Heaven, INC: Chapter 4: ENTER THE DOOMSDAY VIRUS

It is dangerous to be right in matters
on which the established authorities are wrong.
—VOLTAIRE

MILLARD FILLMORE JUNIOR HIGH,
MARKET PARK
7:02 AM PDT

THE DEPARTMENT OF NATIONAL SAFETY had established a temporary command post in a school closed three years prior in a round of budget cuts. The school sat off the street across a trash-strewn piece of broken, weedy ground, with dusty windows grated over by iron and padlocked doors and hallways that stank of rat droppings and governmental neglect. Pope and Al found DNS Deputy Chief Inspector Mammon Mills in the cafeteria, flanked by his Chief Deputy Inspector, Leo Carr, and two others unannounced. Gil Streets stood by looking grim. On a speaker-phone that rested atop one of the lunch tables, A.D. Burns was laying out the ground-rules.

“ . . . and until this operation concludes successfully and Dr. Ducroix has been taken into quarantine, DNS is in charge. You will be the Department’s eyes, ears and hands, reporting back regular to your section leader any relevant information you encounter, no matter has small, and section leaders in turn report to their respective Deputy Inspector. I’ll leave it by saying first,” Burns said in his first big summation, “that this is the Superbowl, people, the big one we’ve always worried about. At the same time, it’s what we’ve schemed for, practiced for and prepared ourself in our time in the Bureau to be the best damn security agency in the world . . .”

And even on a conference call with 75 agents in a room, not including all the various ‘Inspectors’, the man had no qualms about going on and on. Fully wound, Burns was a remarkable over-talker, even in the shadow of Armageddon; it did give Pope time to observe the dozen or so Deputy Inspectors, men and women every one of whom could have stepped right out of a fall fashion catalog for J. Crew or Abercrombie and Fitch. In fact, Pope wondered if he’d ever even seen a more universally attractive group of people gathered anywhere, well, at least outside TV.

“ . . . and for third and most importantly, that you are team-players and understand that, for the duration of this mission, and this mission only, all FBI personnel below SAC level will be subordinate to all DNS personnel regardless of relative GS pay-grade . . .”

The Chief Deputy Inspector Mills glanced around, made eye contact and quickly looked away, while Deputy Chief Inspector Carr gaze swept the agents in the room as if looking for disloyalty. Passing over them, Carr paused, and out of the corner of his eye, Pope saw Al shaking his head. Carr went back to munching a bran muffin.

“ . . . last, before I turn you over to the DNS, I want to remind you that the New FBI does not get involved in old-FBI-style turf-wars with other federal agencies especially in a time of international crisis, poor team play will go not be tolerated. Finally, remember who you are and what you represent, the finest law enforcement agency on the planet. And on that note, I now turn you over to DNS— Deputy Chief Inspector Mills, they’re all yours.”

Mills smiled. “Chief Deputy Inspector Mills, sir. Mr. Carr is Deputy Chief Inspector.”

Right. The planet’s finest law enforcement agency suborned to a johnny come lately outfit led by a financial analyst. Jesus wept.

Into a loaded silence, Mills cleared his throat. “Look, I will preface this by saying that, as the member of a fledgling federal agency, it is an honor and worthwhile experience for DNS working alongside such an historic organization as the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And please understand, we at DNS will do our best to make this historic teaming up a total success.” Chief Deputy Inspector Mills surveyed the room with moist little pig eyes behind designer eye-glasses.

Just plain sickening.

. . . while his assistant, Deputy Chief Inspector Carr munched a muffin and while seemingly surveying the room for dissent. Or so it appeared. It occurred to Pope that, unlike his Superman crew of Deputy Inspectors, Mills was a man of average-height and a little dumpy, with his precisely parted hair and air of quiet desperation. Mills the accountant, Carr the slick salesman with silken hanky in his pocket . . .

Mills hit a remote— he did it with the flair of a man accustomed to meetings— and on a screen over the cafeteria’s small stage appeared a slide: a young white male, mid-to-late-twenties, with dark-hair and a suit-coat in the traditional cut. His gaze was one of confidence, and in the slide’s corner was marked C.A. Ducroix.

