Not anymore, anyway.”
These words echoed through her head as she sat, uncomfortably, many hours into the 16 hour Trans-Atlantic flight in the back of the C130.
"The C130J Super Hercules Troop Transport," the Lieutenant said, "Is one of the most uncomfortable vehicles ever created. The word troop was only added as a lure to try and convince perfectly reasonable people, well aware that this thing won't be comfortable, that it was meant to move people from place to place."
They were standing on the tarmac of a military airbase, the sound of the running engines droned on above him, the wind from the prop wash whipped her hair about.
"The 'troop' is a lie," he said again.
She was starting to like the man, who's skin was as black as any she'd ever seen, and when he smiled, his teeth glimmered bright white, even in the dark running lights in the back of the plane, she could barely see him, and since he seemed to be resting his eyes, she could see them, but she could just make out the glimmer of his white teeth. He'd met her that afternoon, at her office at the University, his cap clutched in his hands, when he came in his dress uniform to tell her that they needed her to come with them.
She was, at first, a little confused by the situation. She couldn’t understand why these military men had just shown up in her office at the University. She was working on her lecture for the next day’s class he had stepped into the room, saying something about needing to take her to a meeting. She protested initially, but he just calmly said, "I really must insist Ms. Barber."
He didn't say much as they sat through rush hour coming into D.C. from across the river. They were in the vehicle for what felt like hours, and possibly even were hours, but she couldn't tell, trying to stare out of the tinted windows of the SUV. She pointed out, with exasperation, that if they were going into D.C., they could have let her finish with her lecture for the next day's class first, because now she was going to be horribly behind schedule, and they weren't going to arrive any sooner than they would have if they’d waited a little longer.
There was not, though, any way of arguing with these people. Clearly, their mission was to retrieve her and bring her to where ever they were going.
The back of the SUV was designed like a limousine, so that her row of seats faced back, toward the last row, which faced forward. "Can you tell me anything about what's going on?" She'd already asked several times, and the only information she'd gotten was that he was Lieutenant Marcus Jackson, and that he was merely there to pick her up and bring her, as quickly as possible to a meeting in Washington. This information, she reflected, contained only one bit she hadn't already been able to glean on her own. It was that his first name was Marcus.
They finally arrived, and she was let out in an underground parking lot, and she realized that she had no idea where she was. The soldiers, Marines by the look of them, were ushering her to an elevator just a few feet away, they had big black machine guns that were hanging from clips on their uniforms. She noticed that it seemed funny that they didn't have straps, as she'd always thought they'd been.
On the elevator was another world. While the parking garage she'd just been in seemed completely unremarkable, and perhaps a couple decades old, she felt like she'd just stepped onto some sort of futuristic tube transport. The entire car was highly polished stainless steel. There were no buttons, and no lights that she could see, even the actual light seemed to be just coming from all around them rather than from some sort of tube or bulb.
Then the car moved. It went, as far as she could tell, straight down. It did this very quickly, leaving her stomach, and most of her Caeser Salad lunch behind. It took only a few seconds to reach their destination, and the doors opened and she half stumbled off. It was like one of the express elevators that she used to ride when she was a girl in Minneapolis, back when her papa used to take her up to the top of the IDS building. You couldn't get there anymore, but she still remembered the disconcerting feeling of those elevators.
There was a short hallway in front of them, and the Lieutenant led the way toward a rather impressive set of double doors, which opened automatically as they approached with a loud hiss, and a light electric whir from somewhere inside the thick walls.
Then they were in a conference room, and there were several men seated at a large table, all of whom seemed very important and impressive, and were either wearing regal uniforms or extremely fine looking dark suits. She was directed to sit down, and they proceeded to explain exactly why she was there, and what they needed her to do.
On the C130, she'd learned to block out the sound of the huge prop engines droning on and on. She'd learned to ignore the sounds of the various metal buckles on straps that rattled and banged against the fuselage. And eventually, she slept.
She woke as the huge plane was making its decent. She turned and looked out of the little porthole behind her. The sun was bright, though she'd left in the late evening; it was now mid-morning on arrival. The desert expanded, vast and huge into the hills and mountains, which seemed impossibly far in the distance.
The lieutenant was there then, ushering her out of the back, which opened like a huge mouth into a ramp. At the base was a small convoy of black SUVS, very similar to the one she’d ridden in from the University in Virginia. There was another soldier, who looked she was no more than 16 years old, holding the back door of the third SUV open, Lt. Jackson directed her toward that door, and then, after grabbing some of the things off the plane and putting them in the back of the fourth SUV, he got in with her.
“It’s going to be about an hour’s drive from here to the building. If you’d like to try and sleep again, you’re welcome, but I can tell you from experience that it’s tough to sleep in these things, the roads around here aren’t exactly well paved.”
She watched out of the windows, wondering at the fact that she was now in another country. Not only was she in another country, but she was in an actively war torn country, and she was on the way to study what might be the first active case of ZBHVH3 in 10 years. She was also terrified.
