The Doomsday Infection (6 page)

The structure
, so enormous that President Dwight Eisenhower, while still army chief of staff after WWII, managed to get lost in its vastness, when out for a stroll and had to ask a group of stenographers the way back to his office.

Deep within its bowels, the Joint Chiefs of Staff gathered in the War Room, hastily assembled by President Burgess. The war room was a hive of industry, a multitude of personnel buzzed around in the background, fielding telephone calls and tapping away at computers.

The leaders of the different branches of the armed forces watched a debate between the disembodied surgeon general on the small desk-mounted monitors each had in front of them around the massive conference table, and President James Burgess whose face filled a video-link from his compound in Florida above their heads on giant screens.

The
President brimmed over with health and vitality surprising the men assembled as they had heard through the rumor-mill that the President was at deaths door having had a colossal heart attack. Little did they know that the President was still in bed, careful camera angles from his trusted staff and plenty of make-up helped with the deception.

“- So, we should be cautious?” the
President asked tentatively.

Quinn looked uneasy talking openly in front of the gathered personnel. “We’re beyond cautious, Mister President. This is a full blown pandemic.”

President Burgess nodded slowly taking in the information. “Well, there you have it, Gentlemen. Any questions?”

General
Jumpin’ Jack Malloy, commander of army forces said, “I have one, the
Bubonic Plague?
I’m having trouble comprehending this. Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t it been eradicated?”

Quinn Martell took the question. “That’s the w
hole point, we became complacent. While we’ve been expecting a chemical warfare attack we’ve forgotten about this archaic pestilence.”

“But there’s a cure for this,” the general said.

“No inoculations stored anywhere in the United States,” Quinn said.

The shock reply reverberated around the conference table.

“None?” exploded General Malloy.

“Not a drop.”

“Why not?”

“A decision was made long ago,” Quinn said. “Between the Center for Disease Control, my predecessors in this office, and the World Health Organization in Geneva, that it wasn’t a threat anymore,” he paused, to let them consider this, and then continued. “However, this is a new strain, for which there is no cure. And, the way the population moves around so fast today, it’s going to be nigh on impossible to stop.”

General Malloy held up a restraining hand, “I still think a terrorist attack is more likely. I’ve taken over from Homeland Security and they told me that their people on the ground down in Florida have been digging around and watching this unfold and believe it to be terrorists.”

“That’s because they’re looking for terrorists. They’re not considering any other possibilities.”

The general glowered at him, and then carried on, “We’ve been monitoring e-mails and cell phone chatter from that district, and the details are leaking out despite our efforts to contain it. I’m telling you that the rumors are spreading like wildfire. All sorts of tales from the vicinity, and at least thirty low level wannabe terrorists groups are claiming responsibility for the attack, none of which have such capabilities - yet,”

President Burgess rejoined the conversation. “I’m all for free speech, but we can’t have these sorts of rumors getting out of control. It could cause widespread panic. And we all remember what happened to the stock market after
9/11, we almost went into financial melt-down. This is unprecedented. I’d hate to think what’d happen if this epidemic -”

“Not
if,
Mister President,
when
,” Quinn Martell butted in. The men gathered murmured their shock. Quinn knew he had their attention. “We all know, of the Black Death from history, but possibly not the devastating effect it had in Europe, I had to look this stuff up myself, estimates put the number at between half and two thirds of the population of Europe was wiped out.” He heard them gasp and continued. “To put that into our context, you’re talking over one hundred and fifty million Americans would die, that’s one hundred and fifty million.” He took in the open-mouthed stares from the military men. “Going back to Europe, the entire workforce perished and it caused a huge economic disaster, with no workers, the few that remained were able to barter themselves a decent living wage. Multiply that into today’s market place, and the turmoil would be incalculable, and please bear in mind these are underestimates. If the infected get to foreign countries - to our trading partners, well, you can draw your own conclusions.”

The
President said. “We must recall all aircraft at once.”

“Al
ready been implemented, Mister President,” said General Malloy.

The
President’s face clouded over, and he said menacingly. “And when the hell were, you going to tell me?” 

