Pestilence: The Infection Begins (8 page)

“Oh fuck!” Sanders and Childs squealed as one.

“Quiet, quiet!” Tilford was quick to jump on them.

Delaney fumbled with her cell. Her first reaction was to turn it off, but considering the situation and all calls were now monitored, she didn’t think it would be a telemarketer.

“Hello…” she whispered into the phone, until she heard the voice on the other end. “MOYA, YOU FUCK!”

“I’m sorry you feel like that, Dr. Delaney, but I guess I would be the same if I was locked up with carriers of the Baltic flu and—”

“Baltic flu? You don’t know half of it—or perhaps you do and you’re still playing dumb. Either way, Moya, this outbreak has the sufferers in a state of complete mental breakdown, they’re seeking the blood of others, killing—”

The door to the office rattled when the handle was grabbed from outside and rapidly pulled. The walls shuddered as a heavy pounding followed; it would only be a matter of time before the infected discovered the window would be an easy way to gain entry.

“Quick, get in the back,” Tilford was he first to react. The infected were already here so no need to worry about being heard now. Tilford tried the door to the storeroom but it was locked.

“What the hell do we do now?” Childs’s shrieked. Her fear was as obvious in her voice as it was written on her face.

Nurse Sanders, on the other hand, had gone quiet. She stared back at the vibrating office door hoping, praying for a miracle.

“Dr. Delaney, Dr. Delaney?” Moya squawked over the phone.

“What? What is it, Moya, we’re about to become blood donors here!” Delaney held the phone away from her face.

“The door, the door you’re trying to access, it has a code, eleven dash two dash one, nine, five, nine.”

“What?”

“Try it, Delaney, try it!”

The office door started to split under the constant pressure and the hinges bent. Delaney had no choices.

“Do something, please… do something!” Tears flowed down Childs’ puffy red cheeks as her panic increased. A tiny trickle of blood also seeped from one eye. In their panic to escape from the infected; no one noticed.

“Eleven dash two dash one, nine, five, nine! In the number pad,” Delaney pointed below the door handle. “Now!”

Tilford immediately did as told, no questions. He punched the numbers in, turned the handle. The door opened.

“Inside, quickly, get inside.” He waved his arm while keeping a watchful eye on the door of the office. The door was about to give way any moment.

Tilford locked the door behind as he did the other one but stopped to observe the locks or that is what

“What is it, is something wrong Isaac?” Delaney asked.

“No, nothing’s wrong not at all. This door is more strongly built, with reinforced metal frame and locks. This might hold them at bay.” Might being the magic word.

“Did it work? Delaney, Delaney, did the door open?” Moya’s voice cackled once again from the cell phone, Delaney still held in her hand.

“Yes, yes it did,” she answered Moya’s cackling call. “How did you know, how?”

She pressed the phone into her ear as the sound of the outer door crashing down reached them—the infected were in the next room.

“Moya? Moya? You shit!”

“Who’s Moya and what was that all about?” Tilford asked her.

Heavy contact caused the door to shudder, preventing her from answering; they had been discovered.

M
oya hadn’t become so
de-sensitized by his crossover to the dark side that he didn’t feel any grief over the loss of life that was, confirmed, to be taking place at the hospital. He had spent all of his professional life in the field of immunology, infectious and contagious diseases, and death was not a total stranger to him; he’d witnessed its many guises and of course the consequences. As a young man, not long after his graduation from medical school, he’d volunteered to assist in treatment centers in West Africa. He was of the belief that hands-on experience was the best teacher. What he saw in Africa, particularly in Mali, Guinea and Burkina Faso, was how disease that was thought controlled, preventable or nonexistent in Europe flourished in poverty-stricken areas of the world. Moya saw the relationship between wealth and health firsthand; he didn’t need to read how the greedy treated the poor or their contempt for the suffering—he had witnessed it with his own eyes. The lack of clean water, food, sanitation and electricity, which the modern Western world takes for granted, and the continuous warfare on display in many parts of Africa contributed to the spread of disease and death.

