The Gemini Virus (32 page)

The uncle who helped raise Cara had died around the same time as her mother, but Aunt Eleanor was still alive and well. She was the only relation Cara ever talked about, and Beck soon realized why—she was the only one who resembled a normal human being. Over the last three days, he got to know her quite well. Sixty-seven, small, with a cloud of silver hair and lively green eyes that had lost little of their youthful sparkle. She was a ball of energy, as sharp and quick-witted as anyone he knew. She still worked part-time, ran her local church guild, and played cards with her friends on Saturday nights. Her opinion of the rest of the family was even lower than Beck’s, calling the stepfather a “useless moron,” then summing up her feelings about the wealthy California cousin by saying, “You can put a turd in a tuxedo, but it’ll still stink.” Beck could see why Cara adored her—and why she regarded the woman as her lifeline to sanity.

The priest rambled on, standing rod-straight in his long robes before the open grave. A total of twelve people attended the service, including a college roommate, two of Cara’s elementary school teachers, a social worker who had helped her through her teenage years, and a childhood friend who had apparently kept in sporadic contact by email. They were all strangers to Beck, and it made him realize how much about her he never knew. Aunt Eleanor filled in many gaps the night before, when the two of them sat in her living room and burned away the hours alternating between laughter and tears.

Ben and Sheila also came. Ben did his best to retain his composure, and each time he broke down, he tried to cover it up by coughing into his fist. Sheila wore a magnificent Louis Vuitton dress and white pearls, which only served to make her look as though she’d stumbled into the wrong funeral. She stood several yards away from the crowd due to the incessant vibrating of her cell phone. It was disgusting, of course, but Beck knew she couldn’t turn it off. At least she seemed genuinely irritated by it. Whether she really was or not, he didn’t give a damn.

“What is now has already been. What is to be, already is. And God restores what would otherwise be displaced.”

He felt as though he should be crying along with the others, moved in some profound way. But there was nothing at the moment: just nothing. He cried long and hard in the hotel the night following her death, alternated between that and taking long slugs of vodka. He’d never been much of a drinker and didn’t turn to a bottle in times of distress. He didn’t even like the taste of hard alcohol. But this had been unbearable.

Then the dreams came, as he knew they would. Unlike so many other things in life, they never failed. The Ebola victims again, the smoking corpses, the infant that died in his arms, his tiny head falling back after his last shuddered breath. A macabre variation of
This Is Your Life
. The donated cadavers from medical school, the rows of jarred organs. And then, of course, Amy. Fresh-faced and all of seventeen when they first met at Stanford, they got married one year after graduation. Then he was offered the chance to go to Yambuku. She wanted to go back to school and begin studying for her Ph.D., but he pleaded with her. He was driven by a romantic vision—the two of them valiantly fighting disease and suffering together. What a way to start off their partnership. Maybe they’d open a clinic someday. The Becks, international saviors, respected and adored by millions. Maybe even a Nobel Prize. Then Amy appeared in the canvas tent one unforgettably humid evening, the tears on her face shining in the fitful light of the oil lamp, to tell him she’d become infected. She didn’t know how, and he never did figure it out. But she was gone within two weeks, consumed by one of the ghastliest diseases ever known. And the baby went with her, the one she hadn’t told him about at first because she wanted it to be a surprise.

Now there was a new set of images to add to the show, another scar cut across the flesh of his heart. And more dark thoughts to be buried down deep, sunk into a well of black water that, he was sure, would sooner or later become too full and begin to overflow. What would happen then, he couldn’t say. Hopefully he’d be too close to his own end for it to matter. In the meantime, the dreams would keep coming. Of that he had no doubt.

“Both go to the same place. Both were made from the dust, and to the dust they shall return.”

The crowd formed into a line and started forward. They stopped at the gleaming pewter-colored coffin one at a time, touching it, setting down flowers. Beck glanced over at Sheila Abbott, who was on the phone again and not paying attention. He went to the coffin last, where he lay a single red rose. For the briefest moment, he felt something stir inside. Then it passed.