“As soon as was possible, sir, but it
is our remit to do what is best for the nation in a crisis. You would’ve been informed in timely fashion. However, given your condition we thought it wise not to alarm you. We kept the VP in the loop.”

“That’s right Jim,” said smooth-looking Vice President Hamilton Parker, beaming his Hollywood-star smile. “It’s all under control. I’ve taken care of the situation, you can rely on me, and I have your back.”

“I don’t want you having my back,” snarled President Burgess. “If there’s a threat to our nation then I need to know
, immediately
.” He choked, coughed, spat something into his hands, worrying the assembly, and then recovered his composure. “Recalling the aircraft is a good start, but we need to block entry and exit to and from our airports, our docks, and we must throw up road blocks.”

General Malloy blustered. “Let’s not be rash, Mi
ster President, do you have any idea of the man-power needed for such a scheme?”

Quinn said, “You’re going to have to find a way, because we’re talking about Armageddon, the worst bits of the Bible, this plague, or pestilence if you will, could potentially send us back to the dark ages.” He paused, as there were audible gasps from around the war room. “You have to take this threat seriously. Going back to the historic events in Europe, the Black Death wiped out tens of millions and that was at walking speed.”

“Let me show you our projections if this virus is left unattended, and bear in mind this is without anyone flying into another densely populated area and starting the whole process again.”

A map of mainland America replaced his face. “We’ve calculated that this has already happened.” The Florida Keyes and Miami turned bright red, “Day one,” the bottom third of Florida colored red, “Day two, we’re talking about the whole of Florida and parts of Alabama.” The map turned dark red in the corresponding area. “Day three, most of the southern states, day four . . . “ He let the graphic do the talking as continental USA turned bright red, including parts of Canada and Mexico.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff were stunned into silence. From the huge monitors President Burgess cleared his throat. “We need to contain this information, let the material out bit by bit, let the nation absorb it slowly. Show them that we are in control of the situation and on top of it. We can’t be having the news leaking out until we’re ready,” he paused, wondering how to phrase the next question. “As I said earlier, I’m all for free speech, it’s a constitutional right, after all, but just this once, is there anything we can do to stop the email chatter from getting out of control?”

General Malloy stood and waited until h
e had everyone’s attention. “Already done, Mister President, since 0600 hours, we’ve managed to jam the major email carriers; they think it’s a glitch.”

The
President allowed himself a brief smile, relief washing over him to this piece of news. “And cellular phones?”

“Since
0700 hours this morning. The Miami-Dade district immediately and we’ve worked on the other masts moving north until we’ve almost reached Orlando.”

“Well done, Jack, that’s excellent work.”

Quinn said. “Am I the only one to have grave misgivings about this affront to civil liberties?” No one else spoke, the Chiefs of Staff busied themselves making notes, “Oh, apparently I am.”

During the lull in conversation the VP seized the moment. “I’ve got my sources too, and I still say it’s terrorists. We know the Iraqis, Iranians and Syrians are stockpiling Anthrax and
Ricin and god-knows what else, why not a modified form of the Black Death? By the time we realize it’s a foreign power behind the attack, it’ll be too late.”

“Duly noted,” said the
President, nodding grimly. “Hamilton, I need you to take care of the day-to-day affairs of government.”

“You can rely on me, Jim,” the VP said.

“I’m going to have my hands full with this. I’m calling out the National Guard and we will go to Defcon three.”

“Mister President,” interrupted General Malloy. “I still think you’re being rash, this could backfire. This’ll only be the fourth time we’ve been on a
Defcon three state of readiness, do you think Defcon three is necessary, after all, the last time was 9/11.”

“I’m prepared to stand by my decisions. We need to be decisive and pro-active not reactive. We cannot wait.”

The men gasped at the gravity of the statement. Eventually General Malloy tried again. “Mister President, we have had no other reports of the Black Death outside of the island, it could have blown out to sea.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll look the biggest fool in history
, no doubt lose my job, and become a laughing-stock, but if I’m right . . . well, let’s hope I’m wrong.” He sighed and then said. “If you need more convincing I’ll pass you over to the surgeon general, Quinn?”

