Pestilence: The Infection Begins (2 page)

“Yes I am. I believe it will be safe, a few reactions of course, but that’s to be expected with any vaccine. It could prevent your country from suffering the effects or might even stop it from occurring at all. And that has to be good, no?”

Delaney agreed. Prevention is always preferable but she did not agree with the current procedure. She didn’t tell him as much, however, allowing Moya to present his case further, which he did as succinctly as possible before saying he must leave for a meeting.

“Well, thank you Dr. Moya, I appreciate you taking the time to explain this to me,” she told him before ending the call.

She couldn’t argue with the logic, but something was not right with any of this. It all seemed a little too perfect—and too fast!

That wasn’t good combination when you’re dealing with a possible worldwide pandemic.

“Not good at all.” She rose to make herself another coffee. Today would be a big coffee day.

W
ithin two weeks
Delaney found herself boarding a plane for Des Moines, Iowa. Events happened so fast now that she barely had time to question the veracity of the plan. Government officials (who dressed like CIA agents in dark suits and sunglasses) came and went from the Atlanta offices of the CDC on a regular basis. Delaney was concerned with this but never got the chance to question Calgleef over it. She was informed, in an interoffice memo, that she would lead the first team to begin vaccinations at Riverside Hospital in Des Moines. She had time to ask the deputy director why, of all places, Des Moines was selected to receive the first vaccinations.

“It’s the center, Dr. Delaney,” Deputy Director Higgins informed her in the hallway outside her office, “the center of the United States. Director Calgleef believes it’s as good a place to start as any. The program can fan out from there with Des Moines remaining as the example.”

That was far from the most convincing argument she’d heard, and she wanted to pursue the matter but had arrangements to make. Higgins handed over her plane ticket; she had less than two days before she left.

* * *

O
n her arrival
in Iowa she was met by a local CDC team and taken to her hotel, and from there to Riverside Hospital and given her own office before getting acquainted with some of the staff. None of them had any idea why a team from the CDC had suddenly shown up in their hospital.

“Pre-vaccination preparations,” she lied to the staff gathered to hear her explanation. “We’re all aware of the Baltic flu and the havoc it’s causing overseas, so we have to be prepared. A hospital like this is ideal for this purpose, big enough for us to get the feel for a major city hospital, but not so big that we get in the way of your day-to-day activities.”

She had been instructed to say exactly that and did it believably well. She didn’t like it but didn’t want to start a panic, and if she told the truth, she’d be fired; probably arrested too, and she couldn’t help anyone from prison. No one was to know it was an experimental, untried serum. After a quick tour of the hospital and pressing the flesh with the self-important, Delaney headed back to the hotel for a few hours’ rest. Despite her concerns she dozed off within a few minutes of her head hitting the pillow but was brought back to the world of worry and consternation by the sharp ring of her cell phone.

“Yes, hello?” She sat on the edge of the bed to answer it. “Dr. Moya? How did you—” she began to say when she heard the familiar voice.

“You’re an important cog in the wheel, Dr. Delaney, and in my position it’s imperative that people like you can be reached. Your employer was kind enough to accede to our request—”

“They did what?” She jumped from the bed.

“Relax, Dr. Delaney, please, we don’t have the time for the histrionics.” Moya’s tone reminded her more of a stand-over thug than a respected international doctor. “Now I’ve called you to give you a heads-up, as you Americans like to say, so the best you can do is to just listen.”

Grace Delaney did as she was asked. She no longer considered this call to be between two health professionals. Her earlier gut feeling of things not being right now seemed vindicated, she believed. But how could she help anyone if she didn’t know what was taking place? She listened.

When Moya had finished Delaney sank back onto the bed and stared blankly at the wall ahead. A plain off-white wall and an equally plain thirty-six–by–twenty-four–inch print of a forgettable landscape hung at an angle in the middle.

Why do they put such rubbish in rooms? She wondered, running a hand through her thick auburn shoulder-length hair and wiping her brow.

“It was just a few days ago that I was informed that funds had been allocated by the government for the emergency development of a vaccine and now… now it’s ready?” She was still in shock over Moya’s announcement. There was as much chance of that happening as she had of winning the lottery. The only way a vaccine could be ready was—

“If it was already prepared!” She jumped from the bed again. “Yes, that’s it. Bastards, damn bastards!” Delaney only ever swore when excited or angry or both. In her job she was either excited or angry most of the time.