He was under no illusion about who was to blame. Throughout the latter decade of the twentieth century as he’d started his career with the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control he’d kept a keen eye on developments in Africa. He watched as Western governments—mainly the United States—acting in the interests of their pay—masters reduced African and many parts of the Middle Eastern landscapes to rubble, either directly or indirectly through proxy agents. Most of the military actions or wars undertaken were in the guise of freedom. Freedom against communism or terrorism or against drug cartels. Moya knew otherwise, however. The real truth of the matter was these wars and military actions were used to take control of the wealth of other nations. Of their minerals, oil, privatize government services and even their drug fields. After the US had their ass symbolically handed to them in the debacle that was Vietnam, new markets had to be found. Still, he surmised, having your ass handed to you, no matter how symbolic, was much easier on most Americans, than the Vietnamese. The bombed cities, the defoliated and poisoned countryside and a casualty rate in the millions. Americans got their news from the safety and luxury of their couches or easy chairs. Tiny snippets of sugar coated stories about “one thing or another” just before or after the ball game or their favorite talk show host came on, which fell on deaf ears as viewers went for another beer from the fridge. It was a much different story in Vietnam where most people didn’t even have a TV. And as the Cold War tensions also changed, so did the political climate. With the fall of the Soviet Union and its satellite states, the need for constant readiness and the manufacturing weapons of war, at least at the high levels, became a luxury rather than a necessity.

Like many of his friends in the medical field, Moya watched with a renewed hope that peace and co—existence between peoples could become a reality. But he couldn’t help his cynicism. The writing, he believed, was on the wall as far as the dissolution of the Soviet empire was concerned. If the US didn’t have a direct hand in it (as was suggested by a top aide in the Carter administration), then it certainly had foreknowledge. Was this the big stick being wielded by Uncle Sam and the faceless men behind the office of power? If you don’t toe the line then we will change your government to one that will? Moya believed, and rightly so, that the powerful military/industrial/banking complex would need a new enemy. Peace was not good for business. By the late eighties that new enemy had been found. One that would guarantee perpetual war and keep the cash registers of the military/industrial powers overflowing. More wars, more hatred and more deaths. This would lead to severe health issues and in turn a greater need for medicines and vaccines; the pharmaceutical companies—another partner within the pyramid of world power—would benefit greatly, as Moya would find out.

After years of disdainfully observing all of the subterfuge of the treachery and the lust for power, he had come to the realization that as much as he wanted to help change all of it, without money he couldn’t. He never considered himself a socialist but did believe in social justice, and as a senior member of the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, he was convinced he could solve the disease problems in poorer areas of the world; but he needed to get his plans heard by those who could help. The shakers and the makers. However, by the early twenty-first century his “leftist” political views were well known and he was no longer invited to speak at many conferences attended by the bigwigs. Increasingly avoided, he retreated into his own world. He would have been happy to stay that way, until the sudden outbreak of an influenza-like strain that would be dubbed the Baltic flu.

As the Centre for Disease Prevention and Control prepared an emergency team to respond to the situation, Moya was shocked to find himself ostracized; he was being punished for his views. He considered leaving the organization altogether and going back to Spain, where there were enough hospitals that would gladly take him, when he received a late night phone call from Noel Thorncroft himself. He knew of Thorncroft, anyone in the medical field in Europe if not the whole world did. Thorn Bio-Tech, the largest pharmaceutical company in Europe, was founded by Noel’s father and was now controlled by him. Moya, had also come across Thorncroft’s name in relation to other activities. As a major shareholder in several of Europe’s largest merchant banks and a private military weapon manufacturing company. He also funded certain groups in Africa and the Middle East that were, according to a US intelligence release, a destabilizing threat to the peace of the regions. What Moya found most repulsive of all, was the obese rich bastard used his wealth for secretive—and perverted—sexual encounters with teenage male prostitutes. The last piece of information wasn’t found by following up on rumor, hearsay or reports from independent sources on the Internet. No, Moya heard these stories—more than once—at several medical conventions he’d attended over the years. He’d also heard of what became of those who knew of his carnal liaisons and were foolish enough to threaten Thorncroft with disclosure should he not honor a small tribute.

* * *

“
W
e have
an opening for a physician of your standing. We’re in the development stages of a vaccine to tackle this terrible flu, would you be interested?” Moya recalled these exact words spoken to him by Thorncroft in that conversation.How did he know I might be seeking other employment?

When Thorncroft told him that he, Moya, would have a major say in how to best distribute the vaccine and in conjunction with other medical programs around the world, he didn’t hesitate, and agreed.

