“I saw in heaven another great and marvelous sign: seven angels with the seven last plagues- last, because with them God’s wrath is completed.”
Revelation 15:1
Samarra hurried across the Conference Center parking lot, toward her minivan. She was a minivan-mom more than a soccer mom, at least at this time in her life; because Thomas was only six and too young for dangerous sports where people clamor over the gates, tear down fences and throw drinks and chairs on the opposite team crowds. She had seen plenty of that on CNN during the World Soccer Championships, and her precious son would not take part.
Samarra was energy conscious, believed in going green, and promoted her feelings with a new Volvo V70 Electric/Hybrid minivan, the only diesel-electric minivan on the market; and the Volvo was just barely on the market, having been introduced to the United States six months earlier than predicted.
Because of the unusually hot weather, Samarra had parked her new Volvo at the extreme corner of the lot under the only large, white oaks that bordered the newly asphalted pavement. She knew the white minivan would reflect the harsh heat; but Samarra’s body didn’t seem to be reflecting much, beginning to perspire from all the pores of her largest body organ, her skin becoming more-and-more clammy as she hurried. The asphalt was burning her feet right through her soles. Every day seemed hotter.
“Girls don’t sweat Samarra, they glisten,” and she remembered one of her Mother’s keenest sayings. She called it the Glisten Proverb.
Samarra was not glistening but sweating profusely by the time she finally reached the back door of the new Volvo, opening the door and tossing in her modest, denim purse. Samarra was not showy, at least it wasn’t her intention. She drew enough attention naturally, from both men and women.
The hot air blasted from the backseat furnace; and Samarra wished she had chosen white for the interior too, though the dark tan did look nice. Starting the car so the air conditioning could take the singe out of the interior, she was glad she had her lightweight gloves, newly purchased after a previous encounter with a scorched steering wheel. The V70 had an air conditioned steering wheel, but she knew it would be hot at the moment, as she skirted into the front seat, also cooled with tiny tubes of Freon circulating just below the dark leather.
Samarra pushed the button to start the near-silent electric engine, and the Outdoor Air Temperature displayed one hundred five degrees on the driver’s console. It had been hotter just a few days before; but anything over a hundred was too hot for her, and unusual for Atlanta. Samarra had no doubt, being a scientist, that global warming was happening but had serious doubts that it was man-made, since the planet had been warming at least since the last ice age. Ten thousand years earlier, most of Europe and North America were covered with glacial ice; and Samarra knew that ice had been melting ever since.
As she fastened her electronically-assisted seat belt, Samarra turned onto Clifton Road, running over the curb, and began winding her way through the maze of streets, bordered today with blooming pink dogwoods and white blossomed cherries, the streets that would take her to her home in Buckhead, Atlanta’s “Old Money” neighborhood of multi-acre lots, landscaped with magnificent magnolias and ninety-foot hardwoods, maids, nannies, butlers and gardeners.
Samarra managed to hit almost every red light between Emory and home, and she began to wonder if she would make it to young Thomas’ day camp by four o’clock. He preferred to be called Tom because of his favorite cartoon character in Tom & Jerry. All the stops gave her way too much time to contemplate the strange call she received on her Blackberry just thirty minutes before. She had called her husband, Jack, on the way home; but Jack was in Israel and wouldn’t be home for another two days. She left a message for him to call, but didn’t know if it was urgent, so did not tell him so.
Pulling into the quarter-mile tiled driveway of her three story, stone-sided home on Tuxedo drive, she parked at the front entrance rather than the attached six-car garage, noting that the nanny’s SUV was still parked by the Nanny Quarters. Samarra wondered why. Yesterday, at Semantha’s request, she agreed that Semantha could have today off after taking Thomas to the Beth El Shaddai Day Camp. She was flying to New York for her sister’s wedding.
She knew that Semantha already had her Delta tickets; and Samarra found it worrisome as she rushed up the steps, into the front, French-doored entryway and into the kitchen, where a small pool of blood remained from what appeared to be a much larger stain. Samarra, as shaken as she was, picked up the note and read:
Do not call your husband or the police before you open the package.
Forty-five minutes north of Samarra’s newly bloodstained kitchen floor, Jeff was cleaning up his own kitchen. There were no bloodstains on his kitchen floor, just cat hair and some mustard. He kept thinking about the lecture he started to attend with Samarra but didn’t, wondering why he was that way, why anything religious repulsed him; but he had been that way even as a young boy.
