End of Days

 

 

 

 

Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac

The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.

(translated from its original French)

 

Diary Entry: December 20, 1347

(recorded in Avignon, France)

 

Death advances upon the world.

For a year now, its shadow has moved west from China across the Asian continent. It has infiltrated Persia through the Mongolian trade routes and infected the Mediterranean seaports. Villagers fleeing the Great Mortality report tales of horror one-noxious breath and another is felled, one touch of infected blood and sickness takes an entire family to the grave. God’s wrath is nowhere and everywhere at once, and there seems no escape.

Word of a spreading sickness reached Europe after the Mongolian army lay siege on Caffa (translator’s note: Present-day Feodosiya, a Black Sea port in south Russia). The invaders must have brought the sickness with them, for on the dawn of victory they became so ill they were forced to retreat over the Eurasian steppe . . . but not before they poisoned Caffa with the remains of their dead, tossing the infected bodies over the city’s fortifications.

As the chief physician to Pope Clement VI, I have been tasked with tracking the plague’s advancement. Caffa is a major seaport. Based on our most recent reports, I have surmised that sometime in the late spring of this year, sailors infected with plague left Caffa aboard Genoese merchant ships, bound for the Mediterranean Sea and Europe. Mariners practice costeggiare, a method of sailing that keeps them in perpetual sight of the coastline. Stops would be frequent, allowing the sickness to spread from port to port. One of the infected Genoese ships apparently reached Constantinople sometime last summer. Like Caffa, the Great Mortality spread quickly through the city. A personal contact, a Venetian physician I trained with at the University of Bologna, sent word to the Holy See that the streets in Constantinople were littered with the dead and dying. His letter describes high fever, a coughing of blood, and a stench that reeks of death. Welts soon appear, red at first, then swelling to black, some as large as a ripe apple. With each new dawn, the physician found another dozen infected, by sunset he buried another family member or neighbor until the despair and fear became so overwhelming that he had to flee Constantinople altogether. His description of a surviving father being too afraid to bury his own child brought tears.

By late summer, the papacy learned that the pestilence had advanced as far south as Persia, Egypt, and the Levant, and as far north as Poland, Bulgaria, Cyprus, Greece, and Romania. While these reports cannot be verified, all of us live in fear of Death’s impending arrival.

On 14 November, the Pope summoned me to his chambers to inform me that plague had struck Sicily. The Holy See’s contact, a Franciscan friar named Michele da Piazza, claimed the sickness arrived on European shores a week after twelve Genoese galleys made port early in October. Belowdecks were found dozens of dead crewmen—all infected. Those still alive entered Messina, spreading the sickness to everyone they came in contact with before they, too, died. The friar reported black boils on the necks and groins of the inflicted, along with the coughing of blood and fever, usually followed by violent, incessant vomiting. Within days of being infected, every victim had died.

My own dread is compounded by anger. Despite the approaching Death, the Holy See remains more occupied by its ongoing feud with the King of England, who seeks to rule the Iberian Peninsula one French coastal city at a time; as well as Clement’s ongoing quarrel with Rome, from which the papacy was removed several Popes past.

It is inarguable that the greed of an elite few has kept Europe cast in decades of endless war. Corruption has taken the Church, and the people have lost trust. Bouts of famine continue to ravage the countryside,—a result of decades of failing crops due to incessantly harsh weather conditions that began when I was but a child.

Many say we are cursed, suffering God’s wrath. I say our corruption, greed, and hatred for our fellowman, spewed through religious dogma, has paved the way for our own self-destruction.

Decadence now rules the Palais des Papes, war the papal states. Roving bands of condottieri attack Europe’s villages, while the fortified cities have become cesspools of neglect. Influenced by politics, the Holy See has ruled it a sin to bathe, its orthodoxy backed by a conservative medical faculty of Paris, their determination made not on scientific fact but by their desire to remain in conflict with the more liberal traditions of Rome and Greece, who consider personal hygiene a cardinal virtue.

There is nothing virtuous about living in Avignon, where the commoner shares a bedchamber with his livestock. Each day, animals are slaughtered in the public streets by butchers, the blood and feces left to feed the flies and rodents. Rats are everywhere, their scourge feasting in the filth of Avignon and Paris and every city under the influence of the Holy See, overwhelming the homes of peasants in the countryside.

It is amid this stench of corruption that the Black Death approaches our once-great city.

May God have mercy on our souls.

 

–Guigo

 

Editor’s Note:

Guy de Chauliac, also known as Guido de Cauliaco, was attending physician to five Popes during the late thirteenth century and is regarded as the most important surgical writer of the Middle Ages. His major work, Inventarium sive Chirurgia Magna (The Inventory of Medicine), remained the principal didactic text on surgery until the eighteenth century.

 

 

 

 

“Well, I just got into town about an hour ago . . .

Took a look around, see which way the wind blow

Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows

Are you a lucky little lady in the city of light,

Or just another lost angel . . . city of night

City of night, city of night, city of night . . .”

—The Doors, “L.A. Woman”

 

 

 

 

BIO-WARFARE PHASE I: INSEMINATION

December 20

New York City

8:19 a.m.

(23 hours, 44 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

Manhattan: an island Mecca, surrounded by water.

The Harlem River rolled south past the Bronx, widening into the East River—whitecapped behind a fierce four-knot current. The Statue of Liberty beckoned to travelers across New York Harbor. Farther north, the waterway became the mighty Hudson, the river separating the Big Apple from the northeastern shoreline of New Jersey.

Urban waters, frigid and gray. Eye candy to Realtors and sightseers. Ignored on a daily basis by commuters, nature’s barrier neutered by a dozen bridges and tunnels.

Not today.

A winter sun splashed Manhattan’s skyline in fleeting shimmers of gold. Endless construction slowed traffic to a crawl. Tempers flared. Ten thousand new text messages launched into cyberspace. Steam rose from grates. Islands of heat drew the homeless like moths to a flame. Their indignity ignored by waves of pedestrians. Like the rivers.

Cold bit at exposed earlobes, sniffling noses. Last night’s snow, already trampled into slush. Christmas trees. Festive lights. The scent of hot Danish and cinnamon.

Thursday before Christmas. The approaching holiday energized Manhattan’s returning workforce. Human sardines packed subways and trains. Half a million vehicles turned highways into rush-hour parking lots. Deal makers and hustlers. Shoppers and sellers. Lawyers and layman and parents escorting children to school. Fueled on caffeine and dreams and survival instincts honed after years in the urban jungle. Two million visitors entered Manhattan every day. Add to that figure another 1.7 million residents—all sharing twenty-eight square miles of island.

One hundred thousand human beings occupying every frozen city block. Good and bad, old and young; men, women, and children, representing every age group and nationality on the planet. A slice of humanity, poised on a precipice too large to comprehend, their indifference to the world’s plight soiling any innocence, their deniability culpable.

No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.

Commuters inched their way west across the congested Queensboro Bridge—rats preparing to enter the maze. Ignore the drivers whose vehicles bear tri-state tags. Focus instead on the white Honda Civic with the Virginia license plate. The car was a rental, the driver an academic who had always preferred the suburbs to the temptations of big-city life. Yet here she was, having driven all night just to be in Manhattan on this chilly Thursday morning at this precise moment in human history. A virgin to New York, one might expect a case of rush-hour jitters. But the smile on Mary Louise Klipot’s angular face was serene, the thirty-eight-year-old cranberry-apple redhead exuding a calm that only came through inner peace. Hazel eyes, void of makeup and rimmed red from lack of sleep, glanced at the gridlocked drivers to her left. Troubled faces all, she told herself, bearing the constant fear that came from uncertainty.

Mary Klipot was neither afraid nor uncertain. She was in a place beyond worry, beyond the human stain. Faith was a wellspring that drove her convictions, and it ran deep, for she was traveling along a road paved by the Almighty Himself—

—and she was traveling with His child.

Of course, Andrew had tried to convince her otherwise, her fiancé insisting that he was her unborn child’s father. His argument held no sway, coerced by his clear intent to sell Scythe to the military, or to the intelligence community, or to some other rogue black ops group vested in its own geopolitical perversions. Did he think the microbiologist a fool? Baby Jesus his? When had this supposed “act of copulation” taken place? Why couldn’t she remember it?

Having forced the Devil to show his hand, her “betrothed” had spewed a tale of desperation, claiming that they had slept together back in March while vacationing in Cancún. Frustrated sexually, Andrew admitted having slipped a little something into Mary’s rum and cola, unleashing her libido’s bursting dam. It had been a wild night of passion and lust—that Mary had no recollection of the event having more to do with her not wanting to remember than the benign chemical concoction he had used on her.

The poisonous lie had cost Andrew dearly. Having bound her fiancé to the old barn’s center post, she poured acid over his wrists and handcuffs, clear up to his elbows. He had screamed until he passed out, the dilapidated structure’s heavy interior walls dampened the sound, the nearest neighbor more than half a mile away.

Resecuring him to the structure’s center post, she had waited patiently for him to awaken. Finally, she had prodded him with the business end of the 12 gauge.

“Darling Andrew, open your eyes. Mama has something for you.”

The blast had splattered brains and blood and skull shrapnel across the entire back wall and rafters, the heavy jolt spraining her right shoulder, causing Baby Jesus to kick for ten straight minutes. She had rested in the manger until he calmed, then she cleansed the barn with fire, sending her fiancé on his one-way journey to oblivion. Mary had remained behind long enough to convince the local firefighters to allow the ancient structure to burn itself out, then she treated herself to a lobster dinner at the Benito Grill before heading off to her bio lab at Fort Detrick to pack.

The news came on the radio, beckoning her attention.

. . . world leaders clearly divided on how to deal with Iran, arriving in New York for an emergency session of the UN Security Council. Iran’s Supreme Leader is scheduled to address the Security Council in General Assembly Hall at 9:15 this morning. President Kogelo’s address is tentatively scheduled for 10:30, followed by China’s General Secretary later this afternoon. Meanwhile, the US aircraft carrier, Theodore Roosevelt is expected to join the USS Ronald Reagan battle group already in the Persian Gulf—a direct response to the sale of Russian-made ICBMs to Iran on August 9. Now back to more music on WABC New York.”

Mary powered off the radio, her heart beating faster as she exited the Queensboro Bridge to FDR Drive South—the United Nations complex situated somewhere up ahead. Today she would teach the elitists a lesson. Today they would fully comprehend the meaning of Matthew 5:5. “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”

She glanced at the pile of blankets laid neatly on the passenger-side floor, fighting the urge to pull aside the wool camouflage and gaze upon the hidden object—a metal briefcase containing her key to the Pearly Gates. In God’s time, Mary. The Lord will be with you when you need Him. Don’t anticipate the pain. Focus only on the present . . .

 

VA Medical Center

Manhattan, New York

 

Lost in the past, Patrick Shepherd dreamed . . .

They are moving down the streets of Baghdad, David Kantor on his right, Eric Lasagna on his left. Three Pied Pipers, followed by a dozen Iraqi children begging for handouts.

David pauses, allowing the young horde to circle his fellow soldiers. “Either of you two ever see Moby Dick?”

“I have,” answers Lasagna. “Gregory Peck as Ahab. Classic.”

“Remember when Ahab told his men to watch the birds, that the birds would tell them when Moby Dick was getting ready to breach? The locals are your birds. They usually sense when trouble is going to happen, so if you see them vacate the street, be ready. The kids are great, just be careful. Fanatics sometimes strap bombs to them, forcing them to approach our troops.”

A bright-eyed, dark-haired seven-year-old girl smiles at Shep, clearly flirting. Reaching into his knapsack, he removes an MRE, the presence of the recognizable portable meal generating excitement. “Okay, let’s see what Uncle Sam has given us today. Anyone interested in two-day-old beef ravioli? No? Can’t say I blame you. Wait, what’s this? M&Ms!”

The children jump and wave and call out in Farsi.

Shep distributes three boxes worth of the chocolate candies so that each child gets an equal share, saving the last double portion for the smiling seven-year-old girl.

She consumes the handful in one palm-sized mouthful, chocolate saliva oozing from her grinning lips. Shep watches her, lost in her big brown eyes—windows to a soul that has witnessed so much pain yet can still lose itself in innocence.

His new friend beams a muddy chocolate smile. She blows him a kiss and runs off—

—her exit ending his momentary reprieve in the eye of the storm, returning him to war.

 

Morningside Heights

Upper West Side, Manhattan

8:36 a.m.

 

The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, situated on thirteen acres just south of Columbia University’s main campus, was the largest cathedral in the world. Built on a promontory overlooking the Hudson River, the Romanesque-Byzantine structure was designed in 1887, yet still remained unfinished.

Pankaj Patel paused on Amsterdam Avenue to gaze at the illustrious House of God. The cathedral was decorated in holiday lights, yet Patel felt anything but festive. It has been more than three months since the professor of psychiatry was accepted into the Society of the Nine Unknown Men, and the stress associated with the clandestine encounter with the Elder still weighed on his mind.

He stared at the cathedral’s Fountain of Peace, its surrounding lawn carpeted white with snow, encircled by bronze animal figures. The detailed carvings depicted the epic struggle of good versus evil—the archangel Michael decapitating Satan, whose horned head hung to one side. One more day until the winter solstice . . . the day of the dead. If the End of Days is really upon us . . .

“Dad, come on! I’m going to be late for our holiday party.”

His attention turned to his ten-year-old daughter, Dawn. The girl’s long onyx hair, separated into braids, hung over her winter coat, her dark angelic eyes exuding a combination of anxiety and impatience. “I’m sorry. Was I lost in space again?”

“Totally.” Tugging him by his wrist, she led him toward the entrance of the Cathedral School, a kindergarten-through-eighth-grade elementary school for children of all faiths. “Remember, I’m staying after school for band practice. See you at dinner.”

“Wait!” Catching up with her on the frost-covered lawn, he bent down on one knee. “You know I love you. You are God’s gift to your mother and me, our little angel.”

“Dad”—she touched his cheek with her wool-covered fingers—“now your knee’s all wet.”

With a heavy heart, he watched his only child hustle to join the other children converging upon the school entrance. Brushing at the wet stain on his right pant leg, he continued up Amsterdam Avenue to Columbia University’s East Campus.

 

Lower East Side, Manhattan

8:44 a.m.

 

Mary Klipot’s arms trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, her white-knuckled hands clenching the rosary beads. The bumper-to-bumper traffic on First Avenue had not budged in ten minutes, and the police presence along the adjacent United Nations Plaza was everywhere.

Her eyes darted from the digital clock on the dashboard to her rearview mirror. She stared at the four-foot-tall skeleton doll buckled into the back-seat, the figure dressed in a bridal gown and wearing a red wig that matched her own hair. “Santa Muerte, I’m running out of time. Guide me, Angel. Show me the way.”

Moments passed. Then the two lanes on her left miraculously surged forward. She swerved over from her right lane, skidded briefly on a patch of ice, then turned onto East 45^th Street, in desperate search of a parking space.