“We; my department, the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta and the World Health Organization have been expecting a pandemic like this. It’s long overdue, the population has increased too fast, and this is nature’s way of culling the herd. From the evidence gathered so far this contagion has the potential to be what we call an E.L.E.-”

“In English, Quinn,” said President Burgess.

“It’s an extinction level event – in other words it’s the Doomsday infection.”

CHAPTER 7

THE ONSLAUGHT

09:45 AM

“Hey, Buddy?” The fat man shook Luke awake. Much to his surprise Luke had managed to drop off
, unable to warn anyone, or be taken seriously, he’d shut his eyes and let much needed sleep wash over him.

The fat man dripped sweat, and pointed out of the window beyond Luke. “Correct me if I’m wrong but that
ain’t London is it?”

Luke stared aghast to see that the airplane was skirting jungle-like treetops as it prepared to land.

The flight attendant showed the fat man back to his seat. “Fasten your seat-belt; this could be a bumpy landing.”

“Why are we landing here,” Luke asked her. “What’s going on?”

“The captain will make an announcement as soon as we are on the ground.”

Luke stared at the window watching the fire-trucks with lights flashing and sirens blaring running parallel with their predicted landing route.

The captain’s voice crackled over the tannoy. “Flight attendants to your seats. Ladies and gentlemen assume the crash position.”

Luke crunched forward to put his head between his legs, remembering that he’d heard that the recommended crash position was best to preserve the teeth for f
uture identification if bodies were burned to a crisp. He shuddered at the thought and sat up. He decided he’d rather try to work out where they were.

Flight 416 bumped heavil
y to the runway with a painful screech of the tires, then the reversal of the engine throwing Luke forward. The airplane finally stopped at a remote part of the airport and he saw in astonishment that the military, fully attired in camouflaged biohazard suits had encircled the Boeing 777.

“What the f-?”

The Captain interrupted his thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen do not be alarmed, we’ve temporarily been diverted to the Caribbean, where we are to re-fuel and then return to Miami.” The passengers, who seconds earlier were begging for their lives, now groaned and bitched, and threatened to sue the airline. “The soldiers outside,” continued the captain. “Are going to hose down the aircraft, it seems that we may be contagious.”

The word caused the expected pandemonium amongst the passengers. The flight attendant shushed them. “Listen, this is important.”

He continued. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about; it’s only a precaution and the locals are following the instructions from our government. It seems there has been a kind of chemical incident and they are being prudent and recalling all airplanes back to Miami International, where they will check us out and give us the all clear. Thank you.”

The mumbling and complaints got worse, when the
tannoy crackled once more, “One more thing,” the captain said. “On a more serious note, the local authorities have said any attempt to alight from the aircraft will be met with the, erm, utmost force.” The passengers took the latest news with righteous indignation. “Sit tight, we’re already refueling and naturally we have priority to take off, so we’ll be out of here in a jiffy. Thank you.”

Luke observed the local militia looking like spacemen in their biohazard suits.

Armed and trigger-happy spacemen.

10:15 AM

Kelvin
Copnik awoke and stirred in his Key West penthouse apartment. He smiled broadly at the person asleep next to him - a pick-up at a Miami nightclub who’d agreed to come all the way back with him. Kelvin smiled, looked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows down onto the town at the southernmost tip of mainland USA, ninety miles to Cuba, which oddly made him closer geographically to Havana than Miami.

He loved the Key West life-style, what with the applauding of the wondrous sunsets that were plentiful, to the seven-toed cats at Earnest Hemingway’s home, and to the laid-back live-and-let-live attitude of the locals. He rolled to his side to gaze at his latest conquest, long shapely legs, shaggy blonde hair . . . and beard.

Kelvin, or to call him by his Miami alter ego’s name, Big Mary, was the queen of the Fairy Grotto, a gay Miami drag show, where he was the star act. He blew in the man’s ear while trying to remember the dude’s name, Dave, Daniel, or Danny. Something like that, anyhow, they were all the same to him. Big Mary loved the gay scene and its promiscuous life-style although nowhere near the early '80s heights.

