The Nightmare Scenario (43 page)

“You know what I mean, Hank. You know what’s going to happen. I can’t take it. I’m done. It’s your show now.”

“I never thought I’d see the day. The great almighty Dr. Aeolus Pentecost Hughes admitting that there’s someone else good enough to do his job.”

“Hank, you’re an idiot, a complete idiot in fact. But you’re not totally incompetent. And your skills and abilities are better suited to the current situation than mine. At least, in the state I’m in now.”

They drank in silence.

Hank emptied his whiskey, swirled it around in his mouth, swallowed and said solemnly, “Aeolus, you know I’ve always held you in higher regard than I’ve let on.”

“Yes, anything else would have been quite odd.” A hint of a smile appeared in the corner of Aeolus’s mouth.

AUGUST 26
^TH
, END OF DAILY MORNING SERVICE, MARIENKIRCHE, KARL-LIEBKNECHT-STRAßE, BERLIN

M
arie, who never missed a sermon, was grateful that the church had responded to the crisis by increasing the frequency of services to once a day. It was with dismay, however, that she counted only ten worshippers. People were afraid of human contact and only the most devout kept showing up to hear His word.

After the church had emptied, she approached the altar. She was hoping for the comforting guidance she’d so often received from Father Schulman.

“Father,” she began. “I cannot make sense of it. I understand that the world cannot be perfect, but this? Can this really be God’s plan?

“I see girls in their early teens turning to prostitution as the only way to get food for their younger siblings. I see street gangs of young boys fighting each other to death over basic commodities. In my sixty years of life,
I’ve never seen such despair. Tell me Father, what is the purpose of this? Is God mocking us? Has he turned against us? Have we offended him so much? Is this punishment for the ever-increasing sin that surrounds us?”

Father Schulman closed his bible and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Marie, understand that I share your pain. The fact that you feel that pain so intensely is a testament to your faith in God and your wish for the wellbeing of your fellow men.

“I am not going to tell you that God moves in mysterious ways, as this well-worn cliché provides neither comfort nor understanding. Let me instead ask you this: What is it that sets us Lutherans apart from the Catholics?”

“That we believe in
sola scriptura
and
sola fide
.”

“Yes, Marie, that is right;
sola fide
– by faith alone. We don’t subscribe to the idea that good deeds, although we encourage them and see them as a natural consequence of our faith, are in themselves a means of salvation. Instead, we believe that faith is the true
shibboleth
for judgment of man in the afterlife.

“Now, Marie, Catholics sometimes argue that this, our requirement, is too easy to fulfill, and that abstaining from falling for the attraction of sin is a much more difficult challenge to overcome than just having a belief in God. I disagree. The reason for this is what you see around you just now. Abstaining from sin in this situation is difficult, but it is a lot easier than maintaining your faith. How can we possibly maintain
our belief in God when he punishes humanity to such a degree?

“But, my child, this is because God is testing us, testing the strength of our faith. ‘The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold: but the LORD trieth the hearts.’ It is easy to forget when we relax in the comforts and illusion of safety the modern world provides that every generation has had its test of faith. War, famine and plague are not new phenomena, but have haunted mankind since its creation. And this, Marie, is God’s test of our generation.

“I know it is difficult, but if you manage to keep your faith, you shall be rewarded. The life here on Earth is but a blink of an eye compared to the eternity of the kingdom of heaven, which will be your home if you can only maintain your faith.”

“I am not sure I can…” Marie answered quietly.

SIMULTANEOUSLY, 7 RUE LACHARRIÈRE, PARIS

T
he stench of rotten flesh is, among very few candidates, the one smell human beings find most repulsive. It is an association deeply engrained, through evolution, in the center of the brain that processes smell, through millennia of evolution, from long before man rose to stand on two feet, when his genetic predecessors lived as scavengers, and distinguishing between rotten and fresh meat was a critical determinant for survival.