The traffic crawled west, crossing Second Avenue. The parking garages were all full, the snow-piled curbs off-limits. The digital clock advanced to 8:54 a.m. She slapped her palms in frustration on the steering wheel, shattering the rosary beads in the process.

This is no good. You’re heading too far west.

The baby kicked in her belly as she turned right on Third Avenue, then right again on 46^th Street. Having looped around the block, she was once more heading east in the direction of the United Nations Plaza. She crossed over Second Avenue, her pulse pounding in her temples. Don’t get stuck on First Avenue again or you’ll be late. She glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Please skinny girl, help me find a place to park.”

The alley on her left was so narrow she nearly passed it. Nestled between two high-rise buildings, it was an alcove reserved only for deliveries. She turned down the path, following it sixty feet until it dead-ended at a steel trash bin.

Cloaked in shadows, allowing for privacy while still within walking distance of the UN—perfect! “Thank you, Santa Muerte. Bless you, my Angel.”

The no parking—violators towed signs were posted everywhere, but she would only be ten minutes, fifteen at the most, and besides, God had led her here, He would never abandon her now. She parked in front of the immense brown trash bin, turning off the car’s engine.

It was time.

Mary pulled away the wool blankets stacked on the passenger-side floor, revealing the metallic attaché case. A biohazard warning label adorned its smooth surface, the USAMRIID logo embellished with a silver scythe.

She pulled the attaché case onto her lap. Turned her attention to its combination lock. Maneuvered the seven digits to 1266621 then flicked open the twin latches.

The steel locks popped open—

—tripped a microcircuit that sent a remote electronic signal to a secured receiver located 245 miles to the south.

 

US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID)

Fort Detrick—Frederick, Maryland

8:56 a.m.

 

The biodefense laboratories located at USAMRIID were the largest and best equipped of the three facilities in the United States designated to handle highly hazardous microbes. Expanded in 2008, Fort Detrick’s campus now included the National Biodefense Analysis & Countermeasures Center (NBACC), a billion-dollar, 160,000-square-foot complex operated under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security. The new facility housed approximately sixty thousand square feet of Bio-Safety Level-4 labs, designed to allow researchers to work with the most dangerous germs known in existence.

Dr. Lydia Gagnon’s office was located in Building 1425 on the National Interagency Biodefense Campus (NIBC), one of the original facilities still in use. The pathologist from Ontario finished her second Pepsi of the morning, allowed herself one more minute before she had to leave for her nine o’clock staff meeting. She was in the middle of reading a personal e-mail from her sister when the Internet screen abruptly shut down.

attention: level-4 biohazard breach

The warning flashed over and over, the encrypted message prompting her to enter her security code. She typed in the seven-digit identification number and read, her blue eyes widening in fear behind her prescription glasses. After thirty seconds, she grabbed her office phone and dialed a three-digit extension.

“This is Gagnon in the NIBC. We have a Level-4 biohazard breach—repeat, we have a Level-4 biohazard breach. I want two A.I.T.s on the helodeck ready to deploy in six minutes. Tell Colonel Zwawa I’m on my way up!”

 

Lower East Side, Manhattan

8:56 a.m.

 

Mary Klipot opened the metal case, revealing molded foam compartments. There were three items secured inside: An inhaler designed to fit over the nose and mouth, an aerosol injector attachment, and a three-ounce glass vial containing a clear liquid, its capped top sealed with an orange biohazard sticker.

Methodical now, she removed the empty aerosol injector. Unscrewed its top. Placed it in one of the molded compartments so it stood upright. Carefully, she removed the glass vial. Peeled away the decal. Gently poured a single fluid ounce into the bottom of the empty aerosol dispenser.

A breath to calm her nerves. Then she reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a Plexiglas test tube containing a chalky gray substance. A genetic modifier: The X factor of her labors. She unscrewed the cap, which doubled as the handle to a tiny internal measuring scoop the size of a head of a tack. She filled the scoop with the gray powder. Tapped off the excess. Added the scoop to the clear liquid in the aerosol dispenser, then capped the test tube and placed it in an open foam compartment. Replaced the aerosol dispenser’s lid and gave the sealed ingredients a dozen delicate shakes. Satisfied, she attached the dispenser to the inhaler, then laid the device on the foam padding.

She checked the clock: 8:59 a.m.

From her purse she removed the envelope containing the forged United Nations identification card. Mary glanced at her photo, now assigned the name: Dr. Bogdana Petrova, Russian embassy. Dr. Petrova had been a microbiologist. Mary had met her at an international convention seven years ago in Brussels. Bogdana’s remains had turned up six weeks later in a trash bin in Moscow, her death blamed on an Internet date gone bad.

We’ll get them back for what they did to you, Dana. For what they did to all our colleagues.

She slipped the shoestring attached to the fake identification card over her head, then picked up the inhaler. Her heart pounded, her hand trembled. This is it, Mary, this is why you were chosen. Scythe can’t hurt the baby, you’ve already inoculated the placenta, but it must be properly inseminated to summon the Rapture.

Staring at the red-wigged Grim Reaper doll in the rearview mirror, she recited the ninth passage from the nine-day cycle of prayers to Santisima Muerte, taken from the novena booklet she received in Mexico two months earlier. “Blessed Protector Death: By the virtues that God gave you, I ask that you free me from all evil, danger, and sickness, and that instead, you give me luck, health, happiness, and money, that you give me friends and freedom from my enemies, also making Jesus, the father of my child, come before me, humble as a sheep, keeping His promises and always being loving and submissive. Amen.”

She pressed the inhaler over her nose and mouth. Squeezing the trigger, she inhaled the pungent elixir deep into her lungs.

The deed over, she laid her head back. Her heart beat wildly. Her eyelids fluttered. Her body quivered with adrenaline.

The internal voice, suppressed by the meds, now urged her haste.

She exited the car, slammed the door, and locked it before remembering the telltale metal attaché case. Clicking the keyless entry, she opened the door and grabbed the case, stomping her feet in the slush-covered street to keep her full bladder under control in the twenty-seven-degree chill.

She looked around, desperate. The dumpster beckoned. She tossed the attaché case inside and hurried off. The case popped open as it landed inside the empty steel bin with a loud crash.

She hustled out of the alley. Turned left, headed east on 46^th Street.

Bubonic Mary quickened her pace as the infectious combination of toxins quickly seeped through her bloodstream.

 

VA Medical Center

Manhattan, New York

9:03 a.m.

 

Leigh Nelson sat behind her desk, sipping the microwave-heated cup of coffee. Thursday morning, no reprimands. Her coat remained on, her bones still chilled from the four-block walk. Thirty degrees out, ten with the windchill, and they have to pick today to start construction on the staff parking lot.

Opening her laptop, she logged onto the Internet and checked her e-mail, progressively deleting the obvious spam. She stopped at the subject line: lost person inquiry and clicked on the e-mail.

 

Dr. Nelson:

 

Thank you for your inquiry regarding the whereabouts of BEATRICE SHEPHERD, age 30–38, ONE CHILD (female) age 14–16. TOP 5 Search States Requested: NY. NJ. CT. MA. PA. The following positive matches were found:

Manhattan, New York: Ms. Beatrice Shepherd

Vineland, New Jersey: Mrs. Beatrice Shepherd

See also: Mrs. B. Shepherd (NY - 4)

Mrs. B. Shepherd (NJ - 1)

Mrs. B. Shepherd (MA - 6)

Mrs. B. Shepherd (PA - 14)

To provide you with the highest-quality results, we suggest our LEVEL 2 Detective Service. Fee: $149.95.

Nelson’s eyes locked onto the Manhattan match. She clicked on the link:

 

Shepherd, Beatrice—201 West Thames Street, Battery Park City, NY. Daughter: Karen (age unknown).

Phone: (212) 798-0847 (new listing)

Marital Status: Married (separated)

Click for MAP:

 

She printed the information. Checked the time. Cursing under her breath, she grabbed her clipboard and headed out, ten minutes late for her morning rounds.

The sound of catcalls and hollering could be heard clear down the hall. Leigh Nelson quickened her pace into a jog, bursting through the double doors of Ward 27.

The veterans were chanting from their beds. Those with hands were clenching fistfuls of money, those without were just as animated. At the center of the spectacle was Alex Steven Timmer, a US Marine Corps veteran. The single-leg amputee was balancing on his right leg and left prosthetic, a baseball bat cocked over his right shoulder. The breakfast tray by his feet served as home plate, a mattress leaning against the bathroom door was the backstop. An aluminum bedpan tied around the mattress was the strike zone, one baseball already caught in its well.

On the other side of the ward, standing in the center aisle sixty feet away, was Patrick Shepherd. Strangely imposing. A baseball gripped loosely in his right paw.

“What the hell is going on in here? This is a hospital ward, not Yankee Stadium!”

The men grew quiet. Shep looked away.

Master Sergeant Rocky Trett addressed the angry woman from his bed. “Timmer played college baseball for the Miami Hurricanes. Claims he hit .379 in the College World Series and that Shep couldn’t strike him out on his best day. Naturally, we felt a wager was in order.”

“Come on, Pouty Lips, give us two more pitches so we can finish the bet!”

“Yeah!” The men started cheering again.

Alex Timmer nodded at the brunette. “Two more pitches, Doc. Let us settle this like men.”

“Two more pitches! Two more pitches! Two more pitches!”

“Enough!” She looked around, measuring her patients’ needs against the reality of losing her job. “Two more pitches. Then I want everything back to normal.”

The men cheered wildly as she walked down the center aisle to speak with Patrick. “Can you even throw a baseball with only one arm? Won’t you lose your balance?”

“I’m okay. Sort of been practicing in the basement.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Timmer. “He looks like he can hit. Can you get him out without breaking anything?”

Shep offered a wry smile.

“Strangler! Strangler! Strangler!”

“Two pitches.” She took cover behind the nurses’ station alongside Amanda Gregory. The nurse offered a shrug. “Could be worse. At least they’re not thinking about the war.”

Alex Timmer pointed his bat at Shep, Babe Ruth style. “Bring it, hotshot. Right over the plate.”

Shep turned away, adjusting his grip on the ball, using his upper thigh as leverage. Unable to maintain his balance in a full windup, he had to pitch from the stretch. He set himself, then, ignoring the batter, focused his eyes on the target. His left leg kicked, driving his knee up to his chest before extending forward into a powerful stride that simultaneously unfurled his right arm, a slingshot that hurled a spinning white blur through the air down the center aisle past the flummoxed batter a full second before he completed his awkward uppercut of a swing, the two-seam fastball denting the bedpan at its center point.

Strike two.

The men went crazy. Money was exchanged, a few tempers flared—the batter’s among them. “One more, Shepherd, give me one more fastball. You’d better duck, this one’s coming back up the middle.”

Shep retrieved the last ball from one of the veterans. He set a slightly different grip on the seams, his expression rivaling the best poker faces in Vegas.

Nothing changed. Not the speed of the delivery or the angle of his arm or the release—just the grip. The white Taser flew past a sea of steel beds en route to the makeshift plate and the awaiting batter before the baseball suddenly nosedived into a breaking slider that slipped ten inches beneath Alex Timmer’s whirling lumber—his swing rendered so violently off kilter that it corkscrewed the one-legged veteran 360 degrees. Ash wood met prosthetic leg, the device shattering into shards of aluminum and steel, landing Timmer hard on his buttocks. He howled as a slice of metal punctured his left butt cheek.

Silence stole across the crowd. Dr. Nelson stood by the nurses’ station, her complexion as pale as her lab coat.

“Damn it, Shepherd! I waited eight months for this leg! Eight months! Now what am I supposed to do?”

Shep shrugged. “Next time, bunt.”

The men whooped and hollered with laughter.

Grabbing the closest walker, the one-legged man pulled himself off the linoleum floor and limped up the aisle, intent on assaulting the one-armed man. Dr. Nelson remained frozen in place, watching dumbfounded as her interns hurried to intervene.

Her pager reverberated in her pocket. She fumbled for the instrument. Read the text message:

the vips have arrived.

United Nations Plaza

9:06 a.m.

 

Her leap of faith was waning, replaced by a sense of dread. Heaviness weighed in her lungs. Nausea rose in her stomach. A dull pain took root in her temples, the headache made worse by the incessant ringing of bells. The Christmas sound grew louder as she approached the crossroad of 46^th Street and First Avenue, the United Nations Plaza looming into view.

Heath Shelby stopped ringing the bell. Pulling off one glove, he scratched his face beneath the annoying Santa Claus beard. A freelance writer, Shelby also did voice-over for local radio spots. He had been a volunteer with the Salvation Army for two years—one of his wife Jennifer’s requirements when she agreed to uproot their family from Arkansas.

Heath had no problem with charity work. The Salvation Army provided emergency services and hot meals to the less fortunate, along with gifts to children on Christmas. What he hated was wearing the cumbersome fat suit and the itchy white beard and the imitation-leather Santa boots that offered little to no insulation against the frozen sidewalk. He had been standing on the corner with his donation pot and bell since seven o’clock this morning. His feet and lower back ached. Worse, his throat was getting sore. With three new radio spots set up for next week, the last thing he needed now was a cold.

Screw this. Toss a twenty in the bucket and call it a day. Better yet, catch a cab down to Battery Park and work on the boat. A few more hours of repairs and she should be seaworthy. Can’t wait to see Collin’s face . . . kid hasn’t been fishing since we left Possum Grape. Pick up another case of fiberglass resin before you head over and—

Ignoring the flashing do not walk sign, the pregnant redhead stepped off the curb and into traffic. A horn blared. The taxi skidded—

—Heath grabbed the woman by her elbow, dragging her out of harm’s way. “You okay?”

Mary looked up at Santa Claus, dumbfounded. “I can’t be late.”

“Late’s better than dead. You gotta watch the signs. Are you sure you’re all right? You look kind of pale.”

Mary nodded. Coughing violently, she rooted through her coat pocket, tossed loose change and lint into Santa’s bucket. The light turned green again, and she followed a fresh wave of pedestrians across the First Avenue intersection.

Looming ahead, rising from what had once been the north lawn, was the new United Nations Conference Building, still partially under construction. On its right was the Secretariat Building, its gleaming green glass and marble facade towering thirty-eight stories, its lower floors connecting it with the old Conference Building, the South Annex, the library . . . and her target—the General Assembly Building.

Mary stared at the curved rectangular structure and its central-roof dome. Just like in my dreams. She followed the sidewalk to the plaza, shocked to see the size of the awaiting flock.

A thousand protesters infested the Dag Hammarskjöld eighteen-acre plaza. Tea baggers. Picket signs. Chants over bullhorns. Encouraged by a dozen film crews recording everything for the News at Noon. So dense was this sea of humanity that Mary could barely gauge her surroundings. She was aiming for the General Assembly Building and its barricade of policemen in riot gear when white specks of light impeded her vision, churning the nausea mustering in her gut.

Must hurry now, before the bacilli enter my liver and spleen.