Now as he sat on his bed in the American city of Des Moines, Iowa, he realized he’d sold his soul to the devil that day. What followed was money, trips overseas (to sell Thorn pharmaceuticals or the vision) and more money. He received a large office of his own with staff where he could plan health programs for the poorer countries and actually saw the initial stages implemented but that was about all. Increasingly, however, he became nothing more than a salesman. He would travel to European and Middle East countries to extol the virtues of Thorn Bio-Tech and its products. With each new commitment, he received a bonus and with the bonuses came the cars, the travel, the good dining, the fine clothes and of course the women—young women. The idealistic doctor was no more. He had become a whore, of that there were no longer any doubts. The only difference, he reflected, was that he didn’t have to bend over and spread his cheeks. Now in his late forties he could no longer afford to care like he once had. After so many years of working side by side with death, he had come to terms with his own life. He wasn’t infallible. It was time to look after number one, a phrase he despised because it was so selfish and was the epitome of all he hated about the rich, the powerful and the corrupt, everything he had become.

“Fuck you, Thorncroft, fuck you!”

He threw the half-full bottle of water against the wall with disgust, but a moment later he allowed himself a slight chuckle.

“No, I’m too old for his tastes!”

He would need to check with Calgleef or Thorncroft to see where he would be relocated to, but before then he would check out of this hotel; he was much too close to Riverside Hospital.

And the pestilence that was about to be unleashed.

* * *

T
he former hospital
and patients-staff–turned–blood-craving fiends didn’t give up easy. They pushed, pounded and kicked on the door to the security storeroom. Tilford was correct in his assessment of the door being of a stronger construction, Delaney thought; she also thought there probably weren’t any other people on the second floor either—not alive at any rate.

“Look, the safe’s open.” Sanders pointed to the corner of the room. The door was only open an inch or so, but it was enough for Sanders to see it, even in this light.

Tilford quickly rushed over to check the safe’s contents.

“What’s in there Isaac, is there a gun?” Childs asked optimistically against the rhythmic pounding from the outside office.

“Let me look.” Tilford searched the safe while Delaney opened the drawers and the small cupboard that belonged to the small desk.

“Here, this might help.” She passed Tilford a small flashlight she’d discovered. The light in the storeroom was small and, with just emergency power in operation, not very strong.

“Great, thank you.”

Tilford’s hand clasped over the top of hers as he reached for the flashlight. Their eyes met and for the briefest instant, time all but ceased. They had exchanged a smile before their fleeting moment was interrupted by a chorus of heavy thumps on the door.

“Uh, thanks.” He said then turned to search the safe.

“
H
ere look
.” He pulled a metal lunch box from the safe. It was locked with a small brass padlock. “Find something to break this open, quick!”

Sanders looked on the shelves on the far side while Childs looked in the closet opposite the door. As far away as she could get from the pounding suited her just fine.

“How about these?” Delaney found a set of keys in the drawer. “I bet one of these will do the job, Isaac.”

“Can we hurry up and find out?” Childs said.

“Keep your voice down, Jenny, for Christ’s sake!” Sanders said

“Why bother? They already know we in here so—”

“We don’t need to encourage them is what I mean, that’s all.”

“Okay… here we go!” Tilford sounded like a kid given the keys to a candy store when he took a .38 revolver from the tin box along with a box of ammunition.

“Great, we can defend ourselves now!” Childs beamed.

“You take it I’ve never used one before.” He said handing the gun and ammunition to Delaney. Delaney immediately swung the cylinder out to check to see if it was loaded. Satisfied it wasn’t, she tucked it into the top of her pants, under her white coat.

“Aren’t you going to load it?” Childs demanded. She was elated that a gun had been found but confused when Delaney didn’t load it.

“In a moment, I will. Trust me, I will.” She smiled, hoping to ease Childs’s anxiety.

“Shh, listen…” Sanders called. “They’re moving on, or it sounds like it.”

Everyone stopped and listened. The pounding on the wall and doors had ceased, and they could hear the sound of footsteps moving away from the door. Had they just given up, found something better or got bored? No one knew the answer but didn’t much care as long as they were gone.

“We’ll have to wait for a while to be sure. We’re safe in here for now. Jenny, check the fridge over there and see what’s in it.”

Jenny searched the fridge as Tilford and Delaney huddled closer together. “What are you going to do with that?”

“I’m going to use it if I have to, and it looks to me like I’ll have to!” She cocked a thumb toward the door behind her.