The Viral Epiphany

The Viral Epiphany

By

Richard McSheehy

Copyright © 2009 by Richard Brian McSheehy

For my wife, Pushpum, and for my sons,

Brian, Michael, and Justin

It was not a human eye that regarded the leaden sky that day, yet there was surely a sense of foreboding in the huge brain of the creature.
 
The frozen ground had preserved the footprints of the creature’s predecessors as they passed along the trail on an earlier, warmer migration.
 
Now, the mammoth traveled alone not knowing where it was going or why.
 
The vast herds of its youth were but a distant memory.
 
Walking the migration path southward, it was the sole survivor of a species doomed to extinction.
 
The wind was increasing out of the east but this was of no concern to the animal that carried a thick layer of subcutaneous fat beneath the dark brown hairs of its warm coat.
 
A single snowflake drifted and spun downward past the animal’s trunk and landed on the brown earth at its feet. It did not melt.

That single flake was followed by another and soon by many more.
 
Visibility decreased so much that the animal could not see more than the distance of its outstretched trunk.
 
Undeterred, the animal continued to follow in the footsteps of its vanished herd, footsteps that were rapidly filling with dry, windblown snow.
 
A cold yellow-white sun slipped beneath the low cloud layer and sunk below the horizon, momentarily shining a ray of light toward the mammoth.
 
The wind was increasing in strength and the animal could hear a steady roar in its ears.
 
With no light from stars or moon and snow falling furiously, the mammoth had to stop its journey and wait for the storm to abate.
 
Snow was accumulating on its back and clinging to its hair in icy clumps.

Major climactic changes were occurring that the mammoth could not comprehend.
 
This time of the year would usually be mild and rainy.
 
There would be abundant shrubs and leaves to eat.
 
Other animals would be competing for the same sources of food and there would also be the predators.
 
The mammoth could remember the fearsome fangs of the great saber-toothed cats that preyed on the herd.
 
By itself, it was no match for these giants and it was at ease, knowing that there was no sign of these animals.
 
Indeed, searching its memory, the mammoth could not remember having encountered one of these, or any of the other great mammals, for many years.
 
Something must have happened causing them to leave, or maybe they simply died out for reasons the mammoth would never know.

Standing completely still, the mammoth turned away from the wind and, using its trunk and front foot, tried to dig beneath the snowy surface to find the broad-bladed grass and leafy shrubs that still could be smelled by animals that had its keen olfactory capability.
 
After digging more than a foot through the snow, its trunk grasped a twig from a caragana shrub. Ripping it from the hardened soil, the animal gently placed it in its mouth and began chewing while searching for yet another morsel.
 
Food was not as easy to find as it had been only one season ago, but that was not the only thing that had changed.

For reasons it could not fathom, the herd had started dying.
 
The mammoth was keenly aware of the loss of its companions and leader.
 
The last member of the herd had died yesterday far back along the trail.
 
Perhaps out of instinct, or perhaps because there was no other alternative, the mammoth had continued walking, always heading south, still able to pick up the scent from last year’s migration, still able now and then to see a footprint preserved in the semi-frozen ground.
 
The mammoth had a sense, however, that its time was drawing to a close.
 
Something had killed the herd and it was inevitable that it would soon follow them.

The wind and snow began to diminish and the animal raised its head to look at a landscape that was stark in its emptiness.
 
The new fallen snow covered the low-lying bushes and meager grasses, filling the shallow depressions in the earth.
 
A dim north light shone through the broken clouds that scudded overhead, verifying for the mammoth that no other creature walked the migration trail.
 
It was, however, the silence that was most noticeable. Only the wind, lightly rustling the scrub trees, caused any motion to be seen or sound to be heard.

The lone creature began again to walk towards the south, towards memories of food and other mammoths.
 
Slowly, as if it knew its steps were in vain and its journey would never end, it placed one foot after another on the trail and gradually became a brownish blur in the distance and then finally a dark speck on the horizon.
 
While it walked, the clouds returned and soon the snow began falling again.
 
Lightly at first, and then more swiftly, the flakes fell to the already snow-covered earth making only the slightest sound, like the breathing of a newborn baby.
 
The wind had died completely and again the mammoth came to a halt, listening to the silences of the snow and the empty tundra.

Then it began again, the strange sound in its ears, like the swishing of trees on a spring day.
 
It began quietly and grew stronger, one heartbeat at a time.
 
Soon it became a roar, drowning out the sounds of the falling snow and the soft crunch of its own feet on the snowy earth.
 
The roaring sound in the animal’s ears grew louder, louder than any storm it had heard in its fifty-year life.
 
The mammoth briefly raised its head to look toward the sound and saw nothing.
 
However, somehow in the act of turning its head and looking back again, the mammoth became disoriented and dizzy.
 
It took a step forward and one of its front knees buckled.
 
Immediately it tried to straighten up, overcorrected and lurched to the right, falling on its side.
 
The rushing noise in its ears diminished and the soft snow soon made a warm blanket on the mammoth’s fur.
 
Feeling warm and tired the animal fell into a peaceful sleep, dreaming mammoth dreams of meadows and cool streams, and dreams of other mammoths it had seen years ago.

The storm raged on all night and the next day and the next night again.
 
The mammoth slept a sleep deeper than it had ever slept and then unaware of it happening, its dream and breath stopped forever.
 
Almost as soon as the storm stopped, another storm even colder and snowier began and then another and another. It was near the end of the last Ice Age, before the ascent of man, and the body of the mammoth remained where it had fallen for many thousands of subsequent years, preserved in snow and ice, waiting for a day to dawn in northern Siberia when once again its hair would wave under the light of a cold and distant sun.