She cloaked her mouth and nose with her wool scarf, guarding her protruding belly with her free arm as she pushed through the crowd. Unseen elbows collided with her shoulders and skull. The gray winter sky disappeared behind a wall of humanity that jostled her to the cold pavement and swallowed her whole. On hands and knees, she emerged at the barricade, her cries for assistance silenced by the overwhelming decibel level of the crowd. Desperate, she regained her feet, shoving her identification badge at the row of helmets and body armor forming the gauntlet.

Mucus thickened in her lungs. A fit of coughs took her as the crowd surged at her back and she went down again, pushed beneath the wood obstruction.

A police officer dragged her to her feet, his brass tag identifying him as beck. He was shouting to her, pulling her on his side of the barricade, and suddenly she could see again.

“Go!” He pointed to the entrance.

Mary waved her thanks and hurried to the next security checkpoint, the pathogen raging through her body.

 

USAMRIID MEDEVAC Units Alpha & Delta

187 miles southwest of Manhattan

9:07 a.m.

 

The two Sikorsky UH-60Q Blackhawk helicopters soared over rural Maryland, their airspeeds approaching 150 knots. Each Aeromedical Isolation Team (A.I.T.) was equipped with a portable biohazard containment laboratory and mobile patient transportation isolator. The flight crew included an Army physician, a nurse, and three medics. The other members of these rapid response teams were Special Ops officers trained to deal with lethal contagious diseases, biological weapons, and patient isolation—the latter often the determining factor in whether a local population lived or died.

In charge of the two chopper response teams were Captains Jay and Jesse Zwawa, both men younger brothers of Colonel John Zwawa, USAMRIID’s commanding officer. Jay Zwawa, the Alpha Team field commander, was an Army veteran who had served three years in Iraq. Known in his barracks as “Z” or the “Polish Pimp Dog,” Jay stood six feet four inches and weighed an imposing 260 pounds. Covered in tattoos, the former Army sniper was a certified Gatling gun operator and diesel engine mechanic, and had earned a reputation as a practical jokester. When riled, however, Z had been known to knock out with one punch anyone who challenged him.

Younger brother Jesse was smaller than his two older brothers but was considered the smartest of the three Zwawa boys, at least by their sister, Christine. The two A.I.T. commanders were situated in the cargo hold of the lead chopper, assisting one another into their Racal suits—orange polyvinyl chloride protective garments possessing sealed hoods and self-powered breathing systems. The Zwawa siblings knew their destination but had not been briefed on the nature of the mission. Whatever older brother John had in mind, the colonel was taking no chances. The two crews flying into Manhattan were heavily armed, with orders that allowed them to supersede the police department, fire and rescue, and all branches of local government.

 

9:11 a.m.

 

The detail of armed guards stood at attention in front of the door to the General Assembly Hall, where the Security Council was meeting to accommodate all those who wished to attend. Mary rocked back on her heels, waiting while her forged identification card was scrutinized by a UN security officer. His partner searched her purse.

“Thank you, Dr. Petrova. Arms up, please, I need to pat you down for weapons.” He hesitated to touch her swollen belly.”

“It’s okay, he likes you.” She took the police officer’s hand and pressed it to her stomach in time to feel the baby kick.

“Wow, that’s . . . that’s amazing.” He turned to his partner. “She’s cleared, let her through.” The officer handed her back the laminated card, never questioning her phony Russian accent or the fact that she was pale and sweating profusely, her perspiration giving off a soured musk.

The auditorium was buzzing, its capacity crowd waiting to hear from Iran’s Supreme Leader. Mary weaved down one of the main aisles. Through watering eyes, she gazed at the stage. A mural of a phoenix rising from the battlefield served as the backdrop to a specially installed horseshoe configuration of chairs, all surrounding a rectangular table reserved for the fifteen members of the Security Council.

I am the phoenix rising . . .

The chamber spun. Mary shook her head, fighting to maintain control. Inseminate the carriers. She coughed phlegm into each palm. Innocently touched a French delegate as she squeezed past his table. Infested England and Denmark with a sneeze. Coughed in the direction of Brazil and Bulgaria. Cut back across another aisle and headed for a table of Arabs in dark business suits. A placard identified them as Iraqis.

Onstage, the Iranian mullah took his place at the podium, his words simultaneously translated into dozens of languages via headphones. “Excellencies, I come to you today in the hopes of averting a conflict that will lead to another war. I plead my case to the General Assembly, knowing that the Security Council has been corrupted by the occupiers of Afghanistan and Iraq . . .”

Mary tapped the shoulder of an Iraqi delegate heading for his seat. “Please? Where is the Iranian delegation?”

The dead-man-walking glanced at her swollen belly. Pointed to an empty table.

A wave of panic sent her pulse to race. The meek shall inherit the earth, not the mullahs. She hustled out of the chamber, returning to the security desk. “Please, I am late to meet with the Iranian delegation. Where can I find them?”

The woman at the desk scanned her clipboard. “Room 415.” She pointed down the hall. “Take the elevator up to the fourth floor.”

“Spasibo!” Mary hurried down the corridor, coughing up a thick wad of phlegm into her hand. She checked it for blood, wiped it off on her jacket, then pressed the up button and waited, her internal clock ticking.

 

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

9:13 a.m.

 

Leigh Nelson led her V.I.P., his two guests, and their security detail down the hallway to Ward 27, praying all signs of the early-morning baseball wager had been removed.

Bertrand DeBorn’s visit to the VA hospital was far more than just a photo op. While President Kogelo was scheduled to address the United Nations later this morning, hoping to quell hawkish demands for an Iranian invasion, the new secretary of defense was seeding a privately funded covert campaign designed to recruit a new generation of young Americans to the military.

Two prolonged wars required altering the public’s perception of combat. Working in conjunction with one of New York’s biggest advertising firms, DeBorn intended to present America’s wounded veteran as the nation’s new elite—a true patriot whose financial needs were met, his health care guaranteed, his family’s future bright. Slap the Stars and Stripes on it, and even a turd could be sold as smelling sweet . . . provided the chosen poster boy fit the image.

DeBorn caught up to the female physician and grabbed the petite brunette by her elbow, the back of his hand pressing against her right breast in the process. “No more paraplegics or cancer patients, Doctor. The ideal candidate must be good-looking and middle-class, preferably Caucasian, God-fearing, and Christian. As for the wounds, they can be visible without the gross-out factor. No head wounds or missing eyes.”

Leigh ground her teeth, brushing aside the secretary of defense’s lingering hand. “I was told to show you our wounded vets. Whom you select for your recruitment campaign is up to you.”

Sheridan Ernstmeyer joined in on the conversation. “What about mental clarity?”

DeBorn weighed the question. “I don’t know. Colonel, you’re the expert. What do you think?”

Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti, an ordained minister, was the highest-ranking man of the cloth in the Armed Forces and DeBorn’s handpicked selection to lead the military’s new recruitment campaign. Toting a Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other, Argenti aimed to target families still reeling from the recession as well as military stalwarts—apple-pie-eating, flag-bearing rural Southern folk who still viewed service in the military as the ultimate definition of patriotism. “Mental clarity is certainly desired, but not entirely necessary, Mister Secretary. We’ll keep everything to sound bites and tweets.”

Applause and catcalls greeted Leigh Nelson as she led DeBorn’s group into Ward 27. Embarrassed, she casually kicked aside the dented bedpan from earlier, hoping the men have calmed since her last visit. “Thank you, fellas, you do a West Virginia girl proud. Just remember, my granddaddy taught me how to castrate hogs when I was a little girl, so don’t cross the line. I brought a very special visitor with me. How ’bout a warm welcome for our new secretary of defense, Bertrand DeBorn.”

Ignoring the lack of response, the spry white-haired man moved quickly down the center aisle, nodding politely, pressing on as he mentally inventoried each wounded combat veteran. Hispanic . . . Hispanic . . . Black . . . he’s white, but the wrong look. Quadriplegic, no good. This one looks white, but he’s way too skinny, probably on drugs . . . DeBorn kept his entourage moving, his frustration mounting like an obsessed breeder seeking a hunting dog in a kennel filled with poodles and dachshunds, until Sheridan Ernstmeyer grabbed his arm, the former CIA assassin motioning toward the last bed on their left. The curtain was partially pulled around, but not enough to cloak the disabled soldier—an African-American in his late thirties, probably an officer, paralyzed from the waist down.

“Wrong . . . look, Sherry.”

“Not him, Bert. The orderly.”

The man dressed in a white tee shirt and scrubs was Caucasian and in his early thirties, his long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. The jaw was dimpled, his six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound frame chiseled like an athlete. The orderly was changing out his patient’s bedding, rolling him on his side with his right hand, using his opposite shoulder as leverage, maneuvering him easily . . . despite the fact that he had no left arm.

“Dr. Nelson, that orderly . . . is he a veteran?”

“You mean Shep?”

“Shep?”

“Patrick Shepherd. Yes, sir, he served four tours in Iraq. But I don’t think—”

“He’s perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for. Colonel Argenti?”

“Strapping young man, obviously an athlete. And working so diligently to aid his fellow soldiers. He’s outstanding, Mr. Secretary. Well done.”

Sheridan shot the minister a look.

Leigh attempted to pull DeBorn aside. “Sir, there are a few things you need to know about the sergeant–”

“Mission accomplished, Doctor. Have the sergeant meet us in your office in ten minutes. Ms. Ernstmeyer, see to it that Dr. Nelson e-mails us his personnel file.” He checked his watch. Still a few hours before the meeting. “Colonel, join me outside, I’m in need of a cigarette.”

 

9:26 a.m.

 

“. . . yet it is not an Iranian armada positioned in the Persian Gulf, nor is it Hezbollah who has established military bases in Iraq and in Afghanistan. It is the Great Satan who is responsible for this conflict . . . I can smell his sulfurous presence in this building even now. To him I offer this warning: The Muslim world will not allow you to invade the National Islamic Republic of Iran and steal our oil as you did to our brothers in Iraq. We shall fight—”

The security officer lowered the volume of the Iranian leader’s speech on his video screen as he inspected Mary Klipot’s identification. Satisfied, he pressed a button beneath his desk, buzzing into Conference Room 415. “You’ve got a visitor. Russian embassy.”

Mary gritted her teeth, struggling to control the lung spasms urging her to cough.

A metallic click as the door to Room 415 unlocked and opened, revealing an Iranian security guard. “Speak.”

“I am to deliver a message from Prime Minister Putin’s office to the Supreme Leader’s attaché.”

“Your identification.”

She held it up for him to read. The Iranian shut the door.

Mary Klipot’s skin was hot and clammy, her fever rising past 101.5 degrees. She coughed bile into her scarf. Tasting the blood, she wiped it with her right palm, allowing the mucus to remain on her skin.

The security officer seated outside the door cringed. “That’s a nasty cough. Keep it away from me.”

The door reopened. “You have two minutes.”

Mary entered the conference room, the guard motioning her to remain by the door. Two dozen men, some in business attire, others in traditional robes, were watching the Supreme Leader’s speech on closed-circuit flat-screen monitors located throughout the suite.

Her heart raced as she spotted Iran’s president speaking with a mullah on the other side of the room.

A man in a business suit approached, escorted by two large Arabs wearing security earpieces. “I am the Supreme Leader’s attaché. Deliver your message.”

Mary’s eyes watered with fever. Her limbs quivered. Her dress and pantyhose were laced with sweat. Her chest constricted, sending her convulsing in a fit of coughs. “Prime Minister Putin wishes . . . (cough) the Supreme Leader to contact him . . . (cough) one hour after President Kogelo’s speech.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He reached for Mary’s identification card to examine the photo—

—Mary cupping his hand in her moist palms. “С Рождеством . . . и с Новым Годом!”

The man pulled his hand free. He rattled off something in Arabic, causing the two guards to escort her roughly to the door.

Mary exited to the corridor. Hurried to catch an elevator. She managed to slip inside the closing doors, held open for her by a Mexican delegate in his late forties. The man instinctively moved to the rear of the car as he inhaled a whiff of Mary’s burgeoning body odor.

A wicked smile twitched across the pregnant woman’s face as her feverish mind translated the Russian phrase she had offered the Iranian: Merry Christmas . . . and a happy New Year!

The migraine struck the moment she stepped out of the elevator. Squiggly purple lines impeded her vision. A sudden rush of nausea sent her scurrying into the women’s bathroom. She had barely made it to an empty stall when the bloody excrement burst from her insides, scorching her throat. For several moments she heaved the remaining contents of her stomach into the toilet, her entire body shaking as she hugged the cold porcelain to her contorting belly.

The nausea passed, leaving her weak and trembling. Dragging herself to her feet, she staggered out of the stall to a row of sinks, her reflection in the mirror startling.

She was ghostly pale, almost gray. Her eyes were sunken and red. Veins traced a faint blue latticework across her forehead. A red splotch the size of a walnut appeared above the lymph node along her neck. Scythe’s entered phase 2. Get back to the car. Use the vaccine—

“Miss? Are you all right?”

The short, slightly stocky Caucasian woman wearing a food-services badge was staring at her, aghast.

“Morning sickness.” Mary rinsed out her mouth, pushing the damp strands of hair away from her forehead. She left the bathroom. Exited the building.

The cool air kept her from fainting. She inhaled the December chill into her defiled lungs. Found her way past the police barricade and pushed through the crowd of protesters, every cough dousing the faceless multitude with specks of tainted blood.

Clearing the horde, she waited at First Avenue for the do not walk sign to change, clutching the traffic light pole for support, her mind racing. Delirious yet victorious, a true warrior of Christ. Her feverish eyes gazed at the black tow truck turning north on First Avenue—

—hauling her white Honda Civic!

“No . . . no!” Bloody excrement gurgled in her throat. She half staggered, half ran across the four-lane intersection.

Horns blared, brakes screeched, pedestrians screamed.

A crowd gathered around Mary Klipot’s body, sprawled across First Avenue.

 

 

 

 

“Officials are trying to get to the bottom of how vaccine manufacturer Baxter International Inc. made ‘experimental virus material’ based on a human flu strain but contaminated with the H5N1 avian flu virus and then distributed it to an Austrian company (Avir Green Hills Biotechnology). Accidental release of a mixture of live H5N1 and H3N2 viruses could have resulted in dire consequences. If someone exposed to the mixture had been co-infected with H5N1 and H3N2, the person could have served as an incubator for a hybrid virus able to transmit easily to and among people. That mixing process, called reassortment, is one of two ways pandemic viruses are created.”

—Canadian Press, February 27, 2009

 

 

 

 

BIO-WARFARE PHASE II: EPIZOOTIC INFESTATION

December 20

East 46^th Street

Tudor City, Manhattan

9:33 a.m.

(22 hours, 30 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

Thirty-four minutes have passed since Mary Klipot had disposed of the steel attaché case in the trash bin. Twenty-four minutes since the first black rat had arrived.

Rattus rattus. No one really knew how many of the rodents inhabited the Big Apple, estimates varied from 250,000 to upward of 7 million. Agile creatures, a rat could balance on its hind legs, climb ladders, leap three feet straight into the air, or scurry up a sheer wall. It could squeeze through a hole as narrow as a quarter, survive a sixty-foot plunge, or swim up a drainage pipe clear into a toilet. Though nocturnal, a rat could hunt both day and night. The name “rat” translated into “gnawing animal” and for good reason: So strong were its teeth and jaw that a rat could chew through brick and mortar, even reinforced concrete.