“Can I look at the photos again?” She asked the Lieutenant. He handed her the entire dossier, and she suddenly felt more important than she’d ever felt in her life.
She studied the photos again. There were 3 victims, so far. She had written a paper, and had most extensively studied the virus, which is why the military came to her. They had already identified it as a potential diagnosis, and had confided in her that they really hoped she could prove them wrong.
The problem was that there had only ever been a diagnosis of this particular viral infection 4 times in the last 30 years. Both had happened in very unusual circumstances and had very little documentation. She had actually studied only one of 5 known tissue samples and had only her own studies to base her conclusions on, and they weren’t positive conclusions.
The SUV bounced along the desert road past a few mud huts, small huddled communities of poor and oppressed. Slowly, though, the landscape began to give way to more developed homes and businesses. Eventually they were driving through the main street of a medium sized city. The buildings, while larger and more advanced, were still fairly rudimentary. She also noted that it was a rather monochrome, everything was a shade of desert color.
“We’re coming up on the apartment complex.”
She turned and looked out the windshield to see a large building completely covered by plastic with a plastic tube leading to a large tent that encompassed a major part of the street. There were many soldiers posted all around.
“As I said before, Dr. Barber, we’ve completely sealed the building. We’ve had our own people set up the lab, and everything is ready for you.”
The lab, as the Lieutenant called it, was filled with equipment that Dr. Jeanine Barber had been begging her grant board for years to get, and some that she hadn’t even had the opportunity to request yet. She tried to temper her excitement over the equipment with the fact that there were people inside that were really sick.
It took several minutes to get into the bio-contamination suits and pass through the quarantine seals. She had several soldiers that had volunteered, or, more likely, were volunteered, to act as assistants to her. She set them to work, initially, on setting up the equipment, and then insisted on going inside to meet with the infected.
“Dr. Barber, you’re here because you’re the most knowledgeable person in your field on ZBHVH3 virus.” The man at the head of the table was talking, and she felt herself intake harshly.
“Has there been an infection?” She asked, before she could catch herself, then, “There hasn’t been an- It’s nearly impossible!”
The man was dressed like the ever important, high ranking Generals she saw on TV, and assumed that he probably was. He was an old man with white hair cut very short against his wrinkled head, and though he was old, he looked rugged, and powerful.
Another man took over, a younger man with thin wireframe glasses, and a Clark Kent hairstyle, “Ms- Dr. Barber. We’ve had people on the ground for two hours trying to verify, unfortunately, there’s hardly any credible information available and we really only have your paper to work from. You’ve seen the virus first hand, and we hoped that you could perform the first hand analysis and give up the verification we need.”
She didn’t know what to say, but was saved the trouble of thinking of something, for at least a few moments by another man in a uniform, “We know that time is of the essence. We’d like you on a plane and in the field, leaving now, we’d have you there, under cover, within 18 hours.”
“Under cover?” She asked.
Someone else spoke, this time, she couldn’t see him in the background, “Forgive him, he doesn’t know how to speak civilian. He means that this whole this is very top secret and hush-hush, and we’re not going to do anything that might get out into the media.”
She squinted a little, trying to make out the voice. She thought, strange as it was, that it belonged to the President himself, at least it sounded like him, but without the crazy accent he always used. She was so busy doing this that she didn’t realize that it had been decided she agreed. Of course, though, she’d agree. She had dedicated many years of her life to the study of this virus. It was, in her opinion, a nearly perfect virus. It held a sort of mystique for her. As she was escorted out to the elevator again, someone told her that she’d have everything she needed when she arrived.
Inside the building was dark. Very dark, and stiflingly hot, and the enormous suit she wore didn’t help. It had a small fan inside that worked to help circulate the air some, but it wasn’t much help.
She walked through the small entryway which led directly to a set of stairs. On the stairs were two soldiers wearing bio-suits, and 3 who were not, both were talking to each other in hushed tones.
“You know, they’re just gonna-“ started one, but he was cut off by another.
“Shh, shhhh,” said the other, “they aint gonna do shit like that.”
One of the soldiers, wearing the bio suit, stepped up, “you’re the Dr. they sent down?”
“Yes, I need see the infected.”
One of the soldiers that weren’t wearing bio-suits stepped up, the one who’d quieted the other, “Fourth floor, Third door to the left off the stair case, the door that’s just splinters now. We’re the ones that found ‘em. Simple raid, supposedly small group of “terror suspects” were having a meeting. Turned out to be a family of sick sand-ni-”
She gasped and he didn’t finish his sentence. He dropped his eyes, somewhat sheepishly, and returned to the alcove beside the stairs with the others. She looked up the stairs. It was an open stair case that led up, there were three units on each side and the floors were open to the stairs. She could see the doors to the units on the next floor about to the right, but other side and other floors were blocked by flights of stairs.
There were two soldiers accompanying her, one was a Private Martinez, the young woman who’d opened her door when they arrived, the other was a Corporal Donahue, who was, she believed, her translater.