“Maybe you’re just scared of God, Jeffrey. Maybe you’re a Godophobe, did you ever think about that?” his mom asked him when he finally had the nerve to tell her that he just didn’t believe all that Bible stuff, that people could not walk on water or part seas with a stick or feed five thousand people with two fish and a loaf of bread. It defied the laws of physics.
“You’re a smart boy Jeffrey, so you ought to investigate.” Mom continued, “And God invented the laws of physics, Mr. Smarty-pants. Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”
He wasn’t, or at least hadn’t been, but now he was beginning to question himself about his resistance to anything religious. He read numerous newspapers every day, scanned Department of Defense websites, watched Discovery and National Geographic, and couldn’t get enough astronomy; but for whatever reasons, he had no interest in mythology, including Nostradamus. Suddenly, a silent question awoke in the small parts of his mind. Was it mythology?
“I’m sorry Mom, but I just have no use for organized religion. I’ve been to church, several as a matter of fact. By the time they sing their songs, pass the plate and stand up to hug some complete stranger on the next row, like that’s what God wants them to do, there’s only twenty minutes left for God anyway.” Jeff knew she wouldn’t like that statement. And he was right.
“Let me tell you something sonny-boy,” she called him that when she was scolding, “Do you have any idea how many people in the world would be dying of starvation or disease or whatever if it wasn’t for the churches and synagogues? Look how much the Catholic church has done for the sick and impoverished of the world.”
“Mom, atheists and Buddhists give money to the needy too.”
“Oh really? So when was the last charitable contribution you made? Plus I didn’t say ‘give money,’ I meant give help. Help a stranger. Help someone in need. Do something nice for someone other than yourself and family.”
Jeff’s thoughts drifted back to the mustard stain on his kitchen floor, and the clock on the stove told him he would have to leave soon to make it to MARTA on time.
He recently paid ninety-seven thousand dollars for a new car, though a GTR wasn’t just a car; but he had donated none to a charity recently. Four years earlier Jeff had donated to a few charities, $ 5,000 to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital and $ 7,000 to The Shriner’s Hospital for Children, he had a special place in his heart for suffering children, plus he was married at the time. Melissa always insisted in giving fifteen percent to the Church and various charities.
“I thought God only asked for ten percent, Miss Generosity,” he would often remind Melissa; but he knew if there really did turn out to be a Judgment Day, and there wouldn’t, Melissa would earn some bonus brownie points with God for that extra five percent.
After checking the guest bath that Chad would use, just to make sure that everything was kosher; clean towels, toilet paper, nothing embarrassing in the medicine cabinet, Jeff went to his bedroom suite, because that’s what it was, and changed in to khaki jeans and a lime-green Jimmy Buffett T-shirt. Opening his overnight bag to retrieve some cologne he had left from the previous overnighter, a book fell out and onto the closet floor, book corners protected by the plush Berber carpet on which it fell. Jeff didn’t remember leaving a book in the bag. He leaned over, felt the hardback binding on the floor; and to his surprise, it was a Gideon Bible.
How did that get in there, he wondered, knowing he definitely didn’t take it, though it was there for the taking. Gideon Bibles had been in hotel rooms since 1899, there for the taking. But he hadn’t taken it, because he didn’t want it.
He tossed the Gideon back in the bag, forgetting the cologne that started his journey into the closet, and slipped on his tan Sperry Docksiders, grabbed the GTR keys and headed to MARTA, always remembering the racist description the Liberian taxi driver had attributed to the transit abbreviation so many years earlier.
Samarra felt faint and leaned against the stainless SUB- ZERO refrigerator, the Rolls Royce of fridges, trying to maintain her balance. Confused, she picked up the kitchen phone to call 911, surely she had to do that, but reread the note first and decided better, or to at least open the package first. She wondered how a bloodstain could be on her granite floor, noting that granite really did stain, and wondering, where was Semantha?
The heart-shaped Valentine box, resting on the black granite countertop, stood out not because Valentine’s Day was almost three months ago; but because there were no shipping labels or packaging. The package had been hand delivered by someone who left, or caused, a blood stain on the kitchen floor. Samarra began to feel even more violated.
Anxious for the first time in as long as Samarra could remember, she did not rush to open the Valentine Box. She was sure there was no candy inside. She gently pried the box apart, holding her breath, her heart beating so loudly she could hear it over the tick-tock of the miniature grandfather clock that graced the far kitchen corner.