           
The light of a half moon cast the fleeting shadows of low clouds on the tall, gray, stone towers and slate roofs of the buildings. The stately, gothic-inspired, classroom buildings and battlemented tower had been built in late 1840’s during the Great Famine under orders from Queen Victoria.
 
The workmen were paid fairly for their work during the years of construction and no doubt the Queen thought she had thereby sufficiently discharged her duties over her Irish subjects.
 
The quadrangle of buildings was named in her honor - Queen’s College Cork.

If there are ghosts in Ireland then surely they must visit this quadrangle on nights like this.
 
The fearsome
Sidhe
of the fairies and the spirits of Viking warriors, Norman conquerors, English soldiers, and the nine IRA volunteers who lie buried nearby on the campus where they were executed by the Black and Tans, all might come here on these dark, misty nights.

Perhaps the ghosts of the Irish rebels have been appeased, for their struggle for independence has been won and the college has been proudly renamed.
 
No longer Queen’s College, it is now
Coláiste na hOllscoile Corcaigh
, University College Cork.
 
Perhaps some of the old spirits of the ancient warriors have moved on to their Valhalla or the Heaven or Hell they deserve, but the
Sidhe
who have lived in the hills long before men came to the island will never rest, for
hEireann
has always been their land.
 
If there are any ghosts that still wander this land at night, it must be the
Sidhe
.

Alone in a ground floor office, Daniel Quinn, a thirty-one year old professor of biological physics and theoretical immunology, and a world-renowned expert on the mathematical foundations of biological processes, took another report from the stack of student papers on his desk and began reading. Outside his office
a long row of ancient standing Ogham stones, each with its own mysterious markings, lined the open-air passageway.
 
A slight breeze entered the archways and softly caressed the stones before exiting with only the slightest of nighttime murmurs.

A slight scraping sound, like the sound a rat makes when it is foraging inside a wall, interrupted his thoughts.
 
It was late, and Dan guessed there was no one left in the old building.
 
His regular office in the bioscience building was being repainted and, for this week, he was assigned to this unused, and by most, unwanted, office in the main administration building.
 
He had heard all the old ghost stories from his friends before he moved into the building, but he believed none of them.
 
There was no place for spirits in the world of science.

He heard the scraping sound a second time.
 
It definitely came from the direction of his closed office door.
 
Despite himself, the hairs on his arms stood up.
 
He looked at the door expectantly and then his eyes traveled down to the floor.
 
A large manila envelope had been slipped halfway under the door.
  
He thought he could hear footsteps quickly fading away down the corridor but then the sound simply stopped and all was quiet, save for the wind.
 
He shook his head while he got up to get the envelope.
 
Students,
he thought with a smile,
there’s always one who never gets his work in on time.
 
I wonder which one this is?

           
He opened the door, picked up the envelope, and read a name that he hadn’t seen or heard in years.
 

“Timothy!” he whispered to himself, looking back down the hallway.
 
There was no one to be seen.
 
Did he hear the faint sound of footsteps?
 
No, there was nothing.
 
He looked again at the envelope.
 
Timothy Harris had been his father’s closest friend when they had been graduate students in the States at MIT.
 
Tim had received his doctorate in electrical engineering and later, when Dan had been born, Tim was proud to have become Dan’s godfather.
 
When he was growing up, Tim had been the epitome of the perfect godfather.
 
They had gone fishing to the lakes together, had taken trips to the local Gaelic games together, and had even shopped for a puppy together.

One day Tim had called his father and said he was seriously looking at taking a job in the United States.
 
It would be a very important, highly classified project, but he felt it could have a major impact on the world.
 
It was the kind of science he had always wanted to do, but there was a catch.
 
It wasn’t just a classified program; it was an ultra black program. It didn’t officially exist and neither would Tim.
 
He would receive a new identity and be relocated to a remote test site that he had never seen before.
 
But the real shock came when Tim said to his father,

“Jack, I can’t be Dan’s godfather anymore and I’ll never see either of you ever again.
 
It’s that secret.
 
Take care of him; take care of yourself.” Tim had simply hung up and, as Tim had predicted, they never heard from him again.

Daniel opened the envelope, pulled out the contents, and began to read.

Dear Daniel,

           
I’m dead.
 
What a strange thing that is to write!
 
But if you’re reading this it must be true.
 
Dan, I don’t know where to begin.
 
I have to tell you something, something that I have carried as a terrible burden for many years.
 
I know we haven’t seen each other since – well, I guess since before your father died.
 
That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
 
He was a good friend of mine and you were always very special to me too.
 
I’m rambling here aren’t I?
 
Well, let me get right to the point then.

           
After I left Ireland I worked for a very secret U.S. government agency that was working with an agency called the Atomic Energy Commission.
 
It’s now called the Department of Energy (sounds less threatening doesn’t it?).
 
I guess you know the AEC conducted quite a few nuclear tests in the U.S. and in the Pacific.
 
What you probably don’t know is that those tests spawned a top secret project code-named Maelstrom.
 
It’s what they call an ultra black program.
 
It
doesn’t officially exist.
 
I’ve been sworn to secrecy until I die.
 
But, I guess I’m released now aren’t I?

           
In my will, I have arranged for my executors to deliver to you a series of highly classified letters detailing some of the findings of Maelstrom.
 
I have to get this awful burden off my chest and Dan, I think you are the right person to tell; you see, I am aware of your specialization in advanced immunology.
 
Dan,
something has to be done.
 
They need to be stopped.

           
The first letter is included here.
 
You’ll get the remaining ones in a little while.
 
It’ll give you time to think and investigate.
 
Don’t let me down, Dan.

           
Yours faithfully,

P.S.
  
One more thing, don’t trust anyone who says they’re from Omega.
 
They are not what they seem to be.

TOP SECRET

MAELSTROM