During the
1980s heyday of the bathhouses some guys would have anything up to ten encounters per night. The bathhouses catered for all tastes what with the notorious glory holes, where you could be the giver; oral, accepting a penis pushed through the hole cut into the WC cubicle partition or the receiver, where you put your erect penis through the gap to be fellated anonymously by a giver. It meant that anyone could get or receive a blowjob, meaning that there was even a place for the fat, misshapen or downright ugly; that they too could a have a full and promiscuous sex life. There was even talk of a sub-culture for the unattractive. Still today, some guys hunting bears, they adored their men covered in hair, or chubby chasers, whose tastes led to the corpulent, there was even a part of the bathhouse designated pig-alley, for the truly foul and unattractive.

Not that any of these groups would have interested Big Mary, and this was before the days of AIDS. Big Mary had made it a point to learn all the statistics concerning the   AIDS epidemic. Better forewarned he’d thought. Although the western media ignored the Aids problem, it still had a terrible effect in Africa, particularly in the sub-Saharan region, where one in twenty adults had contracted HIV and over seven hundred children were dying from the disease each day!

Mind you, that was through their mother’s breast-milk not their lifestyle choice. In fact, sixty-nine percent of adults suffering with the HIV virus lived in the sub-Saharan area. It was incredible that the western world had buried it’s head when it came to AIDS, probably due to information overload during the 1980s and 1990s, what with the bombardment of charity gigs, and infomercials from minor celebrities joining the cause. It did not concern most of the American population as they had little or no chance of catching the ‘gay’ plague, and they quickly tired of the news items and tuned them out. Even today nearly forty million people worldwide suffer from the disease and an astonishing 1.6 million sufferers would die horribly each year from the syndrome, only to have 2.3 million newly effected victims replace them.

Big Mary would check his nightly conquests thoroughly, no point in taking chances, he’d thought. A rash or any sort of skin blemish would have him running for the hills, as would anyone severely underweight. He would check carefully for herpes-like symptoms around the mouth; blistering or evidence of cold sores would have him find a different partner. Flaky skin was another indicator, not that he would entertain sleeping with a guy with flaky skin however gorgeous h
e was. Flaky skin? Urgh, heaven forbid. He’d always give anyone with fever or flu-like signs a wide berth naturally enough. Big Mary was overcautious. He’d also shun a guy with a cold. He'd look elsewhere because there would always be more guys willing to spend the night, thank goodness, plenty more.

Only the best, most gorgeous
, fittest – and healthy - guys were good enough for him, like Dave, Daniel or Danny. He was sure it began with a ‘D’. He wished he could remember, he wanted to wake him and send him on his way, he had things to do, people to see, fish to fry. He was a sailor, he remembered that much, there was a submarine in town and the clubs were brimming over with muscular sailors, who after months at sea playing it ‘butch’, could finally let themselves go.

And boy did they let themselves go.

He shook the guy under the sheets, he’d have to wing it regarding his name. “Hey wake up.” He shook the guy’s shoulders. No reaction. Kevin flipped back the sheets and gasped. Black lesions covered the guy's torso.

“Holy shit, he’s got Aids!” Ke
lvin leaped from the bed and paced the room, No, no, no, this could not be happening. The lesions weren’t there last night. He checked, he always checked. Yet these lesions looked different. His torso was black from where the ring-like lesions had multiplied. There also appeared to be lumps under the skin. He wrinkled his nose and detected the stench of feces. Christ, what had they done the night before? This wasn’t normal. He edged back the covers further to see the guy was laying in a pool of excrement. Kelvin felt tears running down his face and realized that through his carelessness the night before, he’d signed his own death warrant. He grabbed the guy and recoiled, as he was stone cold.

Stone cold to the touch and stone cold dead.