They made their way, slowly in the bulky suits, up the stairs. Through small windows at each level there were streams of light that came in, focused at points on the floor. They accented the swirling dust in the air. Over the sound of the small fan in her suit, she could make out, barely, the sound of people behind each of the doors. There was mostly just conversation in a language she couldn't understand, but also she could occasionally make out a television show or cartoon here and there.
When they finally reached the unit, there were two more soldiers in suits standing guard at what was left of the door, which was broken and splintered so that only a sliver of the hollow wood still hung. It swung slightly as they brushed past it and stepped inside.
Inside the apartment was, in her opinion, another world. It was very dark and simply decorated. The walls were painted brown, or perhaps stained brown. The furniture reminded her of the 70's styles that were part of her youth.
They immediately in the living room, and she saw the first infected and was shocked. The leasons on his face and arms were more substantial now than she had expected. He sat, hunched over, smoking a cigarette. He didn't bother to look up as they entered.
She stood there looking at him, and finally realized that she was supposed to be doing something. She stepped toward him, and he looked up at her. There was anguish in his eyes, and she felt a pang of sorrow, knowing that this man would be dead within 24 hours, probably sooner. She hoped he couldn't see her pity.
"You can just speak, I'll translate for you," said Cpl. Donahue.
She looked down at the man and introduced herself. She talked with him for a few minutes, learning about him and when the symptoms presented themselves. After this she went into the bedroom where he said his wife and daughter were laying, both were, he said, worse than he was.
He was right. When she enter the bedroom, she found both of them, mother and daughter, lying on the bed together. Both were shivering almost convulsively, and she shuddered to see them.
She had to fight to get onto the initial research team for the virus. She had found information, quite literally hidden away, in a paper on the desk of one of her professors. She was immediately fascinated by the properties and nature of it.
While its name implies a combination of several minor viruses, this particular strain is amazing because of its apparent ability to continually over-power and add components of other viruses it encounters to itself. She had wished she could have named it herself because she felt it would have been both funny and appropriate to call it 'The Borg' virus.
She was fascinated at how long it took to find the original virus in the infected tissue samples they had, it was so completely buried in the other 3 components it had encountered. It had, by all regards, taken the most important aspects of the other viruses and added it to itself, and it seemed that resistance really was futile (which was the how she really wanted to end her paper, but on the imploring and urging of her colleagues, she left it out).
Now, standing here, she was realizing several things: first was that seeing this virus in real life, in its full force was frightening, the second was that it was infecting and progressing much faster than she thought that it could, and finally, that the wounds here looked nearly identical to those of the original victim, whose tissue she’d studied.
She confided this to her chaperones, and had to stop Cpl. Donahue has he started translating, hushing him.
Her case had been left in the other room, so she went out to it, and got out the intial supplies that she would need. She instructed Pvt. Martinez in the methods of drawing blood for testing, and marking the containers, and left her with the man in the living room. She took Cpl. Donahue with her into the bedroom.
The young girl’s breathing was shallow and weak. The mother’s breathing wasn’t much better. She stood over them, taking note of how fragile they both appeared, and again realizing that their deaths were both imminent. Again, she had to force herself to focus on the work and not the people involved.
After gathering blood and tissue samples, she hurried back down to her lab to begin tests and studies. It didn’t take long, with the advanced equipment at her disposal, to be able to verify that this was a strain of the virus. She discovered, however, that there were some differences, and as she studied and tested, those differences began to scare her. She asked to speak to the Lieutenant, and within a few minutes she was given a phone, the lieutenant on the other end.
“Have you made progress, Doctor?”
“I have, but I’ve found a few things that have me concerned.”
“I won’t guarantee I’ll understand what you’re saying, Doctor, but I’ll try and relay the information the best that I can.”
She looked at a series of print outs and glanced up at a few screens on monitors that were display various pieces of information, as if to verify what she was about to say, even though she’d already double checked her work. Triple checked it as well.
“There are a lot of anomalies here, but this seems to be an identical strain to the one that I studied.”
“So you’re sure it’s the same virus then?”
“No, that’s just it; it’s not just the same virus, it is the exact same strain. Although it seems to have gained some new characteristics along the way, including some intrinsic qualities belonging to four other viruses, it is the same virus that I studied.”
“We appreciate the verification. You’re free to study the infection inside the building now, find out if the infection has spread, and how badly.”
With that, the line went dead, and she set down the handset. Something about this didn’t add up. Why was the same virus that she’d studied years ago suddenly appearing here, over 5,000 miles away? How, from an isolated set of cases, restricted to two possible victims without the widespread infection that would have come from additional infected, with such a limited number of tissue samples available.
She tried to focus in on the research, she when back inside to talk to the family. Back in the apartment, she found the man still sitting on the couch, still smoking. She asked him again, through her translator, how he might have been infected.
They were in the middle of speaking with the man when there was a massive explosion, and as the building caved in on itself, and fire poured in through the cracks on the floor, the words echoed in her mind again, “The United States Government doesn’t take chances. Not anymore.”
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