Sophie’s apartment was ripe with it. In spite of her attempts to fill the gap around the door to the bathroom with pulp made from old newspapers, the smell of her husband’s decaying body in the bathtub still came through.

Camille, her two-year-old daughter, was terrified by the odor and had been crying for hours.

Worse, they were now completely out of food. She’d used the last can of corn to make Camille a mash, but it
was finished and Camille hadn’t eaten since the night before.

Sophie was furious with herself. Why hadn’t she understood that the stores were going to run empty? Why hadn’t she stocked up like the others? Why had she been so consumed with caring for her husband, in futile attempts to relieve his pain that she had neglected to gather the most basic supplies for her daughter’s survival?

She had failed as a mother. Her neighbors no longer opened the doors to her, and there was no chance of getting help from them. All the points of support provided by the government and NGOs were so far away that she couldn’t risk taking Camille with her, given how dangerous the streets had become.

In desperation, she’d been forced to trade her wedding band for food from the gang outside. Strangely, though money no longer had any worth, gold retained its value. All she got for her ring was four cans of vegetables, all of which were now gone. She had nothing more to trade. There was no way she could feed Camille. Not that it mattered much any longer. Her own fever was now so high she was dizzy, her joints aching and vision blurred. Soon she wouldn’t be able to care for Camille at all.

Her only consolation was that Camille seemed healthy. She’d heard that children coped better with the illness. Maybe Camille would still live a full and happy life, albeit without her mother.

She knew she had to give Camille away, and had given considerable thought to how. The only solution
she could think of was entrusting her with Father Jacques at
Église Saint-Ambroise
. She hadn’t been to church since her mother died, but they’d hid three hundred immigrants from the police in 1996. Surely, they would take care of Camille. And the walk was only a couple of blocks.

“
Où est Papa
?” asked Camille.

“
Il est au travail
.”

“
J’ai faim
.”

“
On va aller manger, ma chérie
.”

Sophie lifted Camille and hugged her close, rocking her in her arms, singing her favorite lullaby for the last time.

AUGUST 26
^TH
, 8 A.M., THE SITUATION ROOM, PRESIDENTIAL BUNKER TWO, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

W
alking into the morning, briefing Aeolus was back to his old self. His shirt was pressed, his head held high; he had determination in his step and an imposing air of presence.

The presentation, as usual, began with Aeolus’s report on the medical situation.

“Mr. President, the outbreaks in Philadelphia and Baltimore are developing in the same way and at the same rate as we’ve seen elsewhere. I project that in seven to ten days, basic societal services and functions will start to fail in these cities. We now also know that the infection is spread broadly across Pennsylvania and partly throughout Maryland.

“All this is to be expected. What’s worse is that we have cases in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Miami and
Denver. The objective of containing the infection in the eastern part of the country now must be abandoned.

“We don’t know the history of all the cases but at least two entered newly affected cities after the quarantines had been put in place, highlighting the ineffectiveness, which I am sure Hank will elaborate on, of the National Guard, and the need for the army to step in.

“The good news is that we have no cases east of the Hudson longitude. If this situation holds another four days, the North-EasternSeaboard will be completely saved. Needless to say, this would be a significant achievement.

“Before handing over to Hank and the generals, I also must inform you, Mr. President, that I am resigning as Director-General of the WHO, effective immediately. I will recommend the Secretary General appoint Hank Wiley as my replacement, and I’m convinced he will follow my advice. Following this, the WHO and the CDC will be integrated into one structure. I am convinced this will prove valuable for what is ahead. This is what we need now – a global response to a problem that requires a global solution.

“I thank you for the honor of serving as your advisor, Mr. President, but this is where my journey ends.”

The president cleared his throat, stood up, leaned against the table and looked Aeolus straight in the eyes. “Let me make sure I’m reading you correctly, Dr. Hughes. You’re resigning from your position at the WHO?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because, Mr. President, we’ve reached a phase in this battle where my advice is no longer needed. The main considerations are now political and military in nature – not medical. I can stand here each morning and tell you to where the infection has spread, but Hank can do that just as well as I. You don’t need me.”