“Dr. Christian Alain Ducroix,” Mills began, “aged 27 and a graduate of Advanced Microgenomics Polytechnical; I am told AMP is the MIT of genetics, so graduating summa cum laude was quite an achievement. Because of that, he was recently hired to do experimental research for the pharmaceuticals giant, PharmaCon AG. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that Christian’s father is Dr. Dominic Ducroix, who you may recall won the Nobel Prize in science a few years back. The senior Ducroix is Science Director for PharmaCon AG’s Advanced Genetics division. He was last seen at a medical conference in Dallas two days ago and is believed to have been kidnapped in a related operation. While serious, Dallas is a long way away and not nearly as serious as the situation here in San Diego. Here, we have a potential kidnapping merged with the Apocalypse.”

The slide changed to a pair of two-story buildings surrounded by lush jungle.

“It started here three weeks ago at a PharmaCon facility in Brazil on the South Guyanan border. Ducroix arrived two weeks ago at the facility, Site 23, but for the last week, worked at a remote camp in the Tazotec Highlands, for which he should thank his stars.”

The image changed from the map to a beat-up pontoon plane, the figure in the photo with the big camera hung around his neck waving back at what appeared to be early morning.

“The pilot, Ramirez, picked Dr. Ducroix up down-river from his camp yesterday and flew him to Caracas, where Ducroix caught an immediate flight back to the States,. Meanwhile, the pilot returned with the mail.”

The slide changed back to Site 23. Now, though, the buildings were burned and the jungle around them blackened. In the foreground was a man’s partially burnt body lay with a red hole in his forehead and two more blackened bodies amid the compound’s ruins; at the picture’s edge was a half-burned bush-plane.

“This is what the relief research team happened upon arriving late yesterday afternoon at Site 23 for their bi-monthly rotation: the man you see with hole in his forehead is Dr. Alvin Frohelder, the site zoologist; the others are his assistant and the pilot, all dead by gun-shot. According to the station-log, Dr. Frohelder and the other two were shot trying to escape a self-imposed quarantine after the viral breach had been discovered— Chief of Science Andrews calculated that if any of the three men carried the virus out of the jungle, it could wipe out a majority of the world’s population within a year.” Mills let the words hang a moment, before showing a series of security shots featuring three Hispanic males moving through a laboratory with pistols drawn, first in ski-masks and then just surprised expressions.

“A team of terrorists sent to destroy the lab in conjunction with the kidnapping of both Ducroix’s, Christian in San Diego and his father in Dallas. Ironically, the assassins arrived to find the research team already dead, the compound burned and their work essentially done. Here you can see them take a moment to enjoy their good fortune.”

The security camera now showed the three terrorists lounging in the rec room, playing pool and tipping beers; on a counter appeared to be pillow-cases, loaded with stolen swag. The slide changed again, the three men now laid out on beds and bullet holes in the walls.

“Fortunately, Venezuelan police located the men and their hideout within 24 hours. The terrorists refused to be taken alive and were killed in the ensuing gunfight. For the world, it was a wonderful break as the virus was stopped in that motel room and with the quarantining of the relief team, it appears the virus has been stopped dead in its tracks in South America and allows us to focus solely on what’s happening in San Diego and across the border, in Tijuana.”

A map of Market Park appeared, an area of southeast San Diego south of the 94 that in Pope’s Navy days was a hidden enclave of working class people and a melting pot of culture, color and language. Pope remembered the area from their first apartment, on Hamilton, where James was born, a stone’s throw from 105th. A red line was drawn to border it, from the 805 and out to 105th Street, the epicenter of which was Norcestor and Imperial.

“This is where Dr. Ducroix went missing, but before we go any further into that, let’s take a couple minutes for Dr. Erikkson of the CDC bring you up to speed on the biology of what we’re dealing with, so you can get a grasp the seriousness of all this.” He looked to an older man in a cardigan sweater and pushed-up sleeves. Even in his bulky sweater, Doctor Eriksson was thin and almost elf-like, with a little beard and glasses that hung around his neck on a librarian’s chain. Without looking at his audience, he fingered the remote and the slide changed to a spherical object, fuzzy like a dandelion puff ball but somehow far more sinister.

