Redivivus Trilogy (Book 1): Threnody Page 5
“Lung cancer, now there’s a disease you can get behind,” she heard a drug company R&D spokesman quip in reply to a recent funding request. In most cases the discussion was over before it even started.
Now all of that had changed, and autoimmune encephalitis was the new lung cancer. As the foremost expert on the subject, she was hailed as the nation’s savior, if not that of the world. The United States President himself even called her cell phone personally. Needless to say, the pressure to deliver an effective treatment was immense and unwavering.
“My wife and I, and the world for that matter, are counting on you,” he said as he concluded the brief call. That seems fair, she thought mordantly, as she returned to the sandwich she was preparing for lunch. The slightest of smiles crossed her otherwise serious countenance as she thought of her sarcasm—recalling the multitude of times John Wild, her close friend since college, accused her of lacking the capacity for the emotion.
Though initially the vast majority of the bedlam was isolated in the United States, Brazil soon fell victim to the same hysteria. Lin felt the tension rising even in her relatively insulated research lab. The troubling reports she was hearing both through mainstream media and her contacts within the scientific community in Brazil and abroad, seemed incongruous with encephalitis lethargica, or any other autoimmune encephalitis. Additionally, there appeared to be a substantial government effort put forth to control the information presented about the situation via mainstream media. What was being reported was generally quite superficial and always delivered by a government spokesperson. Moreover, the questions the spokesperson managed to dodge far outnumbered those he or she actually answered. That the government was so involved in the medical and scientific aspects of the situation seemed odd to Lin. Where were the scientists, doctors, and epidemiologists in all of this? While her current country of residence was still in far better shape than the U.S., she sensed they were well on their way to catching up and steadily quickening the pace.
Chapter 7
October 2, 2015
Natal Air Force Base
Rio Grande do Norte, Brazil
Buckling into her seat on the large plane as it prepared for takeoff, Lin was overwhelmed by a profound sense of déjà vu. Once again she was heading into the great unknown. Her entire world was about to change, much the same as it had years earlier when flying in the opposite direction. The plane, an Embraer KC-390 prototype, had not yet officially been released. The copilot told her the big bird would give the ‘C-130 a run for the money.’ Though she was not entirely certain what that meant, she nodded politely in acknowledgement before finding a seat.
After a slightly more in-depth briefing by General Montes, Lin retrieved the USB drive given to her by the General and plugged it into her laptop. The computer whirred, and after a few moments, the disk drive icon appeared in the right upper corner of her screen. Clicking on the icon to open the drive, she scrolled through the files. She was not told exactly how they came into possession of the drive, only that it was attached to a collar on a monkey found in the middle of the jungle in a remote part of northern Brazil. VS-1. This is what the head of the veterinary science team was talking about! Lin now wished she had paid more attention during the last ISC meeting.
The USB drive contained thousands of pages of raw data from many experiments, all of which seemed to pertain to the creation of some sort of pathogen. Though the explicit purpose of the experiments was not stated in the files, in her cursory review Lin could not find any medically beneficial use for the agent. Instead, it just seemed dangerous. Perhaps it was created simply because it was dangerous?
“They have all the guns, bombs, and missiles they could ever want and they still need more weapons?” murmured Lin to herself disapprovingly.
Upon opening a file named ‘mjjournal.doc,’ her blood ran cold as ice. It contained the personal journal entries of a scientist presumably involved in the research responsible for the creation of the biological agent the General had briefed her on. Despite the smooth takeoff and the utter lack of turbulence the plane encountered as it climbed to its cruising altitude, Lin’s stomach churned, and she felt certain she was going to be sick while reading the journal.
From the Journal of Marcus Johnson PhD
February 10, 2013
Day One at the facility. Prior efforts on the project were dismal at best according to Mr. Handler. In reviewing the records from the previous work (if you can call it that) it’s easy to see why. Their efforts were misguided, sloppy, and overall seemed on par with what one might expect from a high school biology class.
I just arrived and am settling into my quarters. It is certainly going to take some getting used to. I intend to keep a journal in order to record our thought process as we progress through the project. I am eager to get to work with Sanjit; he seems to be a top-rate scientist. We have already discussed some ideas that seem far more promising than the amateur shit I have reviewed thus far. I am hopeful we can knock this thing out, get our money, and get the hell out of here.
For now, Marcus out.
April 2, 2013
The project is progressing remarkably well. The lab is up and running and the techs are already into the swing of things. Sanji is definitely top-notch. I think it’s safe to say Mr. Handler picked the right guys this time. At this rate he should have his new toy in a few months, then it’s all boards, booze, bikinis, and beaches…
After some debate about the basic construct of the agent, we decided to go with a replication-deficient lentiviral vector. Sanji initially pushed for an ormosil-based delivery system but ultimately agreed to the lentivirus vector given my expertise with that delivery system. The lentivirus’ ability to infect both dividing and non-dividing cells makes it a no-brainer.
Now to figure out how to make this bomb explode…
For now, Marcus out.