Sheila caught up with him as he reached the new rental car, the one he was sharing with Ben. “Michael?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“Um … I know you need some time. Of course. But do you have any idea when you’ll be back?”

He stared at her. “No,” he said.

He climbed into the passenger seat without another word. Gillette had already started the engine. He also found an oldies station on the radio that was playing ’70s hits.

Beck switched it off.

TWENTY-SIX

DAY 21

The CDC and WHO jointly announced for the first time that the surge of fatalities as well as new cases had begun to slow. They attributed this mostly to the discovery of the antibody, but also to the rapid response of local medical teams and law-enforcement agencies as well as widespread education of the public. During an interview on
60 Minutes
, Sheila Abbott reminded viewers that no such reversal is ever possible with a one-dimensional strategy, and that the outbreak could easily have killed hundreds of thousands or even millions if it had occurred in the previous generation. “Modern technology is the real hero here,” she said, pointing to the Internet-aided efforts not only of the CDC and WHO but also researchers and other health practioners around the globe. “If the Net had existed in the fourteenth century, the Black Death might have wiped out only a few villages in Central Asia rather than half of the population of Europe.” Abbott also announced that the virus, which she believed to be a new mutation of one that had existed for thousands of year, had been assigned its own Latin taxon, Cervipox trimortumdiei, with the genus coming from the family name for deer—Cervidae—and the species meaning “three-day death.” The name it received from the media, however—the Gemini Virus—would sustain in popular usage, for years to come.

Interviewer Lesley Stahl asked when Abbott thought she could claim the virus was completely eradicated. Abbott paused before saying there would likely be at least a thousand more deaths before “we have this beast locked up,” putting the final death toll at nearly twenty-six thousand. She added that a vaccine was being developed as quickly as quality control would allow, and that she hoped it would be ready for the open market before the end of the year. In the meantime, she urged the public to continue using extreme caution and follow the guidelines posted on the Centers’ website until the outbreak disappeared completely.

In Washington, Barack Obama was finishing up a phone call with Maziar Baraheri. Obama apologized for the accusations and the threats, asking for Baraheri’s understanding. The Iranian president insisted there was no need for apologies, and he meant it. He suggested that perhaps it was finally time for an American–Iranian summit. Obama thought that was an excellent idea. Then Obama asked what had become of Shalizeh.

He couldn’t help but smile when he heard the details.

*   *   *

When the Jensens were twenty miles out from Carlton Lakes, the chatter in their van was still steady and spirited. At ten miles, a little less so. By the time they saw the first road sign indicating the remaining distance—the name of the town on the left, a
3
on the right—it dwindled in brief stages until only the sound of the road remained. Even Scooter, whom they had collected from Elaine’s house an hour earlier, seemed unusually subdued. Dennis and Andi’s hands were linked together in her lap. His was warm and sweaty, and every now and then it twitched. She watched him from the corner of her eye but said nothing. She had been skeptical about his apprehensions at first. Now she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a few of her own.

They left I-287 at Exit 53 and took the jughandle that flowed into the first traffic light. There was a sub shop on the corner, facing a sixteen-pump Sunoco on the right. The former was still closed, with signs in each of the three big windows saying as much; the legend
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
was printed in large letters on sheets of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper. At first, the Sunoco appeared to also be abandoned. Then they saw someone moving inside the little convenience shop. Whether it was an employee or a looter they couldn’t tell, and they had no intention of finding out. The neon
OPEN
sign was unlit.

A quarter mile down Andi gasped, her free hand going to her mouth. Dennis saw it at the same time but didn’t display any reaction—the Reformed Church, with its sleek white exterior and towering, slender steeple, had been reduced to a charred ruin. Only the concrete foundation and the chimney in the rector’s quarters remained intact; the rest was a jumble of smoking wreckage. Andi was unable to take her eyes off it as they drove by. They’d never been inside, but she had commented several times how beautiful she thought the building was.