“The virus, Tazotec Flivoviridae, seen here magnified a million times— note the spherical shape similar to that of influenza, another highly communicable virus. Like it, Tazotec can be spread via casual human contact.” The slide changed to a squiggly thread-like thing. “This is Tazotec from the inside. Curiously, appearances notwithstanding, Tazotec’s genetic make-up is actually closer to the class of hemorrhagic fevers containing the Ebola virus. The prime difference here is that while we believe Tazotec is more pathogenic than even Ebola, Tazotec is far more easily, through a simple cough or handshake or, in the case of Site 23, by the person delivering the mail.”

The next slide was a guy in a scraggly beard, Kansas ballcap and granny glasses slid down his nose. "The lab manager, Mike Mae, with responsibility for the entire facility. Mae's position granted clearance in all departments including the Primates section, where the chimp, Mr. Baxter, bit Mae just as the UD-16 virus was undergoing its catastrophic mutation."

The slide changed from a gaunt, near-death chimp to one looking hale and hearty.

“Unfortunately, without the research team knowing it, the benign, UD-16 version of the virus in Mr. Baxter suddenly and inexplicably mutated into the one we’ve dubbed Tazotec. Concommitantly, Mr. Mae was violating quarantine protocol—” Mr. Baxter now in a Chargers jersey and holding a beer bottle “and so exposed himself to the mutant virus. Before Mr. Mae’s symptoms revealed themselves, the lab’s entire staff, including the pilot, had been exposed.”

Pope shifted in his chair, trying to get some comfort from a hemorrhoid that seemed to be infected by a mutant virus of its own. On the screen, inside one of those bubble-boy bubbles, the lab manager lay in a hospital bed with his face marked by red splotches.

“We don’t yet know precisely how long after exposure the victim becomes infectious, but this is Mae only hours after exposure to the infected chimp. As you can see, by now, the virus is raging, producing vast copies of itself and throwing off infection to anyone coming near.” The slide changed to close-up; the splotches were grown and beginning to rupture with a gooey, red ooze, and the kid’s dazed gaze now the gaze of the dying Pope had seen in Vietnam. “At this point, Mae’s temperature has risen to over 106 degrees and his body is an inferno as various organs begin shutting down and the virus reaches its final stage.” Erikkson paused to look the crowd over a moment, regarding them in his avuncular red cardigan with the pushed-up sleeves.
“Ladies and gentleman, I’m sure you’re all pretty tough folks, but this next slide’s liable to make some a little queasy, so be forewarned. . .”

A pause, and the slide of the lab manager and his far away stare changed to a congealed slick of reddish-black goo coating the remains of a human skeleton. At one end was a Kansas cap and other ‘things’.

Al leaned in, whispering, “Gideon, I think there’s a goddamn eyeball floating in there.”

“This,” Dr. Erikkson said, “is Mae less than 48 hours after exposure to the virus. As you can see, it essentially liquified him as it reached the final stage and began to erupt from every cell in the body.”

Eriksson paused a moment before putting the slide of Christian Ducroix went up again. “We do not know if Dr. Ducroix was infected by the pilot during his flight, but it’s distinctly possible. If he is indeed infected, then given the ease of transmission and conviction with which it kills, CDC believes Tazotec represents the single greatest threat mankind’s ever faced.” Erriksson’s gaze swept the room. “Any questions.”

There was an astonished pause, then people were raising their hands. “Doctor, what about the bodies? Are they infectious in death?”

“Indeed, it would appear they are. We’ve found cellular activity up to 24 hours after.” Eriksson made a pained expression. “That’s why it’s imperative we locate Ducroix dead or alive and as soon as possible.”

Stephanie McKimbelroy’s hand shot up. “Doctor, is there any treatment at all? If, say, the virus were caught early?”

Eriksson shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. As with other flivoridae, treatment is constrained to supportive methods to combat secondary infections; given the speed and ferocity with which Tazotec kills, this approach is one of simple comfort.”

When Eriksson gave way to Mills, Mills again took up the remote, saying, “Now lets talk about the kidnappers here in San Diego, a team of Russian intelligence operatives using the classic swallow method to get close to Dr. Ducroix . . .”