June 24, 2013
The lentivirus vector was clearly the right choice; this thing is going to be badass! Our initial tests focused mostly on finding the most suitable animal model to work with. After a few dismal experiments (what the hell was I thinking letting Sanji have those pigs brought in!) we finally found a suitable model. It is essentially identical to the autoimmune encephalitis primate model reported by Dr. Lin San. We have been able to get this thing to ‘go off’ but it’s still too sloppy. A couple of test subjects survived infection, something deemed unacceptable by Mr. Handler.
We decided that given the difficulty with treating human neural damage, and the obvious key role it plays in everything, the CNS should be at least a secondary target. Irreparable damage to the central nervous system would provide a layer of redundancy, a ‘failsafe’ if you will, in the unlikely event that the primary mechanism fails to neutralize the subject. The cardiovascular system is the primary target we are working to exploit. Making it appear as though the individual suffered an arrhythmia or an infarction would be an excellent way to ‘cover our tracks.’ Hiding right out in the open—ingenious!
We have discussed and tested multiple plasmids in the vector—some rocked, some sucked. Thus far we have incorporated a transfer vector plasmid utilizing portions of the HIV provirus for replication as well as an ingenious heterologous ENV-lyssavirus protein P plasmid that Sanji created. Similar to rabies, this results in retrograde transmission to the CNS after viral binding to dynein light chain protein in peripheral nerves. Brilliant!
As with any scientific breakthrough, the biggest argument is usually about the name. Sanji wanted to call it ‘Trojan Horse’ because of his plasmid. Get that trite shit out of here! I told him no way in hell! Besides, there is already a ‘Trojan horse’ virus. ‘Niuhi’ virus—now that’s a badass name! Got to give props to my island. Maybe I’ll buy Hawaii when we’re all done. I wonder if Mr. Handler can send us some weed out here? This place is getting boring as hell.
For now, Marcus out.
Chapter 8
October 2, 2015
Marengo County, Alabama
After takeoff John climbed to a cruising altitude of 10,000 feet, trimmed the Cessna 172, and settled in for the short flight home. The air was as smooth as glass, and at times it felt more like he was floating motionless than rocketing along at 140 miles per hour. He was grateful for the stable, cool dusk air, free from the warming effects of the sun and thus completely void of any turbulence. Compared to the unstable, highly turbulent atmosphere he experienced two weeks prior, it was a welcomed change. The high wing design of the Cessna 172 afforded John a fantastic view of the landscape as it passed effortlessly below him. A light mist of rain pattered against the cockpit’s windshield.
In the distance, the lights of the small airport came into view. John noticed a muted, reddish glow emanating from just beyond the horizon. It gave John the feeling he was chasing after the last dying embers of the setting sun in a futile attempt to keep the world around him bathed in light. As the sun continued its nightly crescendo, however, John realized the light must represent something else, perhaps another brushfire like the one that occurred a couple months earlier. “Looks like a big one,” he mumbled to himself. I better check with the tower to ensure it’s been reported. As he approached the airport from the west, he began his slow descent.
Though Huntington Airfield was small it recently became tower-controlled during certain times of the day, after a large shipping company began using the field as a regional distribution point, significantly increasing the number of flights per day. It was 6:31 P.M., and the airport was tower-controlled until 7:00 P.M., at which time it reverted back to non-towered operations. When he was about five nautical miles out from the airport approaching class D airspace, he tuned his COMM radio to the air traffic control frequency. “Huntington Tower, Cessna one-two-seven-five Charlie Foxtrot,” called John over the radio. He waited for the obligatory read back but heard only static in his headset. He repeated the radio call, and again heard nothing but static. John considered the possibility of a comm failure, but after rechecking the radio, he found no indication of malfunction.
“Huntington Tower, Cessna one-two-seven-five Charlie Foxtrot, four miles west, requesting clearance to land. Do you copy?' After a pause, only the low hiss of static resonated in his headset once more. Maybe tower control closed up shop early? John dismissed this idea when he thought of Fred, who was tower control at Huntington, and who was definitely not a ‘close up early’ kind of guy.
By now John was nearly over the airfield and saw no other aircraft in the surrounding airspace. He tuned his transponder to 7600 to indicate a communications failure and decided to circle around the airfield in order to capture the attention of tower control. After acquiring their attention he would simply line up for the approach and look for the steady green light indicating acknowledgment and clearance to land. As he flew over the runway and the several associated terminal buildings, John noted the lack of activity on the ground, which was uncharacteristic at this time of day even for this small airport. The only airplane in sight was a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron idling at the foot of the runway. John thought it might be old man Hasker’s new plane, an aircraft that was far more plane than the old pilot could handle in his opinion.
As John lined up the nose of his aircraft on his anticipated approach heading, the fine mist intensified, peppering the cockpit of the single engine plane. John was nonplussed when he saw no light gun signal coming from the tower. Where the hell was Fred? When constructing his flight plan prior to departure, John estimated he had enough fuel in his tanks for his intended flight with little to spare. Anxious to get home, he decided not to take the extra time to top off his tanks prior to departure. Now with his fuel level getting low and an apparent radio failure, he cautiously decided to continue his unauthorized approach.