A rat’s life spanned two to three years, consisting mostly of eating and breeding. Females averaged more than twenty sex acts a day from the time they reached three months old. Litters ranged from six to twelve pups, with a single female bearing four to six litters in its lifetime. Male rats had been known to mate with a female until it died of exhaustion . . . and then continued on well after her passing.

Intelligent animals, rats thrived in the city’s endless banquets of refuse, their olfactory sense capable of detecting food anywhere within their territory. New York’s black rat population had long lost its fear of man, and the pungent scent coming from within the dumpster was alluring.

 

Morningside Heights, Manhattan

9:38 a.m.

 

Francesca Minos exited Minos Pizzeria, balancing a stack of cardboard soup bowls on her bulging abdomen. A week overdue with her first child, the twenty-five-year-old would rather have been lying in bed with her swollen feet propped on pillows than greeting yet another chilly New York morning in her sweat suit and overcoat . . . but Paolo had not missed a breakfast line in two years and, pregnant or not, she needed to help her husband.

Reaching into the steaming aluminum pot, she grabbed a wooden ladle and deposited a clump of oatmeal in a disposable bowl, leaving it on the table for the next person in line. Already the morning gathering extended down Amsterdam Avenue, with more homeless on the way . . . her devout soul mate determined to feed each and every one of them.

A platoon of vacant eyes and expressionless faces filed past her in silence. Society’s forgotten souls. Had temptation led them astray, or had they simply given up? Many were drug addicts and alcoholics, no doubt, but others had fallen on hard times and simply had nowhere else to go. At least 30 percent were veterans of the Iraq War, half of those disabled.

Francesca filled another bowl, her fear turning to anger. There were almost a hundred thousand homeless in New York City alone. As bad as she felt for them, Francesca was more worried for her own family. Like most businesses, the pizzeria was struggling, and soon they, too, would have another mouth to feed. Were the homeless even appreciative of the free meal they were receiving? Or had the generosity of strangers simply been absorbed as part of their daily ritual? With each passing day, the line separating the Minoses from their impoverished brethren grew slimmer . . . what would happen when they were finally forced to stop tithing altogether? Would the homeless understand? Would they thank their hosts for their past generosity and wish them well, or would they turn violent, smashing the pizzeria’s windows, demanding their entitlement.

The thought made Francesca shudder.

His container empty, Paolo wiped his palms on his oatmeal-splattered chef’s apron, then headed back inside for another refill.

“Paolo . . . wait.”

The dark, curly-haired Italian paused, smiling at his expectant wife. “Yes, my angel? What does your heart wish of me?”

What do I wish? My back aches from hoisting this kicking bowling ball twenty-four/seven, my feet are killing me, and my hemorrhoids are falling out of my ass like nobody’s business. What I wish is that you’d quit bleeding our household savings on these losers, or at least hit the damn lottery so you could take me away from all this!

She glanced again at the procession of street people, their worn shoes soaking wet from the pools of slush. Beaten into submission, they were living out their days in survival mode. And yet, at one time, each life had held hope and potential.

Like her unborn child . . .

“Francesca?”

Parting a strand of dark hair from her eyes, she returned her husband’s loving smile. “Mind the stove, sweetheart, it’s very hot.”

Two blocks south of Minos Pizzeria and one block east of Riverside Park stood the Manhasset, an eleven-story century-old redbrick building. Condominiums were priced at over half a million dollars for a one-bedroom—washer and dryer not included.

The west-facing apartment on the Manhasset’s tenth floor was dark now, the heavy drapes closed, their bottoms pressed to the bay windows by textbooks to prevent even a sliver of gray morning light from penetrating the room. Only a solitary flame illuminated the proceedings, the candle situated on the floor to the Hindu woman’s back.

The necromancer closed her eyes. Dressed in her traditional white tunic, she wore no jewelry—save for the crystal dangling from a gold chain around her neck. Attuned to the vibrations of the supernal, the crystal was her canary in the coal mine, a device that alerted her to the desire of her spiritual companion to communicate.

Studying the art of necromancy in Nepal was no different than learning how to play a musical instrument—for some it was merely a hobby, for others a passion that might lead to mastery, assuming one possessed the talent. When it came to seeking communication with the spirits of the dead, Manisha Pande possessed the bloodlines of the gifted. Born in a Himalayan village, she shared a maternal lineage with necromancers that dated back to ancient Persia. By the Middle Ages the practice had reached Europe, where it was corrupted by self-proclaimed magicians and sorcerers—condemned by the Catholic Church as an agency for evil spirits. In Nepal, however, a talented practitioner could still earn a good living from the trade.

Despite her innate skills, Manisha grew up believing she had another calling. Her father, Bikash, and her paternal uncles were all physicians, and the teenage girl’s desire to help others was strong. When she turned sixteen, Manisha pleaded with her father to allow her to move to India to live with one of her uncles so that she could study psychiatry, hoping to treat women who were victims of human trafficking. The trade was alarmingly robust in Nepal and throughout Asia, with thousands of women abducted and sold as sex slaves.

Manisha was surprised when her father agreed to support her plans. What she never knew was that Dr. Bikash Pande had been approached years earlier by a member of a secret society who had arranged for the physician’s talented daughter to one day meet the prodigy of another family—the Patels, whose eldest son, Pankaj, was also immersed in the science of psychology, only as it applied to the genesis of evil.

Manisha Patel breathed in and out, waiting for her spiritual guide to appear.

Necromancy was an art form dependent upon developing relationships with the deceased. One could neither conjure nor command a spirit, they had to be a willing participant in the act. Having moved to New York with her family following the birth of her daughter (a year after the September 11 attacks), Manisha had been overwhelmed by the sudden deluge of supernal contacts willing to communicate. Over time, a special relationship had been forged between the necromancer and one of these restless spirits—a woman who had been aboard one of the hijacked planes that had struck the Twin Towers. Up until this morning, all communications between Manisha and her spiritual companion had been reserved for the twilight hours.

Not today. For the last two hours, Manisha Patel’s crystal had been radiating like a tuning fork.

She had waited until Pankaj had left the apartment with Dawn. A close bond existed between her daughter and the dead woman’s spirit, and the reverberations coming from the crystal this morning felt wrong. Normally, the presence of a spirit resembled the sensation of a well-played guitar string, its sweet strum reverberating in Manisha’s heart, the Creator’s infinite Light lifting her soul higher with every passing beat. But this morning’s vibrations were distinctly out of tune. Manisha felt afraid, and the more she feared, the more horrifying the vibrations became. Suddenly she felt isolated and alone, unable to connect with anyone . . . as if trapped on her own island of self-doubt.

Manisha . . .

“Yes, I am here. Speak through me . . . tell me what is wrong.”

You and your family must leave. Leave Manhattan . . . now!

 

Fort Detrick—Frederick, Maryland

9:43 a.m.

 

Like his two younger brothers, Colonel John Zwawa was a physically imposing man. A veteran of two wars, the colonel had seen combat and been stationed in places as diverse as Egypt and Alaska. Approaching retirement, he was sixteen months into a four-year assignment as commanding officer at Fort Detrick. In charge . . . yet purposely kept out of the loop by the Pentagon in regard to ongoing operations. Until this morning, the colonel’s biggest worry had been making sure the base soda machines remained stocked.

As of today, the colonel would no longer play the role of caretaker. Lydia Gagnon’s briefing had changed everything.

The microbiologist faced the remote cameras, her image appearing on secured monitors inside the Pentagon, White House, and aboard the two rapid-response-team helicopters racing to Manhattan. “The case that was removed from our Bio-Level 4 facility was part of a top secret project called Scythe. In short, Scythe is a self-administered biological weapon that allows an infected insurgent to rapidly spread bubonic plague throughout a military or hostile civilian population.

“Scythe is Black Death at its absolute worst, combining bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic variants in a form that can be spread quickly across both animal and human populations. During the bubonic pandemic of 1347, the bacterium, Yersinia pestis, lived inside the stomach of its primary vector, the rat flea. Plague bacteria multiply quickly inside a flea, blocking off its foregut. This stimulates hunger and more biting. Each time the flea bites its host, it gags on undigested blood and plague bacilli, vomiting them into the wound. Infected fleas lived off their rat hosts, creating an epizootic spread that devastated Asia and Europe. While the most treatable, bubonic is in many ways the nastiest of the Scythe bacilli, leaving the victim looking and smelling like death. Symptoms include fever, chills, and painful swelling of the lymph glands, called buboes, which turn red then black. Historic bubonic also disrupts the nervous system, causing agitation and delirium. If left untreated, bubonic plague has a 60 percent mortality rate.

“Pneumonic plague is an advanced stage of bubonic. It occurs when the bacilli infect the victim’s lungs, allowing it to be transmitted directly from human to human. The lungs become agitated, stimulating coughing and the spitting up of blood, followed by interminable vomiting. Inhale an infected person’s breath or come in direct contact with their bodily fluids, and you contract plague. In colder temperatures, the expelled sputum can also freeze, allowing for greater range of transmission. Left untreated, the mortality rate among pneumonic plague victims is between 95 and 100 percent.

“The last variant—septicemic plague—is the most lethal of the lot. It occurs when bacilli move directly into the bloodstream, killing the victim within twelve to fifteen hours. Again, Scythe contains all three variants. It spreads rapidly, tortures its victims while eliciting fear, and kills within fifteen hours. Only our specifically harvested antibiotic can inoculate the public or cure an infected individual . . . assuming you can get to them in time.”

“Tell us about the woman.” Vice President Arthur M. Krawitz was seated next to Harriet Clausner. The president’s secretary of state grimaced on the White House monitor.

“Her name is Mary Louise Klipot. We’re e-mailing her photo and bio to everyone now, as well as to the FBI and New York police departments. Mary is the microbiologist who developed Scythe. She’s the one who brought plague samples back from Europe.

“Mary is eight months pregnant. She is engaged to her lab technician, Andrew Bradosky, believed to be the father of her unborn child. Mary and Bradosky have both gone missing as of 2:11 a.m. this morning, when Mary left her BSL-4 lab. Security videotape reveals she was carrying a BSL variant transport case.”

The vice president interrupted. “Dr. Gagnon, these attaché cases? Scythe was being readied for deployment, wasn’t it?”

Lydia Gagnon looked away from the White House feed, hoping to avert a drawn-out debate. “We don’t make policy decisions, Mr. Vice President, we simply follow orders. Our department has been following a 2001 directive to develop a system to subdue a hostile population. Those orders have never been rescinded.”

“Who even knew the orders existed? I didn’t, and I served on the Foreign Relations Committee for twenty-two years. This directive is not only illegal, Dr. Gagnon, it’s genocide!”

“It’s warfare, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary Clausner interjected. “As I clearly stated in the last two PDBs, our military lacks the manpower to invade another country. Biological weapons offer us options.”

“Wiping out 40 million Iranians is not an acceptable option, Secretary Clausner.”

“Neither is allowing nuclear weapons to fall into the hands of terrorists.”

“With all due respect, this isn’t the time or place,” Colonel Zwawa snapped. “Dr. Gagnon, where’s the missing Scythe attaché case now?”

Using her laptop mouse, Dr. Gagnon clicked on a satellite map of New York City. A red circle zoomed in on 46^th Street between First and Second Avenue. “It’s in an alleyway located sixty meters west of the United Nations. Once our A.I.T.s are on the ground, Delta team will retrieve the attaché case while Alpha Team coordinates with Homeland Security and Albany’s CDC to set up a secure perimeter around the plaza. We’ll establish the UN Plaza as a temporary gray zone, at least until we can determine whether Scythe has been released. A.I.T.s are equipped with enough antibiotic to treat upward of fifty infected individuals, with more antidote being readied.”

“Show us the worst-case scenario,” Colonel Zwawa ordered.

Dr. Gagnon hesitated, then clicked her mouse on another link.

A black circle appeared over the UN Plaza and the southern tip of Manhattan. “Assuming the spread is limited to foot traffic during its first thirty to sixty minutes of insemination, we may be able to keep Scythe contained inside Lower Manhattan. If it gets off the island and is limited to vehicular traffic, hours two and three look like this—”

A second circle appeared, encompassing Connecticut, New York, the eastern half of Pennsylvania, and New Jersey.

“If, however, a human vector boards a train, or God help us, a commercial airliner, then Scythe could spread across the globe within twenty-four hours.”

 

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

9:51 a.m.

 

“What does he want with me?” Patrick Shepherd hustled to keep up with Leigh Nelson as she hurried through the congested hospital corridor, weaving her way around patients in bathrobes pushing IVs on wheeled stands.

“I’m sure he’ll explain. Keep in mind, he is President Kogelo’s new secretary of defense. Whatever he wants with you, I’d approach it as an honor.”

Patrick followed his doctor into her office, the familiar sanctuary violated by the presence of the white-haired DeBorn, who had situated himself behind Dr. Nelson’s desk.

The defense secretary dismissed his two Secret Service agents, allowing Leigh and Patrick to sit down. “Sergeant Shepherd, it’s an honor. This is my personal assistant, Ms. Ernstmeyer, and this fine gentleman is Lieutenant Colonel Philip Argenti. The colonel will be your new CO.”

“Why do I need a new commanding officer? I’ve already served my time.”

DeBorn ignored him, squinting to read the file coming across his BlackBerry. “Sergeant Patrick Ryan Shepherd. Four tours of duty. Abu Gharib . . . Green Zone. Reassigned to the 101^st Airborne Division. Says here you received some on-the-job training to be a chopper pilot.”

“Blackhawks. Medevac choppers. I was wounded before I could test for my certification.”

The secretary of defense scrolled down his screen. “What’s this? Personnel file says you played professional baseball. That true?”

“Minor leagues, mostly.”

“The sergeant also played for the Boston Red Sox.”

Shep shot Dr. Nelson a look to kill.

“Really? Outfielder, I’d guess.”

“Pitcher.”

DeBorn looked up. “Not a southpaw, I hope?”

“Shepherd? Patrick Shepherd? Why does that name sound familiar?” Colonel Argenti tugged at his rusty gray hair, wracking his brain. “Wait . . . you’re him! The kid they nicknamed the Boston Strangler. The rookie who no-hit the Yankees in his first start in the big leagues.”

“Actually, it was a two-hitter, but—”

“You shut out Oakland your next start.”

“Toronto.”

“Toronto, right. I remember watching it on Sports Center. That one went extra innings, they pulled you in the ninth. That was crazy, they should have left you in.” Argenti stood, pumping his fist excitedly at DeBorn. “Been a season ticket holder going on thirty years. I know my baseball, and this kid was a beast. His fastball was okay, a cutter in the low nineties, but it was his dirty deuce that was outright nasty.”

DeBorn frowned. “Dirty deuce?”