The two severed fingers would have been enough of a shock, except one finger had the small, silver ring of her precious son, Thomas; and the other appendage was longer and not as smoothly severed as was Thomas’. Samara did lose her balance this time, partly catching herself as she collapsed to the floor, tears not yet forming in her tear ducts because she was hoping this could just be a bad dream.
Unlike Jeff’s bad dream the day before, Samara was not experiencing the land of pleasant dreams but the world of reality-gone-mad. Gaining some composure, she slowly stood and opened the small Valentine’s card that was in the box and read:
We have your son and the nanny. If you call the police, your husband, anyone, the next box will have Thomas’ head. Read the enclosed letter.
Samarra unfolded the letter, tears now formed and streaming down her quivering, olive cheeks that no longer smiled, and read the handwritten note.
You have something we need. This can be very simple. Go to the CDC tonight after the late shift begins, remove all vials of the Spanish Flu, liquid and powder forms. Place the vials of liquid in the container that is in your refrigerator. Go to the Publix at Peachtree Battle and buy twelve ounces of dry ice to put into the container.
Replace the Spanish Flu vials with vials of blood serum. Take the container with the liquid and powder vials to the roof-top mechanical room. The roof hatch alarm has been deactivated.
This must be done tonight. Be at the security desk at CDC at exactly 11:50. Do not be late, and do not be early, be exact. We have a diversion planned for 11:51.
When you enter the mechanical room, there will be two large chillers. Place the package by the chilled-water pump on the left side of the chiller on the left. The pipe coming from the pump will have a green arrow that indicates water flow.
That’s all you have to do. In twenty-four hours, Thomas will be back in your arms, unharmed, other than the finger that was surgically removed. By the way Mrs. Russell, Thomas was anesthetized and never felt a thing. The nanny will be released twenty-four hours after your son, just to make sure you do not call the authorities. We do not wish to hurt anyone.
We do not wish to hurt anyone??? Samarra felt the irony was lost in the child-like script and the two severed fingers.
You know what will happen if you contact authorities or anyone else. We know everything you say and do, so we will be watching.
By the way, how was your conference today, and your lunch at Dusty’s?
The note ended.
Samarra knew what she had to do, no… what she should do. She could not do this horrible thing and wondered if the finger- severing writer had any idea what he was requesting. Or she.
In a research paper for Johns Hopkins University School of Epidemiology on the mortality rate of the Spanish Flu virus, Samarra had explained that what smallpox had done to the world population in thousands of years, the 1918-1919 Spanish Flu virus had surpassed in less than two. An estimated forty million were killed worldwide, and rumors of deaths exceeded sixty million. Half the world’s population of one billion people at that time were infected.
Of the United States soldiers who died in Europe during World War I, more than half, 650,000 soldiers, died from the Spanish Flu, ten times more deaths than caused by the War itself.
Samarra opened the SUB-ZERO and there it was, a toolbox sized container; and she wondered how much virus the perpetrators thought was available. Surely not enough to fill the toolbox. My God, that would wipe out the whole world. She knew that for a fact.
Could she do this? Could she live with herself, knowing that millions might be killed by this act? The vials of Spanish Flu virus-medium were of a modified virus, even deadlier now than the original; but not quite as contagious. Close personal contact was necessary for the virus to spread.
Carefully opening the candy box once more, Thomas’ ring glared, like a beacon; and she knew she could do it. She had to. Samarra wasn’t a crier; but tears began to flow again, more profusely than before, as the reality of the situation began to set in. Samarra knew her life would be forever changed after today’s events. She wished to herself that she had not asked Jeff to go to the conference with her, that she had decided not to go, blaming herself for not being here. Maybe she could have prevented this from happening.
The guilt formed in the wee parts of her brain, and even her heart ached and beat more assertively. Samarra began to plan her late night visit to the CDC Bio 4 lab, the guilt gnawing at her conscience. Guilt because she was choosing her son’s life over possibly thousands, millions or worse. She wondered what Jack would do but dared not call him.
They were watching, she was sure of that.
Samarra left the estate, heading for the Peachtree Battle Publix, where she would purchase the dry ice. It wouldn’t take much, as the inside of the toolbox-sized container was lined with a thick insulation; and Samarra contemplated how she would get the container into the facility. The conspiracy was born, a plan that would not only change Samarra and Jack Russell’s life but the world’s economy and mortality rate.
Samarra’s thoughts drifted back in time to her initial research of the virus. She had been in Norway when the bodies of the five fishermen were exhumed, believed by many to be the first five victims of the deadly virus. She remembered thinking about what would happen if the virus was ever loosed again on society. Samarra was well aware that the Spanish Flu was a hideous disease, the worst mankind had suffered in the annals of recorded history. Forty to fifty million dead in just two years.