When he was on his final approach, he tried once more to raise Huntington tower without success. Additionally, his attempts to contact the Baron also proved fruitless. The Baron, which was in position on the runway as if waiting for takeoff clearance, was his main concern.
“The Baron must not be able to raise the tower either,” John muttered to himself. He heard no radio chatter, and he knew no pilot could wait patiently for that long after run up. What is going on down there? The last thing John wanted was a collision with the twin if it was given clearance just as he came in on his unauthorized approach. As John grew nearer to the runway, he realized the twin did indeed belong to Mr. Hasker, a retired air force pilot and a fixture around the local hangars. Though John never said anything, he secretly wondered if the senescent old man might have been at Kitty Hawk when the Wright brothers made the first successful manned flight in 1903.
As his plane neared the approach end of the runway, John was surprised to see what appeared to be Mr. Hasker lying supine on the tarmac next to the idling twin. Had he suffered a heart attack? Why was no one helping him? Where the hell was everyone? These were a few of the thoughts racing through John’s mind as he brought the Cessna in for an uneventful landing. He quickly taxied off the runway, turning immediately toward the run-up area and Mr. Hasker. Once near, John powered his engine down and dashed toward the fallen man. The light reflecting off the wet runway created colorful swirling avgas rainbows in the puddles as he approached. When he was about twenty feet away from Hasker, John caught sight of movement by the base of the tower about 250 yards away. He turned his head to investigate and saw a large man running full speed toward him, his arms flailing wildly. John thought he recognized the man as an airport employee but was unsure of his name. John saw no threat and nothing out of place aside from the downed form of Mr. Hasker so he was confused by the man’s frantic actions. The clamorous noise of the idling twin made it impossible to make out the man’s urgent cries. It’s about time! Directing his attention back to Hasker, John noticed he no longer saw the swirling rainbows around the downed man who appeared to be lying in a dark puddle of oil. As he grew nearer to Hasker he was relieved when the old man began struggling to his feet. “Hasker! Are you okay? What happened?” bellowed John uselessly against the deafening din of the dual 285 horsepower engines.
Having finally gotten to his feet, old man Hasker slowly began to turn with all the incoordination of a drunk failing a sobriety test. When the old man raised his head and stared directly at him, John caught the first glimpse of the eyes that would become a fixture in his nightmares. The blank, frosted orbs – for he could hardly call them ‘eyes’ – were adorned with thin black reticular lines emanating away from large, vacant pupils, giving them the appearance of having just been dragged through a spider’s web. The frosted appearance of the eyes made it appear as though the old man suffered from large cataracts, though he never recalled his eyes looking as such. At that moment, John got the unsettling feeling that what he just flew into was something far worse than a radio failure and a heart attack.
“I don’t think that’s oil on the ground,” John muttered to himself as the old man’s mangled right arm came into view. Mr. Hasker continued without a trace of recognition as he half-staggered, half-fell toward John with his one good arm outstretched.
John stood transfixed at the grotesque sight of what he knew in his heart was old man Hasker. His mind, however, screamed with the intensity of a man being dipped into scalding hot water, that what he saw before him could not possibly be Mr. Hasker. The ruined countenance, opaque lifeless eyes, and reaching half-arm did not seem compatible with a living human. Only a portion of his right upper arm remained and, given the relatively clean break of the humerus, John surmised it was likely a propeller injury. Immediately John’s medical training urged his muscles to spring into action. Simultaneously, an innate, primal, and more powerful instinct blared paralyzing warning alarms in his head. This latter instinct, concerned only with self-preservation, was not learned like his instinct to help the sick and injured. It did not ‘urge’ him to do anything, but simply commandeered his muscle groups without consultation of his powers of higher reasoning. He was backpedaling away from the grisl
y form before he even realized it.
As John stumbled away from the monster before him, he tripped and nearly fell over something strewn across the runway. For a brief moment he wondered why Hasker left his engines running while he was refueling. To his horror, he soon realized that what he stumbled over was not a fuel line, but rather the lifeless, decapitated, and otherwise unidentifiable form of another human being. The body, previously obscured from his vision by the bulk of the twin-engine aircraft, also bore the unmistakable markings of a propeller injury. Where the head should be a deep gash was cut between the shoulder blades and the sternum. Had this poor soul wandered into Hasker’s prop only to be followed by Hasker himself as he tried to save the person?
Though John recovered without falling, the impediment proved just enough to allow Hasker to gain a few steps on him. Again, he reached for him, but this time John got the distinct and unsettling impression that he lunged for him rather than merely stumbled toward him. Clearly unaccustomed to his new bodily condition, Hasker’s attempt to grab John fell short, but in a slow instant he redirected his effort and was back in pursuit. John noted that Hasker’s movements, while persistent, were far from fluid. It was as if each subsequent movement was flawed from the start by the slight overshoot or other subtle inaccuracy of the preceding action. It reminded John of a gear continuously turning but occasionally slipping due to a damaged tooth, like so many patients he had seen with ataxia secondary to a damaged cerebellum.