“You know—the dirty yellow hammer . . . the yakker. Public enemy number two. A breaking ball, Bert! This kid had a breaking ball that was like hitting a lead shot put. Groundout after groundout, it drove hitters crazy.” The priest leaned back against Dr. Nelson’s desk, hovering over Patrick like an adoring fan. “You were a phenom, son, a nine day wonder. Whatever happened to you? You disappeared off the map like nobody’s business.”

“I enlisted . . . sir.”

“Oh, right. Country first, but still. Crying shame about the arm. How’d you lose it?”

“I don’t remember. They called it a traumatic amputation. Buddy of mine, medic named David Kantor, he found me . . . saved my life. D.K. said it was an IED. I must’ve picked it up, thinking it was a kid’s toy. Woke up in the hospital six weeks later, couldn’t remember a thing. Probably better that way.”

“Ever think about pitching again?” Argenti smiled, offering encouragement. “That pitcher, Jeff Abbott, he managed pretty well with only one arm.”

“Jim Abbott. And he was missing a right hand, he kept his glove on his wrist. All I have left is a stub where my left biceps used to be.”

“That’s enough baseball, Padre.” DeBorn motioned for Argenti to return to his chair. “Sergeant, we need you for a new assignment, one that will help America combat our enemies overseas while keeping the homeland safe. Your job will be to help us recruit a new generation of fighting men and women. This is a great honor. You’ll be traveling around the country, visiting high schools—”

“No.”

The secretary of defense’s complexion flushed red. “What did you say?”

“I won’t do it. I can’t. My wife’s dead set against it. I couldn’t do that to her again, no, sir.”

“Where’s your wife now? I’d like to have a word with her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She doesn’t want to talk with me. She left me. Took my daughter and . . . well, she’s gone.”

“Then why do you care what—”

“She’s in New York.”

Everyone turned to Leigh Nelson, who squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t spoken.

The blood rushed from Patrick’s face. “Doc, what are you saying? Did you speak to Bea?”

“Not yet. Her address was e-mailed to me this morning. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. It’s not a hundred percent, but everything sure fits her description.”

Shep leaned back in the chair, his entire body quivering.

“There’s a phone number. We can call and make sure. Shep? Shep, are you okay?”

The anxiety attack hit him like a tidal wave. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. White spots obscured his vision. Sweat burst from his pores in cold droplets as he slid onto the floor, his body convulsing.

Dr. Nelson yanked open her door, and shouted, “I need a nurse and an orderly!” She knelt by Shep, feeling for his pulse. Rapid and weak.

“What the hell’s wrong with him? Is he having a heart attack?”

“Anxiety. Shep, honey, lie back and breathe. You’re okay.”

DeBorn glanced at Sheridan Ernstmeyer, who shrugged. “Anxiety? Are you saying he’s having a panic attack? Good God, man up, Sergeant. You’re a United States Marine!”

A nurse rushed in, followed by an intern pushing a wheelchair.

Dr. Nelson helped lift Shep into the chair. “Elevate his feet. Get a cold compress on his neck and give him a Xanax.”

The intern wheeled Shep out of the office.

The white-haired secretary of defense stared down Leigh Nelson, his hawkish look meant to intimidate. “Where’s the wife?”

“Like I said, she’s in New York.”

“The address, Dr. Nelson.”

“Mr. Secretary, this is way beyond reuniting a broken family. Shep’s unstable. His memory is fragmented, his brain is still affected by his injury. We deal with these things all the time. You can’t keep redeploying GIs three and four times without tearing their families apart. Spouses relocate, sometimes because they find someone else, sometimes out of fear. The military no longer detoxes its returning vets properly, they go from combat to civilian life in a week. Some of these guys are walking time bombs, their minds still immersed in war. They can’t enter their homes without doing a search of the premises, and they keep weapons by the bed. I’ve seen way too many cases of returning soldiers stabbing or shooting their loved ones while in the throes of a nightmare. I’m guessing that won’t look too good on the new recruiting poster.”

“I didn’t ask you for a dissertation on warfare, Doctor. Now give me the wife’s address.”

She hesitated.

“With the economy still struggling, it must be nice to have a well-paying government salaried job. Of course, we could probably bring in two residents for what you’re being paid.”

Leigh’s back stiffened. “Is that a threat, Mr. DeBorn?”

“Ms. Ernstmeyer, contact the Pentagon. Have them locate the sergeant’s family.”

“Wait. Just . . . wait.” Reaching into her lab-coat pocket, Leigh retrieved the e-mail printout, reluctantly handed it to the secretary of defense.

DeBorn squinted as he read aloud. “Beatrice Shepherd. Battery Park, Manhattan.”

“She’s close by,” Sheridan remarked. “Seems too coincidental. Maybe she’s here because he’s here.”

“Find out.”

“Whoa, slow down a minute,” said Leigh, her ire drawn. “Shepherd’s my patient. If anyone’s going to approach his wife, it should be me.”

“You’re too close. Spouses who feel scorned by the military require a deft touch. This wife of his sounds like another bleeding-heart peace activist. Is she?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Women who place morality above family are the worst kind of hypocrites. Take that Cindy Sheehan. She loses her son, spends the next three years protesting the Armed Forces he risked his life to join, then she ends up deserting her family to pursue a political career. I suspect this Beatrice Shepherd is cut from the same cloth. Ms. Ernstmeyer knows how to handle their kind.”

“Fine. Handle it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to tend to.”

“In a minute. I need you to fit the sergeant for a prosthetic arm.”

“He was fitted three months ago. We’ve been told there’s a four-to-six-month backlog.”

“Colonel?”

“He’ll have one by this afternoon.”

Leigh Nelson felt like she was drowning. “With all due respect, slapping on hardware and forcing Shep to confront his wife won’t even begin to address his psychological problems.”

“Let us deal with his family, Doctor. You arrange for the psychiatric help.”

Leigh balled her fists, her blood pressure soaring. “And where should I find this psychiatrist? Conjure him out of thin air? I’ve got 263 combat veterans in serious need of psychiatric care, a third of them on suicide watch. We’re sharing two clinical psychologists between three VA hospitals and—”

“It’s handled,” interrupted Father Argenti. “By this afternoon, Patrick Shepherd will be speaking with the best shrink taxpayer money can buy.”

Secretary DeBorn’s eyebrows rose. “Any other challenges, Dr. Nelson?”

She sat back in her chair, defeated. “You want to hire your own specialist—fine by me, just keep it quiet. I don’t want the other men in Shep’s ward knowing about this. It’s bad for morale. Shep won’t go for it, either.”

“Duly noted. Colonel, set up private sessions at the psychiatrist’s office.”

“That won’t work. We had a situation last week. I took Shep out of the hospital as a first step to reorient him into civilian life. It didn’t go well. You’re better off doing sessions in the hospital.”

“Then arrange for him to have his own room. Tell him it’s a gift from the Pentagon.” Secretary DeBorn stood, ending the meeting. “I’m due at the UN this afternoon, but I’ve got one more stop to make first. Colonel, you’re in charge. Be sure the psychiatrist you hire knows Shepherd needs to be in Washington for January’s State of the Union Address. That’ll give him four weeks to get our boy in decent mental shape.”

DeBorn headed for the door. Paused. “You like Shepherd, don’t you, Doctor?”

“I care about all my patients.”

“No. I see how you look at him. There’s something there. Maybe a physical attraction?”

“Sir, I never—”

“Of course not. But it wouldn’t hurt you to be there for the sergeant . . . you know, to ease his mind when his wife officially terminates their relationship.”

Leigh Nelson snapped, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be happily married with two beautiful children. And you can forget about Shep. Whatever happened between him and Bea, whatever fallout they may have had, he loves his wife and daughter intensely and would say or do just about anything to get them back.”

DeBorn nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

 

United Nations Plaza

10:14 a.m.

 

The suddenness of the assault had blindsided the protesters. The combatants—three hundred members of New York’s highly trained Emergency Service Unit (ESU), all wearing hooded gas masks and Homeland Security apparel, had stormed the plaza in one expedient, overwhelming wave. Working in teams, the troops had quickly subdued the crowd, binding their wrists behind their backs using trifold, single-use restraints before laying them out in organized rows along the cold concrete expanse.

Having taken out the mob, they turned on the media.

With little regard for camera equipment or Constitutional rights, the assault team physically herded the stunned reporters and their television crews to another section of the plaza, where they, too, were placed in restraints.

“This is America! You can’t restrain the press!”

“Hey, asshole, ever hear of the First Amendment?”

What the members of the media never saw was that the police officers who had been forming a gauntlet against the protesters were also being sequestered, their weapons tagged and confiscated. After being told by health officials that their actions were merely a minor precaution against a possible swine flu outbreak, the law-enforcement detail was led inside a triage center, one of four mobile Army tents now occupying the plaza. Isolated in small, plastic-curtained compartments, the unnerved police officers were reassured that everything was fine, even as medical teams in white Racal suits moved from one cop to the next, performing a thorough physical examination.

“He’s clean. Escort him to the observation tent.”

“This one’s fine.”

“This one’s running a slight fever.”

“My kids have the flu . . . it’s nothing.”

“Treatment tent. Run full blood and hair analysis, then start him on antibiotics.”

“Doctor, you’d better take a look at this one.”

Officer Gary Beck was seated on the linoleum floor, his riot gear by his side. He was sweating profusely, his complexion a pasty gray . . . and he was coughing up blood.

“Isolation tent, STAT! Alert Captain Zwawa. I want full blood and hair analysis in ten minutes, followed by—”

The officer dropped to all fours and retched.

“Seal the compartment!”

“Triage-3 to base. We need a mobile isolation unit and a cleanup detail, STAT.”

 

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

10:21 a.m.

 

Leigh Nelson led her semiconscious patient inside the private room on the sixth floor. “Not too shabby, huh? Partial view of Manhattan, private bathroom—”

She watched Patrick Shepherd stumble in a Xanax-induced stupor around the room. He looked beneath the bed and between the mattresses. He searched inside the bed-table drawers and the closet . . . even behind the toilet.

“Baby doll, it’s safe. And it’s all yours. Now be a good boy and lie down, you’re making me a nervous wreck.”

The warm numbness was spreading, calming the waves of anxiety, weakening his resolve. He sat down on the bed, his body sinking into liquid lead. “Leigh, listen to me . . . are you listening?”

“Yes, baby doll, I’m listening.”

“Do you know what true love is?”

“Tell me.”

He looked up at her, his dilated eyes swimming in tears. “Boundless emptiness.”

Leigh swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Shep, you need to talk with somebody . . . someone who can help you cope with what you’re feeling. DeBorn’s sending over a specialist. Before you speak with Bea, I think it’s important you talk with him.”

“Why? So he can tell me to move on? To let her go?”

“No, sweetie. So you can get some clarity. Put your life in perspective.”

He motioned to the box of personal belongings sitting on the desk. “Bea’s book . . . get it for me.”

She sorted through the cardboard container, retrieving the copy of Dante’s Inferno.

“Read the opening canto . . . the first few lines.”

She opened the book to the Divine Comedy’s first stanza and read aloud: “About halfway through the course of my pathetic life, I woke up and found myself in a stupor in some dark place. I’m not sure how I ended up there, I guess I had taken . . . a few wrong turns.” She glanced at Patrick. “Is this supposed to be you?”

He pointed to a framed painting of a beach house, the tropical scene providing the only color in the room. “That was supposed to be me.” He closed his eyes, fading fast. “Now this is all I have to show for my pathetic life . . . trapped in purgatory. Hell awaits.”

“I don’t believe in Hell.”

“That’s because you’ve never been there. I have.” He lay back on the bed. “Been there four times. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, it drags me back again. It soils you. It stains the soul. I won’t let it stain my family.” His words began to slur. “DeBorn . . . Tell him no. Tell him ta go fuh . . .”

The eyeballs flitted beneath the lids, his larynx rumbling into a soothing snore.

The beach house is open and airy, the A-frame living room’s ceiling paneled in wood. Fifteen-foot-high bay windows reveal a deck and pool out back, and just beyond that the Atlantic Ocean.

The Realtor opens the French doors, filling the house with a salty breeze and the soothing sound of crashing waves. "Atlantic Beach is a quaint little seaside village, you'll love it here. The house is Mediterranean, five bedrooms, six baths, plus the guest house. It's an absolute steal at $2.1 million.”

Patrick turns to his better half. “So?”

The blonde-haired beauty balances their two-year-old daughter on her right hip. “Shep, we don’t need all this.”

“Who cares about need? I’m a big-league pitcher now.”

“You pitched two games.”

“But my agent says the endorsement deals he’s working on will pay for three beach houses.”

“It’s so far from the city.”

“Babe, this’ll be our summer home. We’ll still have our condo in the city.”

“Boston or New York?”

“I dunno. Maybe both.”

She shakes her head. “You’re insane.”

“No, no, your husband’s right.” The Realtor flashes a reassuring smile. “Real estate remains the best investment around, property values can only go up. There’s no way you can go wrong.”

“That’s great to know.” She switches the curly-haired toddler to her other hip. “Can my husband and I have a moment to talk in private?”

“Of course. But I have another buyer looking at the house in twenty minutes, so don’t be too long.” She heads out to the pool deck, leaving the door open so she can eavesdrop.

The blonde slams it shut.

Shep smiles defensively. “Husband. I love that.”

“Let’s be clear. We’re not married yet, and we won’t be if I catch you flirting with any more cheerleaders.”

“They weren’t cheerleaders, and I told you, I wasn’t flirting. It was just a photo shoot for Hooters.”

“Those twins had their hooters in your face when I walked in.”

“It’s my job, babe. Part of the new image. You know, the ‘Boston Strangler.’”

The blonde sneers in disgust. “Who are you? Your ego’s so out of control, I barely recognize you anymore.”

“What are you talking about? This is what we wanted . . . we’re living the dream.”

“Your dream, not mine. I don’t want to be married to some egomaniac, wondering whose bed he’s sleeping in when he’s not in mine.”

“That’s not fair. I’ve never cheated on you.”

“No, but you’re tempted. Face it, Shep, we’ve been together since we were kids. Tell me you’re not the least bit curious about being with another woman, especially now, when they’re practically throwing themselves at you.”

He says nothing, unable to lie to her.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going back to Boston with our daughter while you decide if you’d rather get some strange from the Ooh-La-La twins or be tied down to a family. Better get it out of your system now. I don’t want you waking up three or five or ten years from now, thinking you made a mistake.” Grabbing the baby’s diaper bag, she heads for the door.

“Honey, wait—”

The blonde turns around, tears in her eyes. “Just remember, Patrick Shepherd, sometimes you don’t really appreciate the things you have until you lose them.”

Patrick moaned into his pillow, unable to shake himself loose from the drug-induced sleep.

 

United Nations

General Assembly Building

10:28 a.m.

 

A shaken Jeffrey Cook, head of the United Nations Department of Safety and Security (UNDSS) led the seven men dressed in Racal suits, full-face rebreathers, boots, and heavy gloves into the General Assembly Building’s control room. “Can I have your attention please?”

A dozen pairs of eyes looked up from their security monitors.