Some researchers believe that the virus originated with five Norwegian fishermen who visited a Spanish port, and others believe that it originated at Ft. Riley, Kansas and spread to the troops serving overseas in World War I. This has never been confirmed. The first reported cases came during the winter of 1918, about the time World War I ended, and sickened millions over the two-year duration.
At first there were few deaths; but by the summer of 1919, the Spanish Flu virus merged with the common flu and mutated, or evolved, into an extremely lethal form, spreading rapidly by train and steamship passengers throughout Europe and then to Canada and the United States.
In the United States, one of the first outbreaks occurred at a Naval base in Massachusetts and quickly moved inland and along the Atlantic coast, killing more than four thousand sailors and marines, more than double the number killed in World War I combat. With all the wars and rumors of more, Samarra denied from her psyche what would happen when the flu hit military bases world-wide, finding denial easier than reality. Thomas was her only child. That was reality.
Death was not easy for its victims, as the Spanish Flu usually attacked the lungs directly, leading to hemorrhaging and the formation of a thick, gooey mucous that eventually clogged the airways and lead to a slow and painful suffocation, often with hemorrhaging from the eyes, nose, mouth, ears and other body orifices.
The virus’ incubation period was brief, with infections quickly spread through coughing and sneezing. At the time, a prominent epidemiologist at Yale, Dr. Charles Edward Winslow commented, “We have had a number of cases where people were perfectly healthy and died within twelve hours.”
The Spanish Flu was not Spanish at all, at least according to the Spanish, but was first reported in the Spanish Press. The flu hit the world in three waves, the second wave in late 1919 being far worse than the other two. The disease, unlike most flus that affect children and the elderly, imparted its wrath on those between twenty and forty with strong immune systems. The flu thrived on strong immune systems, turning the system against the body, which was then quickly consumed.
Because of the transport of troops after the War, the Spanish Flu became a world-wide plague, much worse than smallpox or the Bubonic Plague, the infamous Black Death.
Concentrate Samarra, concentrate.
At eleven o’clock that night, Samarra drove the Volvo V70 to the Centers for Disease Control, arriving thirty minutes early, just to make sure she was there at the proper time. At 11:45, Samarra parked her Volvo illegally at the front entrance and headed to the security checkpoint, even more secure now that the smallpox cultures were missing from USAMRIID.
Approaching security, Samarra was elated to see Russ Ivies. Russ was Chief of Security for CDC and had worked security for the years Samarra had been there. They had become friends, sort of, having shared coffee together in the cafeteria from time to time.
“Working late tonight Samarra? Hardly ever see you here this late.” Russ was not questioning her work habit but just a little curious at the hour.
“Hey Russ, can you help me get some equipment out of my car? It’s not heavy, just a little bulky.”
Samarra had hidden the insulated toolbox, which wasn’t as large as it looked in the SUB-ZERO, inside a Hewlett Packard desktop computer box, sealed as though the computer was fresh out of Best Buy.
“No prob Ms. Russell, glad to help.”
Russ pulled one of the carts from a storage closet and went to Samarra’s car, unloading the new computer and a flat screen LCD monitor, as well as a box of immunology reference books onto the cart, which resembled a luggage cart at every Holiday Inn Express. Samarra wanted to make sure the computer box was not the only thing she was taking to the lab, less chance of being questioned.
Wheeling the cart to the security screener, Russ stopped while the scanner looked for anything fishy but found none.
The sound of a machine, a truck or something noisy attracted the attention of Jason Brach, assistant security chief, and the other two security guards, as exactly at 11:51 PM a hijacked Shell gasoline tanker careened down the main thoroughfare at an abnormally high rate of speed. Noting how unusual it was to see a gasoline tanker driving by Emory, Russ ran back out the front entrance just in time to see the tanker miss the turn, slamming into the side of the Forensic Lab building before turning over, gasoline flooding from the rupture in the front of the storage tank.
Seconds later the cab of the truck exploded with a force beyond what it should have been, as the suicide bomber self-destructed, taking the gasoline and the rest of the eighteen- wheeler with him, or her. Windows in the surrounding buildings were shattered by the blast wave.
All this occurred about three-quarters of a mile away from the CDC entrance; and Samarra ignored the conflagration, knowing that this was the diversion the finger-severing note- writer had mentioned.