A little farther on they saw the first signs of “legitimate” life—three men in boots, jeans, and plaid shirts, all wearing leather gloves and picking up glass from the shattered windows of the Passaic Valley Savings Bank. That’s where they kept the bulk of their money.

“I wonder if someone tried to rob it,” Andi said.

That piqued Chelsea’s interest, who strained against the seat belt to elevate herself for a better look. “Cool!”

“No, not cool,” her mother replied.

“Just
kidding
.”

“With all the cameras and the big door on that vault,” Dennis said quietly, “that’d be stupid.” He paused before continuing with, “Then again, lately a lot of people haven’t been, y’know.…”

He never took his eyes off the road, and Andi regretted saying anything. She was hoping to distract him. Now she realized he was in a state of mind where pretty much anything she said would be pulled in that direction.
Lately, a lot of people haven’t been … doing things they’d normally do.
…

They curved to the right and came to another intersection. Two vehicles—a newer Volkswagen Beetle and an aging pickup truck—had jumped the curb and were now sitting on someone’s front lawn. It appeared as though both had swerved to avoid each other, but the truck hit the Beetle on the passenger side. The latter was now tilted, the tires a few inches off the ground. The driver’s doors were wide open, but there was no one around.

When the light turned green and they began moving again, Andi felt a pins-and-needles sensation from top to bottom. Their street was the first one on the right, about a hundred yards up. She stole one more glance at her husband, who had become visibly more ashen in the last minute. His hands were trembling steadily, as if there were an uneven electrical current flowing through him.

They took the turn, which was smooth and easy because their street cut away at a forty-five degree angle. They were now in what Dennis called the Hall of Elms—some time in the 1940s, town officials planted saplings along many of the secondary roads as part of a community beautification project. The saplings had since matured to full size, their broad canopies blotting out most of the sunlight and forming shadowy corridors. The intended effect was to be quaint and picturesque, but the illusion had been somewhat compromised when many of the hulking roots began pushing up the sidewalk pavers.

“Diana!” Chelsea exclaimed, pointing to one of the first houses on the right. It was a smallish but nicely maintained Victorian that sat on one of the street’s few double lots. There was an in-ground pool in the back that, as far as Dennis and Andi could determine, Diana’s parents used more for bragging rights than actual swimming.

“Where?” Andi said, turning abruptly.

“No,” Chelsea replied. “That’s her house! I wonder if she’s home?”

They had two cars—the father’s black Jaguar and the mother’s green Range Rover—and only the Jag was parked in the driveway.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll try calling them later.”

“Okay.”

Andi was once again amazed by how easily Chelsea had shrugged off the whole experience. Just days earlier she was nose to nose with death, and now, with only the faintest traces of the infection remaining, she was acting as if it had never happened—just a minor bump on the road of life. Of course, they never told her how close they had all come to entering the Blessed Realm. But still, the naturally tempered resilience of her two children, and in fact of most children, was an endless source of fascination. Looking down at her hands and seeing the fading outlines of her own infection, she wondered if she would’ve reacted the same way when she was seven. Billy, two years younger, seemed even more indifferent. For him, it was as if none of it ever happened. Andi wondered if he’d even remember any of it in adulthood.

She was pulled out of these thoughts when Dennis sighed heavily and said under his breath, “Okay, here we go.…”

They passed through a four-way intersection and crossed onto their slice of the street. There were ten houses in total, five on each side, and they knew everyone well. Dennis suddenly took on the hunted expression of a fugitive, eyes wide and darting about restlessly. A phone pole had been broken about ten feet from the ground and was now supported only by its wires. The front door of one house was still wide open, although there were no cars in sight. In fact, there were no signs of life at all—no adults making repairs or walking their pets, no neighborhood children on bicycles, not even a solitary police car on slow patrol.
It’s still a ghost town,
Andi thought with tepid horror.