“This is Captain Zwawa from the infectious disease lab in Fort Detrick. He needs our help with a possible security breach.”

“Jesus, what’s going on?”

“Is the air safe to breathe?”

“Are we under attack?”

“Stay calm.” Jay Zwawa held up the copy of the USAMIRIID identity photos. “We need you to locate this man and woman. One or both may have entered one of the United Nations buildings as early as eight o’clock this morning. We need to know which buildings they entered, who they came in contact with, and whether they left the building.”

Zwawa’s team passed around copies of Mary Klipot and Andrew Bradosky’s photo to each technician, along with a CD.

“The CD file contains the suspects’ DNA markers. Run it through your surveillance system and search for a match. Start with the General Assembly Building before moving on to the rest of the UN complex.”

“Who are they? Are we in any danger?”

“Shouldn’t we be wearing protective suits, too?”

“The suits are a precaution for my frontliners. As long as you remain in this room, you’ll be fine.”

One of the techs looked worried. “I took a bathroom break about ten minutes ago.”

“One of our medical staff will check you out.”

“Medical staff? My God, is there a biological alert?”

“Easy. We’re not even sure the suspects entered the UN complex.”

The technicians inserted the CDs into their computer hard drives and cross-checked facial markers, using the morning surveillance tapes.

Jeffrey Cook pulled Captain Zwawa aside. “Your men are blocking the exits. You can’t do that.”

“It’s a security precaution. No one leaves the UN complex without being checked.”

“Checked for what?”

“You’ll know if and when I decide to tell you. Let’s hope it’s not an issue.”

“What about the diplomats? The heads of state? You can’t tell these people they’re not allowed to leave. They have diplomatic immunity.”

“No one leaves unless they’re medically cleared. Those orders are backed by the Pentagon and the White House.”

“What about the president? Are you going to tell him he can’t leave?”

“The president’s here?”

“He’s in the General Assembly Hall, addressing the Security Council as we speak.”

“Got her!”

All heads turned to Cameron Hughes, a wheelchair-bound security technician. Jeffrey Cook hovered over the man’s shoulder, staring at the frozen black-and-white partially blurred image on his monitor. The computer pixelized, sharpening its genetic markers until Mary Louise Klipot’s face appeared ominously on-screen.

“Cam, where was this taken?”

“Main entrance. Aw hell, look at the time code . . . 9:11.”

Sweat dripped from Captain Zwawa’s face. He fought the urge to tear the stifling hood from his head. “Fast-forward the tape. Where does she go?”

The image jumped from one angle to the next, following Mary Klipot through several checkpoints until she entered the General Assembly Hall. They lost her inside the darkened auditorium.

“Get a security detail—”

“Sir, wait!” The image switched back to the corridor. “Look, she exited. See? She’s speaking with security. Heading for the elevators.”

The weight of time registered like extra gravity upon Jay Zwawa. He was an hour behind the eight ball, every minute of tape revealing another potentially infected victim, every second that went by allowing Scythe to spread throughout the United Nations complex.

“This is taking too long. Accelerate the tape, I need to know if she’s still in the building. Cook, we’ll need the names of every person she came in contact with, then I want the names of every person those people came in contact with.”

“Are you crazy? You’re talking hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. I don’t have the manpower—”

“The woman we’re after may have infected herself with a very contagious, very lethal form of bubonic plague. Every person she came within breathing distance of is a potential victim and carrier. Do your job, do it fast, and nobody leaves this room.”

Zwawa removed a cell phone from his Racal suit’s utility belt. He pressed a preprogrammed number with a gloved index finger, his other hand working the controls of the headset situated within his hood—

—switching from Fort Detrick’s command post to his older brother’s secured cell-phone number.

 

Fort Detrick

Frederick, Maryland

 

The Fort Detrick Command Center had become the central hub for communication, linking the Oval Office, Pentagon, and assorted members of Congress in an endless debate of babel. Tired of listening to the Joint Chiefs arguing with the vice president and his staff, Colonel John Zwawa was headed for the sanctuary of his office when his private cell phone reverberated silently in his back pants pocket. “Speak.”

“Vicious, it’s Delicious. Can you talk?”

“Stand by, Jay.” The colonel closed his office door to speak with his brother. “How bad is it?”

“It’s a major clusterfuck with tentacles. All those who were in the General Assembly Hall were infected. We’re not sure how bad, but POTUS is in there right now, addressing the condemned.”

“Hell, Jay Zee, get him out of there.”

“Sure thing. Just tell me how to do that without causing widespread panic and losing containment.”

The colonel’s mind raced. “Bomb scare. I’ll alert the Secret Service. Have your team standing by outside the chamber. Use the ESU guys to channel the delegates to their offices in the Secretariat Building, we’ll lock them down from there. Once they’re isolated, it’ll be easier for the CDC teams to do a floor-to-floor triage.”

“What about POTUS?”

“Assign him and his staff to a private floor away from the others. But Jay, nobody leaves the plaza until Scythe is contained, and I mean nobody. Is that clear?”

“POTUS’s people may insist on getting him out of Dodge.”

Colonel Zwawa glanced out his office window at the wall of monitors and its dozen talking heads. “That option is already being debated by the Pentagon assholes who got us into this mess. Fortunately, when it comes to containment, I’m in charge, so here are my orders, for your ears only: No one leaves the UN. If POTUS’s people panic, your orders are to take out his Secret Service detail.”

“Sweetheart, they don’t call you Vicious for nothing.”

“Whatever it takes, Jay Zee. We’ll sort the bodies out at the trial. Where’s Jesse?”

“In the alleyway, searching for the attaché case.”

 

Alleyway—East 46^th Street

Tudor City, Manhattan

10:42 a.m.

 

Jesse Zwawa and three members of Delta Team enter the alleyway. Rubber boots slogged through tire tracks crushed into patches of snow between pools of slush. Wind howled through the passage, muffled by their protective hoods. Orange Racal suits and rebreathers. Astronauts bound to Earth to fight an invisible prey. Three men carried field packs and reach poles, the oldest among them an emergency medical kit.

Dr. Arnie Kremer limped on a hip two weeks away from replacement surgery. He was too short for the assigned Racal suit, which bunched around his knees, making it difficult to walk. An hour ago, Kremer and his wife had been enjoying their breakfast at an all-you-can-eat buffet at the Tropicana Resort in Atlantic City. The beginning of a weeklong vacation—cut short by Uncle Sam. Army Reserves: the gift that keeps on giving.

The physician stumbled into the man in front of him. The team had abruptly stopped.

Captain Zwawa was fifty feet from the dumpster, a GPS in hand. The object they sought was in the trash bin but something was lying on the ground directly ahead. At first glance, the commander had assumed it to be a ragged pile of wet clothes—

—only now it was moving.

“Dr. Kremer, front and center.”

Arnie Kremer joined the captain. The wet mass was obscured by the frenzied presence of a dozen or more rats, each the size of a football. Their black fur was slick with splattered blood. Feasting . . . but on what?

“Is that a dead dog?”

“Let’s be sure.” Zwawa extended his reach pole. Abused the mass as he flipped the heap over, his actions barely inconveniencing the rodents.

Both men jumped back. Kremer gagged inside his hooded mask.

It had been a maintenance worker. Rats had taken the right half of the man’s face and both eyes. Two males fought over an optic nerve still protruding from a vacant eye socket like a strand of spaghetti. The rest dined on the remains of the man’s stomach like a ravaging horde of puppies suckling from their mother’s teats. Rodents were crawling over and inside the internal organs, causing the victim’s bulging belly to undulate.

When a blood-drenched rat crawled out of the dead man’s mouth, Zwawa lost it. Backing away, he wrenched his right arm free of the Racal suit’s sleeve, ran his hand up his chest to the internally attached barf bag, then shoved it over his mouth a second before he regurgitated his breakfast.

The rest of Delta team hummed and clenched their teeth and tried their best not to listen to the sickening acoustics playing over their headphones.

Ryan Glinka, Delta Team’s second-in-command, approached his commanding officer. “You okay, Captain?”

Zwawa nodded. Sealing the barf bag, he stowed it in an internal pocket, then turned to face his men. “Mr. Szeifert, I believe this is your area of expertise.”

“Yes, sir.” Gabor Szeifert stepped forward, but not too close. A veterinarian and epizootic specialist from Hungary, today’s assignment marked his first actual field experience. “Something is not right. Rats normally don’t feed like this. They appear to be stimulated.”

“Shh! Listen.” Ryan Glinka held up his hand for quiet.

Beyond the howling wind and the noise of a distant siren, they could hear rapid thumps coming from inside the steel bin. As they watched, a black rat scurried up the brown, rust-tinged metal and over the opening, leaping into the receptacle.

Dr. Kremer’s skin crawled inside his protective suit.

Captain Zwawa attached a hook to his reach pole and handed it to Szeifert. “Retrieve the case, just be gentle.”

Gabor approached the steel bin as more rats appeared, the rodents racing in and out of the trash receptacle at a frenetic pace. The Hungarian scientist leaned in closer to see over the edge of the open container. Looked inside—

“Nem értem . . .”

It was an orgy of dark bodies and flesh-tone tails, tearing and gnashing and scrambling atop one another in an effort to get at something buried beneath the moving pile. A kaleidoscope of the living and the dead, the wounded and the inflicted—all part of a churning rodent mass that moved like a synchronized black tide.

“Mr. Szeifert!”

“Sorry, sir. I said I don’t understand. There are so many of them. We need to—”

A lone rat leapt onto Gabor’s shoulder. The veterinarian attempted to swat the creature away as it furiously gnawed at his protective suit. Joined by two more, then another, then in threes and fours and far too many to count as the dumpster’s open ledge became a launching point to the next buffet.

The animal specialist stumbled toward Dr. Kremer. Black rats swarmed across both men’s shoulders, clinging to their backs and thighs, their clawed feet and sharp teeth tearing into the fleeing soldiers’ Racal suits—

—instantaneously falling to the ground like bags of hair, their tiny legs writhing in spasms as Ryan Glinka gassed them into submission with a cylinder of compressed carbon dioxide.

Jesse Zwawa stepped over the gasping rodents, holding a CO2 grenade in his gloved hand. “Anyone hungry for ratatouille?” He pulled the pin, tossing the canister into the trash bin.

Boom!

Rat shrapnel blasted out of the container in all directions, the hollow metallic gong echoing in their ears as a swirling cloud of CO2 escaped above the damaged trash bin.

Dr. Kremer fought a gag reflex, forcing himself to wipe matted black hairs and bloody excrement from his faceplate. “That was a bit radical, don’t you think?!”

“We need the attaché case. I’m guessing it’s buried somewhere beneath the pile.”

“If that’s true, the rats could be vectors. I’ll need live specimens to run toxicology exams.”

“You want live rats, pull ’em off Gabor. You want fillet of rat, here’s a whole dumpster filled with the sons of bitches.” Walking around the back side of the steel bin, Jesse Zwawa leveraged his two-hundred-pound frame against the smoldering container—

—sending the Dumpster crashing forward, spilling its contents across the garbage-strewn tarmac.

Ryan Glinka extended his reach pole, sifting through the moist pile of rodent remains until he hooked the open attaché case.

The rats had chewed it beyond recognition. All that remained was a piece of its handle and a seventeen-inch section of bare metal dangling a bloodied hinge.

Glinka held the scrap metal in the air for his commanding officer. “I think we’ve got problems, sir. Captain?”

“Over here.” Jesse Zwawa was on one knee, aiming his flashlight at the opening of a cracked drainage pipe situated along the brick facing of the adjacent building. His beam illuminated pairs of tiny, unblinking red eyes, the hovel of infected rodents staring back at him—

—waiting.

 

 

 

 

Lost Diary: Guy de Chauliac

The following entry has been excerpted from a recently discovered unpublished memoir, written by surgeon Guy de Chauliac during the Great Plague: 1346–1348.(translated from its original French)

 

Diary Entries: January 4, 1348

(recorded in Avignon, France)

Death has arrived in Avignon.

We had heard reports for months . . . the horrors coming out of Sicily and Genoa, the warnings from the isles of Sardinia and Mallorca. There were rumors about Venice and Rome being infected, followed weeks later by panic coming from our fleeing neighbors to the east in Marseilles and Aix. Still we remained vigilant, terror-stricken yet convinced that God in His infinite mercy would spare the papal city and all its people.

Perhaps we were still not convinced. Perhaps we were simply waiting for a sign from the heavens—an earth tremor, a poisonous rain.

And yet none occurred. Instead, the plague that had brought the Mongolian Empire to its knees and death to every trade city along the Mediterranean and Black Seas came to Avignon one early winter’s night as a whisper while we slept. By morning it was a stranger lying in an alleyway, by nightfall a fever blossoming in a dozen households.

On my recommendation, Pope Clement IV has ordered the gates of Avignon closed—

—only I fear it is far too late.

 

—Guigo

 

 

 

 

“The Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Meade has been investigating USAMRIID at Fort Detrick since early February. USAMRIID was shutting down most of its bio-research while it tried to match its inventory to its records, citing an ‘overage’ of biological select agents and toxins. Meade's CID, however, isn't concerned with overstock. Instead, agents are looking for what may have gone missing between 1987 and 2008.”

—Katherine Heerbrandt, Frederick News-Post, April 22, 2009

 

 

 

 

BIO-WARFARE PHASE III: HUMAN-TO-HUMAN SPREAD

December 20

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

10:44 a.m.

(21 hours, 19 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

The redheaded woman sitting up on the gurney in the back of the ambulance moaned in protest. Fever drew her into moments of blessed unconsciousness. Nausea spit her back out again. She vomited phlegm-laced bile across her blanket, and the action expelled her back into the swirling sea of reality. She forced open her eyes and scanned the vomit for blood. Scythe was progressing. Fueled by her genius.

Her head ached. Her hip throbbed where the cab had bounced her across 46^th Street. Baby Jesus kicked in her belly. She suffered every bump and sharp turn and that incessant siren! The little voice screamed obscenities at her from the dark place in her mind that could no longer reason other than to recite the same alarmist mantra about ticking clocks and serums in the wheel hub in the trunk of her rental car and who’s the genius now?

A lurching stop interrupted delirium. The siren silenced, yielding to a moment of quiet desperation. Instruct your keepers before they put you under. Before she could object, the gurney was launched backward into blinding gray skies and Arctic cold. Then she was mobile again. Up the ramp and moving through a corridor of fluorescent lights and controlled chaos. New faces wearing white lab coats and identification badges peered in on her world, refusing to listen.

“What have you got?”

“Taxi hit her. Late thirties, pregnant, appears to be well into her third trimester. Victim was conscious when we found her. Rapid pulse, high
fever. Blood pressure’s eighty over sixty. Looks like most of the impact was absorbed by the buttocks and backs of the legs.”

“She looks pale. No open wounds? Loss of blood?”

“None that we could see, but she aspirated blood on the ride in. You’re probably looking at an emergency C-section if there’s any hope of saving the baby.”

“Agreed. What’s that stench?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Russians don’t like to bathe.”