“Whether I need you or not is not for you to determine.
I
will make that judgment.”

“It’s not only that, Mr. President. It is, frankly, that I can’t stand to see how this continues.”

“What do you mean? You’ve seen it before. There’s nothing new to you. Are you suddenly afraid of seeing death tolls mounting?”

“That’s not what he’s referring to,” said Hank.

“Then what exactly
is
your problem, Dr. Hughes?”

“My problem is not what will happen to the infected, but what will happen to the ones that are not. With the spread we now have in the States, in combination with the ubiquitous gun ownership, you will have every uninfected town barricading itself and firing at anyone who tries to enter. You’ll have refugees fleeing cities, scouring the countryside, just to be shot by other refugees as their roads cross. I can’t stand to see what will spread through the population – the loss, not of human lives, but of our humanity.

“We have seen traces of it elsewhere, but nowhere will it be more prominent than here. It’s due to culture, history, geography, national psyche and, most importantly, because of the prevalence of firearms. I could bear it in Indonesia, but to see it here, in my home country. To see the pinnacle of modern civilization
collapse into barbarian mayhem. That is what I cannot take. I would appreciate, Mr. President, if you would let me be relived of my duties.”

The president twirled his thumbs, thought for a moment and said, “You’re sure you’re up for this, Hank?”

Aeolus answered before Hank could. “There’s no one more capable, Mr. President. I wouldn’t leave you unless you were in good hands.”

Hank blushed.

“So where are you going, Dr. Hughes?” asked the president.

“I’m going to London.”

“You’re going to London, a city in which, by your own assessment, the infection is out of control?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Well, if you feel that strongly about it... How are you going to get there, if I may ask? Need any help?”

“I have a private jet standing by at Monticello Airport, with isolated staff. If you could arrange transport for me to get there, I would be much obliged.”

“Someone arrange a chopper for this man.

“Dr. Hughes, the United States thanks you for your service, and I thank you for your counsel. You’re dismissed. As you have resigned your commission, you are not privy to the discussion that will follow.”

Aeolus bowed and left the room.

REQUIEM
AETERNAM

(Eternal rest)

AUGUST 27
^TH
, 8 A.M., EN ROUTE TO WILLIAM LANE’S MOUNTAIN CABIN COMPOUND, MONTANA

W
hen Richard pitched the idea of Operation Isle of Hope to the president, it was authorized immediately. It was probably the smallest military effort ever conducted with presidential authority.

Aeolus’s speech had affected them all. And during the following twenty-four hours, it became clear his predictions were right.

People fled en masse from the infected cities like rats from a fire. There was no way the forces deployed could keep them in. No one knew exactly how many runners there were now, but the Department of Homeland Security put the estimate at two million. Two million people on the run. They knew, perfectly well, where they were running from, but none of them had any idea where they were going.

Vigilante death squads were everywhere, just as Aeolus had predicted.

The president was concerned with losing Richard from his staff, but the scope of the federal government was decreasing rapidly and there was a serious question as to how much of a republic there was still left to run.

Three more states had followed South Carolina’s example. Two military bases and five local FBI offices had defected and put their resources under local control, disregarding orders from higher up in the chain of command. Other federal resources weren’t responding to contact, but it was yet unclear as to whether it was because they’d changed sides or simply ceased to exist.

The appeal of Operation Isle of Hope was not that it would change anything in the larger scheme of things. It was that the president could do
something
to show an alternative. The appeal was the symbolism of the action and the paragon it would represent.

So Richard found himself in a Black Hawk helicopter with eight military police from the president’s bunker.

As soon as they landed fifty yards south of the compound and stepped out of the chopper, the survivalists, seeking cover behind bushes and aiming their rifles at the new arrivals, surrounded them. Bill stepped out of the shrubbery.