10: 30 AM

Trooper Stanley Willis pulled away from the scene of the accident in his Miami-Dade Police Department dodge charger. He’d contained the situation and he needed to get to see his mother. She’d get agitated if he was even more than a few minutes late on his weekly visit. God he hated the visits and God he hated her and these goddamned inconvenient trips. If she didn’t hold the purse strings, he would have said;
sayonara
to the old bitch years ago.

His mother had put him down and belittled him all his life; he lived in constant fear of the domineering old bat. She had made his childhood miserable with her endless harping that nothing he ever did was good enough for her. He’d remembered when he told her he was
gonna be a baseball star and she’d scoffed at him calling him a fool. He told her the Coach had told him he had a natural aptitude for the sport, but his mom had sneered and mocked him. Telling him, he’d amount to nothing, like his bum of a father, a feckless, work-shy bigot, who’d blamed the Negros for all his woes. Even when Stanley graduated from the police academy, she taunted him that they must’ve lowered their intake standards and that he’d always remain in uniform.

However, in spite of her he’d enjoyed police work and the comradeship of his co-workers. They had a bond
, brought together by the events they experienced, that civilians could not comprehend, like having to attend to the aftermath of a murder. Be it a stabbing, shooting or plain old barehanded, cold-blooded strangling. The slaughtering of one another with whatever came to hand, pots, pans, toasters, needle, or scissors, it amazed Stanley. The murder, nearly always committed by one family member upon another family member; it was still by far the number one category of homicide.

Stanley could sympathize with them.
God, he wished he’d had the guts to kill his mother years ago. Of course, now that she WAS dying he hoped he could prolong her life so that he could watch her die in painful agony for even longer. She’d often catch him smirking when the pain got too much. Yet a smile would cross her face and he knew, just knew, that she’d leave all her money to a cats’ home to spite him.

Yet, each week she
’d summon him and each week he’d attend like the obedient slave he always had been. Roll on when the old nag was dead. He’d immerse himself in his job during the day and spend his nights in cop hang-out bars, maybe date a cop groupie – yes, there was such a thing - girls who loved to hang around cops, they even had websites. He’d give it a go soon, after the old hag had gone.

Tonight though, he’d have his regular bar
cronies hanging on his every word, with his latest yarn, his story of the RTA - road traffic accident, he’d just left, that was a baffling case if there ever was one.

When he’d arrived at the scene of the accident, the paramedics were already there and had pronounced the motorcycle rider dead. He’d been decapitated so no argument there. Yet Sergeant Stanley Willis still ha
d to go through the rigmarole of finding the cause of the accident. He crouched by the torso of the Hells Angel with ‘death or Glory’ tattooed on his arm. It didn’t matter how many corpses Stanley saw it still made his gag reflex kick in some, like this one, as fluid oozed from the raggedy stump of his neck.

He questioned the witnesses, who explained that the Hells Angel on the Harley Davidson fat-boy jumped the lights on red and had been sideswiped by a truck carrying industrial grade plates of glass, which had shot forward and decapitated the Hells Angel. His body continued on its journey until the motorcycle ran out of steam and toppled over. Even more gruesomely, the head smashed through the picture window of a Mexican diner where it spun on the floor spraying the diners in blood.

Unbelievably, none of that was the startling part of the tale, the kicker being that the Hells Angel's body was white and his head was black!

Stanley had spent the best part of an hour looking for another body, unable to believe the w
itnesses protestations that there was only one person on the motorcycle. He’d never seen anything like it in all his life. He had no explanation for it - a lily-white body with jailhouse tattoos pledging Aryan gang affiliations, yet with a face as black as coal. God image what Stanley’s Pa would’ve made of that!

He pulled up at his mama’s remote clapboard house and was apprehe
nsive to see the front door ajar. He had his hand on the butt of his service weapon and approached gingerly. He pushed open the heavy front door, checked out the dark corners of his childhood home. He knew every nook and cranny, but there was no one there. He called out to his mama, gaining no reply, he quickly checked around and found it empty. He scratched his head. She was unable to get about on her own anymore, and if the home-help had taken her out, she would have locked up. He pushed open the rear door and went out onto the stoop, maybe she’d be back soon.