee…” He stopped before completing the sentence. “Patrolman, what do you have that window rolled down for?”

“Fresh air,” said Sarah. “Need some more antifreeze?” She picked up a thermos of coffee.

“Just close the window.”

“Trent.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you feel wrong about what we’re doing here, I mean the nickel-speeders?”

“Nope, if they’re breaking the law they deserve to go down. Simple as that. The law is the only thing that keeps this country from self-destructing. If you’re speeding, or killing, or robbing it doesn’t make any difference. You gotta know there’s a price to be paid. Think of what it’d be like otherwise.”

“Would you feel that way about some kid who’s shoplifted a pair of sneakers because he doesn’t have any money and never will?”

“Poverty’s no excuse.”

“You really can’t believe that,” said Sarah. “I’ve read all these studies which say poverty is the number one cause of criminal behavior. Think about some kid staring at a TV filled with stuff he can never have. He’s being brainwashed into believing that self worth is measured in dollars, and that poverty is something to escape at any cost.”

“Excuse me Dr. Sarah, but that is simple bullshit. I grew up poor and never stole a thing. I worked my way through high school and college, and I’m here to tell you that what causes crime is moral poverty. That stuff about monetary poverty causing crime is one of the great lies of our times. There have been poor and rich since we took a bite of the apple. The vast majority of the poor are not out there committing crimes. They are just as moral as rich people. In the equation of life, money does not equal morality. True, some people are driven to desperate acts by lack of food; but most evil is committed for a hot car, cool clothes, or to get laid.”

“I wasn’t saying all poor people are potential criminals,” said Sarah. “I am saying that if you’re poor, and you see no way out, it’s more likely that when opportunity knocks, you’ll go for it.”

“Uh huh... and what about all those rich people committing white collar crimes – that whole Wall Street gang? Are they poor because they need a few million more to buy that estate they’ve always wanted? Bull; they’re doing it just like poor criminals, because they do not understand right from wrong. They’re criminals because either their role models set a bad example or they’re sociopaths.”

“I guess we’re never going to agree,” said Sarah.

“I’ll agree to that. I’m gonna take a short nap. It’ll be your turn next. Wake me if those guys up the road zap any more speed offenders. I feel a powerful need to stop some speed.”

Trent closed his eyes. There was a smile on his face that hinted at the innocent child still alive inside him. Sarah thought about how she genuinely liked Trent. If he wasn’t married and there was no Kenny, she would have dated him.

The wind had picked up a bit. Sarah watched bare tree branches swaying back and forth in the moonlight. She thought about her weekend plans. She had promised Kenny they’d go somewhere, just the two of them. He’d picked his family’s cabin in the Kittaninny Mountains. She loved those forests as much as he did. The area was filled with ancient trees and streams and places people hadn’t walked in hundreds of years. Dozens of trails wound through those hills. Years ago they’d found a side trail that wasn’t on any map. After a mile of hiking, they had the woods to themselves. They had made love on a blanket in an open field. All they’d brought was food and the blanket and themselves. She closed her eyes and thought about Kenny. His love was the center of her life. Once she had followed him when he went out to work. The tailing had started as a lark and her way of completing a homework assignment she’d been given during her police training. She’d just hung back and watched him do all the things he did when they weren’t together. The experience had made her sad that she couldn’t be in every part of his life. She rested her head on the padded doorframe. Her breathing slowed as she fell into a gentle sleep.

Sarah awoke gasping air. She was terrified. Her fingers were locked on the grip of her gun. She’d been trying to pull it in her sleep. The holster’s safety strap had kept it secure. One of her nails was broken off inside the trigger guard. She glanced over at Trent hoping he’d missed the embarrassing spectacle.

Trent looked like he was asleep, but there was something wrong. His face seemed too still. His mouth was open. His chest didn’t look like it was moving. There was a numb feeling in her fingers like the sensations from holding a glass of ice too long. She sensed the world had just made a wrong turn down a road that led to... to what? What was it that felt so odd?

“Trent.”

There was no response.

“TRENT!”

He just sat there with his hands folded in his lap. She leaned closer. Her vision seemed to focus down like a tunnel onto Trent’s face. She could see his pores. She touched his shoulder. He slumped forward into the steering wheel. She knew he was dead, knew it, but still tried to deny it. She had to do something. Her thoughts froze as she noticed a sound. The warbling was almost musical, very faint. The sound could have been anything, a distant stereo from one of the homes. Why had she focused on this noise? Why did it make her feel so uncomfortable? There was a suffocating quality to it. She hated it. She was close to hysterical when she realized the sound was car horns. They were far off and mixing together into a single bleating warbling tone.

Sarah’s confusion snapped. Her training took over. She jumped from the car, opened the trunk, and removed an oxygen mask and bottle. Trent was her friend. He had to make it. She opened his door. She pushed with all her strength to roll him onto the passenger side. She fixed the mask over his nose and mouth, then fastened his safety belt. His skin was still warm.

Gravel sprayed into the fender wells as Sarah pulled out onto the road. The tires screeched on the pavement, inscribing a half circle of rubber and smoke. She hit the lights and siren. In seconds, the speedometer was touching eighty. She reached for the microphone. “Dispatch, this is car seven-one-one, over.” There was no answer only a faint hiss. She tried again, “Dispatch, this is car seven-one-one, over.” Still no answer. Damn it. The radio was broken. This problem had happened before.

Approaching the top of the hill, she was doing over a hundred. The engine was growling and pulling faster with surprising power. She knew something larger than Trent had gone wrong in the world.

There was a peculiar orange glow at the top of the hill. She squinted while cresting the gently slopping ridge. Sarah jumped on the brakes too late. Her arms were locked straight. The car plowed forward, her windshield filling with the image of cars piled into each other and fire. She gripped the wheel. The sensation was as if she was falling into the fire. Still skidding at high speed, she plowed into the tangle of wrecked cars. Something white hit her face. The door buckled, plunging sections of its inner workings into her ribs.

Sarah opened her eyes partway. The inside of the car was dimly lit with an orange glow. There was a terrible smell of rubber fumes and gasoline. Nothing made sense. Why did her entire body hurt? She tried to move and felt a stabbing pain in her left side. She began to collect her thoughts. A deflated air bag hung from the steering wheel into her lap. The windshield had shattered into a spider web of glass. The dashboard was covered with cubes of safety glass. Reflections of nearby flames danced in the small pieces of glass. She looked over to her right and saw Trent. His neck was broken. His forehead had a bloodless gash. There was a crater in the passenger window the size of a basketball where his head had impacted.

Pain stabbed her again. She looked down at her left side, and saw a piece of door metal ending at a torn hole in her jacket. In a controlled panic, she slowly backed off the metal spike. She expected to see blood. There should have been lots of blood but there was nothing. She examined inside her jacket. She touched and felt pain. It took her several seconds to realize that her body armor had saved her life. Her ribs were sore, probably broken, but her skin was not punctured.

Sarah tried to open the door. The hinge and metal creaked. She couldn’t budge the door more than a few inches. Her injury made it impossible to push with any strength. With each shove, her ribs reminded her she was not okay. She checked the other doors. They were all jammed from the collision. She could hear the fire crackling outside. She pulled an emergency rescue hammer from its mount and smashed out the side window.