“How do you know she’s Russian?”

“She was wearing this ID tag: Bogdana Petrova, Russian embassy.”

“Get her to X-ray, we’ll take it from here.”

 

United Nations

General Assembly Building

10:46 a.m.

 

“A bomb threat?” The Secret Service agent stared suspiciously at the big man wearing the orange Racal suit. “Where’s the bomb squad?”

“We are the bomb squad.”

“Bullshit. Those are environmental suits.”

“The threat was a biological device. And if there really is a bomb, and it goes off, we’ll be protected. You, on the other hand, will basically be screwed. Now you either cue the president, or I’ll do it myself and panic a thousand diplomats and their visiting heads of state.

Cursing aloud, the president’s bodyguard and personal assassin walked briskly past the curtains and onto the raised stage to the podium, his head down.

“. . . no one wants war, but we shall not shirk from it either if it means preventing the annihilation of one or more of our cities. Enriched uranium can be used in suitcase bombs as well as ballistic missiles. In the past, Iran has not hesitated to arm terrorist groups like Hezbollah and Hamas—groups that, in turn, would not hesitate to use a suitcase nuke against Israel or another sovereign nation. As such, any treaty—”

President Kogelo paused, the lanky leader of the free world listening intently as the Secret Service agent whispered into his ear.

“Mr. Secretary General, distinguished guests . . . I’ve just been told that the General Assembly has received a terrorist threat. Homeland Security has the situation under control, but as an extra precaution, we’re being asked to postpone the rest of this morning’s agenda while our munitions experts verify this chamber is secure. All diplomats and heads of state, including myself, are being asked to report to their nation’s respective suites in the Secretariat Building and await further instructions.”

The Secret Service agent took the president by the crook of his arm and led him off the stage as two dozen heavily armed Emergency Service Unit personnel, all wearing white Racal suits, entered the chamber from the rear doors and herded the shocked diplomats into the corridor.

 

East 22^nd Street & FIRST Avenue

Lower East Side, Manhattan

10:47 a.m.

 

Still another block to go, and Wendi Metz was exhausted.

The single mother of an eight-year-old boy, Wendi had been trying to lose fifteen pounds since she began computer dating back in October. Her exercise routine—walking from the UN Plaza, where she worked the breakfast shift, to the bus stop at East 23^rd Street—had helped reduce her waistline two dress sizes in three months while saving on subway tokens. But this morning she felt drained, on the verge of passing out.

The inviting bus stop bench was within view, enticing her to continue walking. Every step was painful, the tightness shooting down her neck and spine into her lower back and legs and feet. The brisk winter breeze coming off the East River had been cooling her perspiration, but now that she has slowed her pace to a stagger, she could register the fever raging internally.

A gust of wind set her body to shivering.

She recalled for the umpteenth time the image of the pale woman throwing up in the bathroom and wondered if she might have caught something.

Her vision blurred, her eyes strained to gain contrast in the sudden brightness. She contemplated purchasing a yogurt from a nearby street vendor—blood sugar’s probably low—until she spotted the X25 Bus weaving its way up First Avenue.

Get home. Take some cold and flu medicine, have a bowl of soup, then hustle to the diner before the lunch shift begins.

Flagging down the bus, Wendi Metz climbed aboard, joining the other seventeen passengers en route to Midtown East and Sutton Place.

 

United Nations Plaza

10:48 a.m.

 

The isolation tent was filling quickly. Those classified “infected” now numbered twenty-two, with a new patient added every six minutes. Most were either police officers or protesters who had been caught on the plaza grounds. Others had been working security inside the General Assembly Building when “Bubonic Mary” had taken her tour through the facility.

The first verifiable contact lay prone in a self-contained isolator, a lightweight stretcher surrounded by a demountable framework and transparent plastic. The bubble envelope was maintained by its own self-contained air-supply system, which created a negative pressure differential, preventing the escape of contaminated air. Eight plastic arm sleeves, four on each side, allowed medical personnel to reach inside the patient’s containment area without breaching the isolator.

Officer Gary Beck was terrified. He knew he had been exposed to a hazardous biological substance. He knew because he could feel the toxin rippling through his body. The fever, coupled with anxiety, had caused his heart to race, his blood pressure to drop, his skin to crawl. The physicians in the white environmental suits had assured him that he would be okay, that the antidote being administered by an IV drip had reached him with ample time to spare. Beck had believed them, his panic losing its edge as the Valium, mixed with a clear elixir labeled scy-anti, dripped into his veins.

Lying within the isolated bubble, Gary Beck thought about his wife, Kimberly, and his two children and gave thanks that they were in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, visiting his in-laws. He felt alone and definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time and willed himself to remain calm. You’re alive, you’re okay. The experts are here to take care of you. Keep it together and cooperate, and you’ll be home in your own bed before the wife gets back from her parents’.

A woman in a white Racal suit approached, communicating by way of an internal intercom. “How are you feeling, Officer Beck?”

“Not good. I puked again, and everything still hurts. And my neck feels swollen, right here. It feels like something’s growing.”

“It’s just a lymph node, try not to rub it. I’m going to take some more blood, okay?”

“Okay.” Officer Beck closed his watering eyes, his limbs trembling as the nurse withdrew another syringe of his blood into an external collection tube.

Jay Zwawa felt like he was sinking in quicksand. He reread Dr. Kremer’s medical report, then spotted his younger brother, Jesse emerging from an Army tent, and motioned him over.

“Two rodent extermination teams are on the way.”

“You’d better read this. It’s a toxicology report on the first wave of victims.”

Jesse Zwawa scanned the report, his expression darkening behind the face-plate of his hooded suit. “That explains why—”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re officially screwed.”

“Pretty much. Jess, this stays between us and Dr. Kremer. If this gets out—”

“Have you told Zee?”

“I was about to make the call.”

“Colonel, Alpha Team has an urgent transmission.”

“Stand by.” John Zwawa muted the cross conversations coming from the wall of video monitors. “Mr. Vice President, gentlemen and ladies, we have an update coming in from our ground team. Go ahead, Captain.”

“Colonel, we’ve got a major situation. An analysis of the infected victims’ blood reveals the bacilli don’t match Scythe’s DNA.”

Dr. Lydia Gagnon grabbed the nearest microphone, her voice blaring over Jay Zwawa’s headset. “What do you mean it’s not a match? The stolen attaché case contained pure Scythe.”

“Understood. But our antibiotics aren’t working. None of the infected patients are improving. Somehow, the Klipot woman altered Scythe’s DNA.”

Suddenly light-headed, Colonel Zwawa found his way to a desk chair. “Captain, have Kremer upload all ground zero blood-work results directly to our Bio-4 labs. Dr. Gagnon, how soon can your labs produce an effective antibiotic? Dr. Gagnon!”

“How soon? I don’t know, Colonel . . . a day? A year? Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. Scythe kills within fifteen hours . . . it’s spreading way too fast for my people to possibly break down its new genetic code, let alone find a cure. Anyone who contracted the plague is a walking corpse. That game is over, we lost. From this moment on, it’s all about damage control. We have one shot at containing this thing before it becomes a worldwide pandemic . . . one small break. Manhattan’s an island, technically it can be isolated. We have to shut down all access in and out of the city, and I mean right away!”

“She’s right, Colonel,” Jay Zwawa chimed in. “The UN’s Head of Security just handed me a report on the potential list of people who made contact with the Klipot woman. At least a dozen have already left the UN complex. We lost perimeter containment thirty-three minutes ago.”

Dr. Gagnon stood before the vice president’s monitor, her voice trembling with fear. “Sir, we either isolate Manhattan right now and sacrifice two million people, or by tomorrow night the entire human race, save a few isolated third-world tribes, will become extinct.”

 

10:51 a.m.

 

The island of Manhattan was separated from the boroughs of the Bronx and Queens by the Harlem River, from Brooklyn by the swiftly flowing East River, Staten Island and New Jersey to the south and west by the mighty Hudson. Linking this metropolis to its surrounding communities was more than six hundred miles of subway, two thousand miles of bus routes, eight bridges, four tunnel crossings, two major train systems, and dozens of ferries and helicopters. Now, the federal government wanted every entry point and exit route into and out of Manhattan shut down, and they were demanding it be done in less than fifteen minutes.

New York governor Daniel Cirilo II was en route to a skiing excursion in Vermont when he received the phone call from Vice President Krawitz. After being told to “stop asking questions and start issuing orders,” the governor contacted the CEO of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, a network that encompassed New York City’s subways, buses, and railroads. Within minutes, all lines were shut down, the entire system placed under a Code-Red Terrorist Alert.

All incoming trains with scheduled stops at Grand Central Terminal and Penn Station were rerouted, all outgoing cars canceled until further notice. The FAA grounded all aerial vehicles leaving LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark International Airports. The Port Authority restricted all ferries and boats along both rivers. Homeland Security took over the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, dispatching orders to more than nine hundred officers posted at Manhattan’s bridges and tunnel tollgates to shut down all vehicular and pedestrian traffic and turn away anyone attempting to enter or leave the island.

By 11:06 a.m. EST, every Manhattan highway bridge and tunnel was stifled in endless gridlock, the cacophony of a thousand blaring horns the harbinger of the chaos still to come.

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

11:07 a.m.

 

On a patch of dirt and grass littered with spent bullet shells, in the shadow of a three-story building left in shards, a dozen young Iraqi children play soccer.

Patrick Shepherd watches the game from the old church he and his fellow soldiers have been guarding during its renovation. The little girl he has come to know as “Bright Eyes” chases down the ball, only to be quickly overwhelmed by the pack. When the bodies clear, she is left on the ground crying, her right knee bleeding.

Patrick hurries to her. Squeezing through the circle of kids, he squats by her side to inspect the wound. “Don’t cry, Bright Eyes, it’s not too bad. Let’s see if we can’t clean it up.”

Through brown eyes magnified with tears she watches the American soldier push aside his assault rifle and retrieve his medikit. He sprays the wound. Dabs it with gauze. Then fixes a clean bandage and wrap—

—earning himself a hug.

Patrick holds on to the child for a long moment, then releases her to her peers.

The game continues. He returns to the church—greeted by David Kantor. “That was nice.”

“She’s like me, a runt.”

“She’s a heartbreaker. Enjoying the downtime?”

“Not especially. I didn’t enlist to guard a dilapidated church.”

“This church happens to be a national landmark. Ever see the movie, The Exorcist?”

“No.”

“The opening scene was of a desert church—this church. The scenes were filmed in Iraq before Saddam took over, back when the country made good money from the movie industry. Once we restore it—”

“I didn’t enlist to restore old churches used in old movies.” He removes his pistol from its holster, dismantles the gun, then uses an oily rag to wipe it free from sand.

“Why did you enlist?”

“To kill America’s enemies. To prevent another 9/11.”

“Saddam’s regime wasn’t responsible for 9/11.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What I know is that you’ve got some serious anger issues that won’t be resolved with that gun you’re cleaning.”

“Ok, so why are you here?”

“I’m here because of an Iraqi translator I met in Kuwait back in 1991. He was assigned to our platoon as a translator. During a cultural awareness class, he told us he had been a soldier fighting for the national army against the Bathists when Saddam took over. With tears streaming down his face, he described fighting on the steps of the palace in Baghdad. He told us how he had been forced to flee his homeland or be executed. He had to leave his family behind, some of whom were hanged. He told us about how the Bathist soldiers raped and tortured women under Saddam, and how his family had lived in terror of their own government ever since. After the class, he and the other cultural trainers, mostly interpreters who volunteered to help us, walked around shaking our hands and thanking every soldier there for what we were doing. These men were risking their own lives and the lives of their families back home to help us, yet they were thanking us. They were tough grizzled old men—men who had seen fighting far worse than any of us had ever seen, and they were weeping as they recounted the events leading up to the time Saddam and his party had taken over Iraq. I grew to despise Saddam, and I hated the fact that our own government had helped manipulate the dictator into power, then had armed him to the teeth during the Iraq-Iran War. From these men and many others like them, we gained a deep respect for the Iraqi people and their culture. Like most of us, they just wanted to live out their lives in peace without being in constant fear of their own government. To answer your question, Sergeant, I came back here to right a wrong.”

Reassembling his pistol, Shep slams the clip into place and chambers a round. “So did I, Captain. So did I.”

Patrick Shepherd awakened with a start. Anxiety built as his eyes took in the strange surroundings. DeBorn. Private room.

He sat up in bed, his pounding heart demanding his brain remember something far more important. My family . . . Nelson found my family!

He swung his legs off the bed. This was big. Unexpected and sobering. His wife and daughter were in Manhattan. A cab ride away. Would they see him? Could he handle it? What if his soul mate rejected him again? What if she had remarried? And his daughter . . . no longer the curly-haired toddler. Did she have a new daddy? Would she even want to meet him? What would Beatrice have told her about her real father?

“Beatrice.” He repeated the name aloud. It was definitely familiar, yet somehow still alien to him. “Beatrice Shepherd. Bea . . . trice. Bea Shepherd. Bea. Aunt Bea.”

He slammed his palm to his right temple, frustrated to tears.

What about your daughter’s name? First initial? Work the alphabet like the doctor in Germany taught you. A? Audrey? Anna? B? Beatrice . . . no. Barbara? Betsy? Bonnie? He paused. “Bonnie? Bonnie Shepherd? Something’s there . . . ugh, but it’s not fitting!”

He used the bathroom, his nostrils greeted by the usual “patient scent” that inhabited every hospital. “C? Connie? Carol? Maybe D? Diana? Danielle? Debby? Deanna? Dara? Find a book on baby names . . . oh, wait—the library’s computer!”

After rinsing his hands, he hurried out of the private room, nearly running over a fit-looking man carrying a long cardboard box and a laptop computer. “You Sergeant Shepherd? Terry Stringer. I’m your occupational therapist.”

“My who?”

“Your amputee tech. See? I’ve got your prosthetic arm. Real nice one, too. I’m here to attach it and train you how to use it. Your shirt . . . could you remove it?”

“Why? Oh, sorry.” Patrick reentered his room with the therapist. Removed his shirt. “How does this thing work? How much strength will I have?”

“Well, you won’t exactly be the bionic man, but with a little practice, you’ll be fairly functional. Lightweight steel core, with a spongy flesh-like outer coat. This one’s fabricated specifically for transhumeral amputees like yourself. It’s actually a hybrid, one of the new prosthetic models the Defense Department’s been working on to allow amputees to return to combat.”

Shep backed away. “Get me an older one.”

“An older one? Why would . . . oh, I see. Look, forget what I said. No one’s sending you back.” Stringer removed the flesh-colored device from the box, pulled off the protective plastic wrapping. “We slip it over your left shoulder like so, creating skin contact between the device’s electrodes. This will amplify the voluntarily controlled muscles in your deltoid muscle and residual limb. The signals act as switches to move the electrical motors in the prosthetic’s elbow, hand, and wrist. A little pinch . . . now we adjust the support straps. Okay, Sergeant, try moving your new arm.”

