being close to others for fear of catching the disease, but Fridge didn’t think that made much difference. After all, he had been with all four of his children and his wife and never showed the slightest sign of symptoms, the prickling under the skin that presaged the full blown disease.
He was looking down at the graveled path, lost in his thoughts. It almost caused him to collide with a well dressed black man barring his path.
“Go away,” he said brusquely. “I don’t want no company.”
“Mr. Green, maybe I can help you. I’m from The Church of Blacks.”
Fridge met his level gaze with his own, having to look down at the other man. Fridge was as big as a linebacker though he had never played professional sports. His career had been with the military. “How the church going to help me? They going to bring my family back to life?” He had heard of the Church of Blacks, of course. It had become very big in the South and big cities of the north over the last several years. He had never attended any of their services, not being particularly religious, though he did believe in God, in a vague, undefined way.
“We can’t return your family to you, Mr. Green. But if you’re seeking retribution, we have a place for you.”
Fridge examined the man, closer. He was wearing a suit, even on this warm day, and carried sheaf of booklets in his hand. Now he remembered; he had seen him at the funeral home on another occasion, talking with other grieving friends and relatives of deceased blacks. “What you mean, retribution?” He felt a stirring inside, a spark of new animation at the thought.
“Doctor Taylor is looking for good men with military experience. I understand you were in the army.”
Fridge knew the man was referring to Dr. Qualluf Taylor, a minister and founder of the Church of Blacks.
“How do you know me?”
“One of our members recommended we come see you. I can’t tell you much right now, but believe me, Doctor Taylor intends to make the white establishment pay for this latest outrage against our people.”
“You think the government started it, huh?”
“Who else? Something like this doesn’t just pop up from a jungle. We don’t have proof yet, but we know, just like you do.”
Fridge had to admit they were thinking alike. Still…
“Here, Mr. Green. Take one of these booklets. It will explain the church’s philosophy. If you agree with it, or want to learn more, there’s a contact number and address inside.”
Fridge took the booklet from the man’s extended hand. “Won’t hurt to look,” he said.
“That’s all we ask. Thank you, sir.” Fridge felt his hand being shaken then he was alone again.
Late that night, after reading the booklet, he decided to go see what the Church of Blacks had to offer him. Perhaps they had what he was looking for. He certainly had nothing else to do now, and little desire to do anything else.
“But Doug, we still don’t know anything about how the Harcourt virus is being spread! There must be something obvious we’re overlooking. Can’t we wait a few more days?” Amelia was agitated and haggard looking. She had been working as hard as anyone else in her scientific capacity and still finding time for all the administrative duties concerning the thirty people she supervised, but she felt their job was unfinished.
“What are you hearing from home?” Doug nodded toward the secure phone on the desk of the tiny office she had been assigned. It contained little else other than a half dozen folded chairs leaning against one wall.
Amelia ran her fingers through the portion of her hair below the clasp holding it behind her neck. It was beginning to feel greasy from not taking the time to wash it. “Oh hell, Doug, it’s popping up everywhere.
And did I tell you? Bob Handley came to me yesterday. I think he may have it, too. He’s presenting some of the symptoms.”
“Oh damn! Hasn’t he been wearing his suit?”
“He says he has. But when I checked in at noon, I heard that a couple of our blacks at CDC contacted it, despite every precaution. We can’t explain it!” She looked almost ready to cry from frustration.
“Well, crap. Amelia, if that’s the case, can’t you study the possible vectors just as well back home?”
“I… yes, I guess we could, so far as that goes, but I was hoping we’d find whether or not it’s a mutation of the poliovirus that was passed from some animal reservoir here or… or…”
“Or whether it was man made?”
“Altered by man, anyway. I… oh hell, Doug, I guess I’ve just been doing some wishful thinking. It’s looking more and more like something that was deliberately altered, then planted. We just can’t figure out how it’s spreading! I…”
With the suddenness of a dish slipping from her hand and breaking, Amelia’s composure finally cracked.
Tears formed, then she began crying in earnest. Doug kicked the partially opened door closed and gathered her into his arms. She sobbed in broken gasps, trying to contain the abrupt release of emotion but unable to stop for long moments.
Finally she stepped back and fumbled in the pocket of her lab jacket for a handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes and smiled wryly. “Sorry. That’s not like me, you know. It’s just that… how could someone
“I don’t know, Amelia, any more than I can understand the endless number of terrorists so fanatical that they’re willing to blow themselves up so long as they… never mind, that’s another problem. And security is my decision, not yours. Go get everyone here ready to go. I’ve already sent a truck back for my off-duty troops and any of your people that’re there. Grab your notes and any specimens you think are irreplaceable, but that’s all. Don’t waste time trying to pack personal gear. Send everyone to the lobby.
We’re heading for the airport while it’s still open.”
“Has it gotten that bad already? I thought…”
“It’s going to get that bad. That’s my considered opinion, as well as that of Captain Presley. Go on, now.
I’ll try to make arrangements through the embassy for a plane.”
First Doug used his military-configured phone to alert his off duty troops. He got Martha on the line the first try, and didn’t waste words. “Martha, this is Doug. Get the troops together. Round up anyone else that’s there and pile into the truck I’m sending for you. It’s already on the way, so hurry. We’re getting out of here.”
“Got it,” she said and hung up.
Doug liked dealing with the former medic. She grasped orders quickly and carried them out with dispatch. That matter taken care of, he dialed again.
Amelia’s phone was a duplicate of his; both had securely encrypted lines to the American Embassy in Lagos and the CDC back home. He tried the embassy first and was unable to get through after several attempts. So much for arranging for a plane to pick them up. There might not be enough time to get one here anyway, he thought.
“Damn it,” he muttered and cursed the politicians who blocked the CDC security teams from direct communication with the military. They were required to go through embassy personnel if they thought help was needed. There was another way, though. Gene Bradley, the head of security for CDC, still had plenty of military connections. Doug took out his personal phone, plugged in Gene’s number, then waited almost a minute while his call wound its way from satellite to satellite and through various connections before reaching Atlanta. And that damned line was busy, too. He hung on, hoping that Gene had his call waiting activated; his own phone number was tagged with an urgent symbol when and if it appeared on Gene’s phone.
In the near distance several shots rang out. He heard some faint shouts, a distant scream, then the noise died away.
“Doug? That you?” Gene’s voice came through, a little static mixed with it but understandable.
“Yeah. Gene, I understand there’s a carrier offshore here. Can you get through to them and arrange for them to send some choppers for us? I think all hell’s going to break loose here before long.”
He waited impatiently for the answer, knowing that even at the speed of light, a call to and from the other side of the world sometimes took a second or two to make the circuit through satellites and ground relays.
“I’ll put a flag on it to give you priority over the lace panty set. Where’s the pickup?”
“Main hospital in Port Harcourt. They should have the GPS coordinates, but just in case, here they are.”
He read off the numbers, then added, “Give us one hour. And it wouldn’t hurt to throw a little air cover over the embassy—and us, too if you can manage it.”