Patrick raised the molded appendage but was unable to generate any movement in the arm itself. “It’s not working.”

“It’ll take some getting used to. Let’s practice using the simulator.” Stringer opened his laptop, then connected a set of electrodes from the computer to several contact points located along Shep’s new artificial limb. “Okay, the object is to generate a spike on the monitor by flexing the correct muscle in your deltoid and triceps. Go ahead, give it a try.”

Patrick gritted his teeth and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

“Try this: Close your eyes. Now visualize the muscles connecting to the new limb in your mind. Relax and breathe.”

Shep calmed himself. Tried again.

A tiny streak appeared on the monitor.

“Excellent. You just opened your pincers. Try it again, only this time keep your eyes open.”

Shep focused, managing to flex the mechanical wrist, but was unable to consistently find the right combination to work the pincers.

“It’s frustrating.”

“It takes practice. Remember the phantom pain . . . how long it took your mind to accept the fact you had lost something so vital to your everyday existence? Over time you learned to adapt.”

“I still get the phantom pain.”

“It’ll pass. Every amputee is different. The key is to retrain your brain in order to accept this new limb as your own.”

Stringer worked with him another fifteen minutes, then gathered the trash and empty box. “I’ll leave the computer with you so you can practice.”

“I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Sure you can. You’re still an athlete—train like one. I used to wrestle in high school. My wrestling coach used to tell us fear is nothing more than false expectations appearing real, that the only limits are those we place upon ourselves by our own five senses. Look past what you perceive, Sergeant, and you’ll change your perception.”

 

Tudor City, Manhattan

11:10 a.m.

 

Xenopsylla cheopis—the rat flea—is a parasite specifically adapted to survive on the backs of rodents. Bloodsucking insects, the dozen or so fleas that had been living on the rat colony inhabiting the East 46^th Street alley had become infected with plague the moment their four-legged hosts had entered the trash bin, launching an epizootic event in Lower Manhattan.

When it came to spreading plague, there was no greater vector than the rat flea. As bacteria proliferated in the insect’s stomach, they impeded its throat, starving the tiny creature. Desperate for food, the infected flea attacked its host, biting the rodent over and over, causing the rat to become agitated and aggressive. The animal’s increased pulse rate accelerated the toxin into its bloodstream, adding the rat as a plague vector even as its life ticked quickly away.

At first overly stimulated, then weak and dying, each infected rodent secreted a pungent aphrodisiac that lured another rat to host its plague-carrying fleas while setting off a cannibalistic chain reaction among the other members of the pack. Healthy rats devoured the weak, only to become infected themselves.

Having no use for a dead host, the infected fleas leapt upon the hides of the robust, creating thriving colonies of hundreds of biting, starving fleas that drove the rodents into a frenzy.

The infected swarm raced through Lower Manhattan’s sewers like a frenetic army, moving southwest toward Chinatown and the Battery at a steady six miles an hour.

 

Battery Park City, New York

11:13 a.m.

 

The two-bedroom apartment smelled of fresh paint and new carpets. The hallways were crammed with the last of the cardboard moving boxes.

Beatrice Shepherd poured herself a second cup of coffee and sat in her favorite chair in the alien living room, looking out the bay window at the New York skyline. Life was moving fast again. Her decision to sell her stake in the independent publishing company she had helped start up four years ago had been a difficult one. Of course, working for a major New York publishing house was far more prestigious, and there would be no more worries about making payroll. Still, she was not alone in the decision; there was her daughter. Did she want to come north with her? Was she willing to leave her friends in South Carolina to begin life anew in the Big Apple?

They had toured New York with a Realtor. The Upper West Side was her preference, but her daughter had liked Battery Park. A newer neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. Views of the water. Plus the building had a twenty-four-hour fitness club.

And so they had made the move—her daughter never suspecting that her mother had an ulterior motive for wanting them to be in New York.

 

 

Englewood, New Jersey

11:26 a.m.

 

The dark blue Lexus with the support our troops decal on the rear bumper turned into the southeast entrance of the JC Mall. Cars and SUVs and pickup trucks, their metal hides sooted brown from road salt and slush, monopolized every legal parking spot and every square foot of space not occupied by a mini-mountain of plowed snow. The driver of the Lexus selected a row and joined the game of “follow the shopper to their car” already in progress.

Last-minute bargain hunters. Long lines at registers. Screaming infants and young children playing hide-and-seek while their oblivious mothers carried on lengthy conversations with female cashiers as if they were long-lost cousins. Thermostats set on eighty-five degrees pumped out the kind of heat reserved for a greenhouse in stores lacking so much as a single folding chair.

Christmas week at the local mall. No place for men.

There was a time that Dr. David Kantor would have scanned the crowded parking lot, turned his car around, and left. Sent his assistant with a credit card and a list. Five military deployments in twelve years changes a man. Three Christmas holidays spent in Iraq, and suddenly the worst inconveniences become cherished memories. And so David circled the lot with the patience of Job. Sang along with an old Temptations song on the radio. Offered his expertly scoped-out soon-to-be-vacant parking space to a mother of four in a van. Happily.

The fifty-two-year-old physician and former Army medic no longer practiced medicine. The senior partner at Victory Wholesale Group had seen enough blood and guts and severed limbs and dying young men and women to last several lifetimes. The man who had enlisted in the reserves during the first Gulf War had no intention of going back to the endless second. Not even if they arrested him. Kantor had assured his wife, Leslie, that he already had a plan. The meniscus in his left knee was gone from playing pickup basketball. The anterior ligament hung by a thread. The former shooting guard at Princeton would pop the joint before he got on another transport plane.

The Kantor family was Jewish. David’s four children had received their gifts last week during Chanukah. Today’s shopping list was more business oriented. Knickknacks for vendors and a few special thank-you gifts for his managers. Plus a promised portable DVD player for Gavi, his thirteen-year-old daughter’s reward for having earned straight As. David planned to visit one store and be out of the mall in twenty minutes.

War changed a man, but not everything.

He found another available spot next to a plowed mountain of snow and parked. As if on cue, his cell phone rang. He did not recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Captain Kantor?”

Mention of his military rank caused David’s pulse to race. “Yes?”

“Sir, I’m calling from the Department of the Interior on behalf of the New Jersey National Guard. By order of the Adjutant General, you are ordered to report immediately to the—”

“Wait a second, now you just hold on! Don’t tell me I’m being deployed again! I just got back from setting up a new medical unit eight months ago!”

“No, sir. This is a domestic matter. What is your present location?”

“You mean right now? Uh . . . Englewood.”

“Stand by.”

Beads of sweat drenched the back of his denim shirt. He flexed his left knee.

“Sir, you are to report immediately to the Fort Lee toll booth on the New Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. On the south side of the road you will see the 42^nd Infantry Division Support Command. All duties will be explained when you arrive, all questions answered. You are to power off your cell phone following our call. You are not to discuss this matter with anyone else, civilian or military . . . is that clear, Captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

David hung up, then stared at the cell phone, unsure what had just happened.

 

George Washington Bridge

Washington Heights/Upper Manhattan

11:34 a.m.

 

The George Washington Bridge was a two-level suspension bridge that fed vehicular traffic across the Hudson River, linking the island of Manhattan with northern New Jersey.

The taxicab inched its way north on Broadway through Upper Manhattan, stuck in a seemingly endless line of cars and buses, all waiting to turn left onto West 177^th Street to access the George Washington Bridge. The driver cursed in Hindi, a language his three passengers all understood.

Manisha Patel was a bundle of nerves. Negative energy pulsated from the crystal dangling from her neck like the short-circuiting voltage from a single A battery. “Pankaj, why are we still not moving?”

Her husband, dealing with his own stress, continued to speed dial the cell phone number given to him months earlier by the Tibetan monk calling himself the Elder. “Manisha, please. The traffic will subside, we still have time.”

The driver pressed on his horn as another cab blocked the intersection. “Something must have happened . . . a terrible accident. Look, they are shutting down the I-95 access ramp.”

“Pankaj, do something.”

“What would you have me do? Part the traffic like Moses?”

Ten-year-old Dawn Patel was in the backseat, squeezed between her mother and father. “Please, no more fighting. If the bridge is closed, then find another way.”

“Our daughter is correct. Driver, turn us around. We’ll take the Lincoln Tunnel.”

 

General Assembly Building

United Nations

11:27 a.m.

 

Alpha Team commander Jay Zwawa stood in the moist heat of his cumbersome Racal suit in the evacuated chamber of the General Assembly Building and wondered if he were standing at ground zero for the end of the world. The bravado in him, instilled by a demanding father and an older brother in the military, said not on my watch. The intellect that graduated from West Point with honors pondered the Pandora’s box pried open by the lunatics at the Pentagon and prayed for a miracle.

Members of the Centers for Disease Control, all wearing protective white Racal suits and working in teams of three, moved slowly through the aisles of the empty UN chamber. Each man was armed with a small racquet-shaped sensory device containing a nucleic-acid-based biochip designed to determine if toxic agents were present in the air.

While the CDC completed its work, two members of New York’s bomb squad searched the chamber for the “threatened” explosive device, their presence necessary to sell the world on why the General Assembly Hall had to be abandoned. Distinguished by their fire-retardant jumpsuits and heavy Kevlar hooded jackets and rebreathers, the pair seemed as out of place as sports jackets and denim jeans at a black-tie event.

Jay Zwawa watched the men go about their business, wondering how long he could keep them on his wild-goose chase before accepting their “all clear,” forcing him to alert the public about Scythe.

“Captain Zwawa, over here.” Two of the CDC teams had stopped at the embassy table labeled iraq. “She was here all right, ribosomal sequences are a match. Everyone at this table was exposed to full-blown Scythe, probably every table on either side of this aisle from this point clear back to the exit doors.”

“Make a list of every country situated along this row, I want their diplomatic offices checked first. Then begin a floor-to-floor, suite-to-suite triage of the entire Secretariat Building. Any contaminated offices are to be treated as isolation rooms, with armed guards posted outside. We’ve shut down the building’s ventilation system, so you may want to offer blankets. Tell them we’ll be announcing something soon. Until then, no one is to leave their office suites.”

“How long do you think we can keep a thousand irate heads of state isolated under these circumstances?”

“It doesn’t matter, Sergeant. My orders, and yours, are to get it done.”

 

 

 

 

“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name totalitarianism, or the holy name of liberty or democracy?”

—Mahatma Gandhi

 

 

 

 

“Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends and I think I'm liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it.”

—John Lennon

 

 

 

 

BIO-WARFARE PHASE IV: SOCIETAL PARALYSIS

December 20

VA Medical Center

East Side, Manhattan

11:49 A.M.

(20 hours, 14 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

 

Dr. Jonathan Clark prided himself on being a man of intense self-discipline. Arising before dawn. Oatmeal for breakfast. Chicken salad at noon. Cardio workouts thrice a week for thirty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of weights. As the medical center’s director, he remained the ultimate disciplinarian. The leader must set the pace. Staff were expected to arrive fifteen minutes early to all meetings, what Clark referred to as “Vince Lombardi time.” Every duty had a checklist for success. In Jonathan Clark’s book, rules saved lives and no one, save God, was exempt.

He would have both to thank should he live to see the end of this day.

The deathly pale Russian woman was in agony. She was running a high fever and coughing up blood. X-rays revealed a fractured pelvis. CAT scans showed no serious internal injuries. An emergency C-section was scheduled for 11:45. IVs had been administered, blood tests ordered.

By 11:15, the patient’s delirium had turned violent. Screaming “The Devil exists!” she had carried on as if possessed. Orderlies were forced to strap her down. A nurse sedated her. She was moved to an isolation room to keep her from disturbing the other patients. No one noticed that the Russian woman was ranting in perfect English.

She was being prepped for surgery when Dr. Clark arrived at precisely 11:29 to make his 11:30 emergency-ward rounds. After reviewing the Russian woman’s chart, he proceeded to don a protective gown, gloves, and mask.

“Sir, that’s not necessary. She was only moved into isolation because she was raving like a lunatic.”

“Isolation requires us to follow isolation protocols, I don’t care if you’re going inside just to change a light bulb. Now put on proper attire before I dock you a day’s pay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“According to her chart, she works at the Russian embassy. Have the Russians been contacted?”

“We tried, sir. No answer. Apparently there’s some kind of emergency going on at the UN.”

Dr. Clark waited for the attending physician and nurse to complete dressing before leading them inside the negatively pressurized isolation room.

The woman’s skin was hot to the touch, even through Dr. Clark’s gloves. The flesh was so pale it appeared almost translucent, revealing a thin web of blue veins in her forehead, temples, and neck. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her pupils dilated. The eye sockets were dark and sunken, appearing hollow. Her lips were white, drawn tight over the partially open mouth, which kicked up a blood-laced spittle with every panted breath.

The woman’s ripe belly was exposed and swabbed. The unborn child inside was kicking and contorting violently within its mother’s womb.

“Have you started her on antibiotics?”

“Cefuroxime. No effect.”

Dr. Clark opened Mary’s gown, exposing her smallish breasts. “What are these red marks?”

“We’re not sure. At first we thought they were from the taxi’s impact, she tumbled pretty hard when she hit the street. We’re still waiting for the labs.”

Dr. Clark palpated her abdomen, then worked his way down to her groin, feeling his way along the cotton panties . . . pausing at a bulge. Using a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, he cut loose the fabric, exposing a swollen purplish black rounded lump of flesh the size of a tangerine.

“Sir . . . I swear, that wasn’t there before.”

“This is a bubo, an infected lymph node. Who else besides the two of you have come in contact with this patient?”

“The orderlies. Hollis in Radiology.”

“Plus the EMTs who brought her in.”

“This room is officially quarantined. The two of you are to remain here while we set up an isolation ward and contact the CDC.”

“Sir, I’ve had my TB shots.”

“Me, too.”

“This isn’t tuberculosis, Nurse Coffman. It’s bubonic plague.”

 

There was a negative energy in the air. Though not as obvious as a shrill whistle or dentist’s drill, its presence was palpable, and the occupants of Ward 19-C were clearly agitated. Those under sedation moaned in feverish sleep, their minds haunted, unable to escape the stain of war. The conscious among them clawed at their skin or joined in a chorus of F-bombs aimed at the nurses on duty. One man flung his soiled bedpan across the room, inciting a half dozen more responses.

The wounded soldiers in this ward and a dozen wards like it throughout the tri-state area were not missing limbs; nor were they suffering from bullet or shrapnel wounds. All of these veterans, ages twenty-one through thirty-seven, were dying of cancer.

Despite being outlawed, the United States Armed Forces had continued its blatant use of depleted uranium (DU) to create its munitions. A by-product of the uranium-enrichment process, DU shells were able to penetrate steel and were favored by military contractors because they were so cheap, the depleted uranium offered free to weapon manufacturers by the US government.

When fired, a DU shell burned on impact, releasing microscopic radioactive dust particles that traveled with the wind. Easily inhaled or ingested, depleted uranium was a toxic metal that weakened the immune system, could lead to acute respiratory conditions, renal and gastrointestinal illnesses . . . and cancer.