The hotel room selected for her had a small refrigerator—even a coffee pot. She got up and grabbed a bottle of water. The weather in Des Moines was far from warm at this time of year, and the hotel had the air-conditioner on, but she felt the tiny beads of sweat form over her upper body. Rumors flooded the Internet about vaccines not preventing diseases but actually advancing them, as well as making the diseases more resilient. There were even doctors, naturopaths and holistic medicos from recent times who had given lectures on the dangers of vaccines. The reason, of course, was money. According to the Internet, the opposing doctors and conspiracy theorists, the pharmaceutical industry was a trillion-dollar-per-year business and healthy people who didn’t need medications or regular visits to the doctor weren’t good for business.

Delaney had paid little attention to any of this in the past, mainly because she was too busy with her career, but she also couldn’t accept the premise—it sounded too Dr. Mengele-ish. Too many of the Internet sites run were by unknown whack-jobs, but of late many respected doctors, ones she knew personally, had come forward with similar claims. When reports on some websites implicated the Centers for Disease Control as nothing more than the rubber stamp of approval for vaccines and medication for almost any human condition—real or imagined—she at first blew that off as sensationalism. She was in a responsible position at the CDC, and if that were the case, she would know. Right?

But now a vaccine had miraculously appeared after less than two weeks. She recalled a colleague had once pointed out to her that many of the medications in the US weren’t available in many other countries, and some countries, “…even ban the drug or its ingredients outright.” Part of her knew this information to be correct, but another part (her trusting, believing part) couldn’t accept the notion that pharmaceutical companies—and her own government’s departments—would be actively engaged in the creation of an unhealthy populace, who were dependent on medications and yearly vaccinations, solely for ongoing profit.

She’d told herself these claims were exactly that: claims. She had been too busy to investigate it further even if she’d wanted to, and when the colleague wasn’t seen around the office for a while, she’d promptly forgotten about it.

Until now.

Could it be that simple—it was just about money? If it was, then her colleague had been right, as were those websites about all the other vaccines and medications.

“What in the hell kind of people am I dealing with?” she asked out loud, then drained her bottle of water. The sweat beads had become a film.

She then recalled a website that published a list of people who had supposedly disappeared after they became quite vociferous with their accusations. Was that what had become of her colleague, she now wondered.

* * *

D
r. Moya sat anxiously
in a plush leather recliner at an exclusive gentleman’s club in London’s West End. Within hours of his phone conversation with Grace Delaney, he’d taken a short flight in an executive jet from Brussels. His employer and CEO of Thorn Bio-Tech, Noel Thorncroft, sat directly opposite. Totally relaxed.

“It’s imperative the first vaccinations go through without a hitch, Moya.” Thorncroft addressed him by his last name—as he did everyone. He only referred to an equal by their first name or title; and there weren’t many he regarded in the same category. “There is a provision within the contract that the US government—should things go wrong—can pull out from the deal within three months of the initial inoculations. They don’t want that to happen as much as we don’t, Moya. The sale of manufacturing rights to their own US companies as well as the taxes is a huge incentive… huge I tell you!” Thorncroft took a drink from his gin and tonic. The gentleman’s club was a jacket-and-tie-only affair, but he wore a tweed sports jacket with long oval leather patches sewn over the elbows. No one would think to ask him to put on a tie or leave.

“That I can understand, Mr. Thorncroft.”

“Good. Because I’m sending you to,” Thorncroft searched inside his jacket for his notepad, “ah yes, Des Moines. You’re to oversee and ensure it goes smoothly.”

Moya gagged on his espresso. He didn’t drink but was thinking a good belt right about now wouldn’t hurt.

“Err, it’s pronounced ‘Duh Moyn,’ Mr. Thor—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

Moya was learning from observation: you didn’t get anywhere in Thorn Bio-Tech by correcting the CEO.

“When do I leave, sir?”

“That’s why I like you, Moya, straightforward, up there and a fast learner.” Thorncroft raised his glass in a salute to the doctor. “You leave in two days. You’ll just have time to get acclimatized before the first shipment of the vaccine arrives.”

“I thought that had already been sent.”

“It has but it has to go through mandatory customs checks. By the time it gets the okay, you’ll be there in, err—” He dug his hand inside his jacket again.

“Des Moines, sir.”

“Yes, yes that place. What the hell kind of name is that anyway?”

“I believe it’s French, sir.”

“Hrmph,” Thorncroft mumbled as he drained his G&T. “Make this go smooth, Moya, and you’ll be well rewarded, very well rewarded.”

A young waiter brought over another drink for the over-indulgent CEO on a silver tray. Moya couldn’t help but notice as his employer eyed the young man up and down. He was well aware of the billionaire’s secret life.

Dr. Moya gave a slight nod in appreciation. He knew Thorncroft didn’t like overt displays of gratitude. The good doctor also knew what that reward would mean—or had a fair idea. He’d worked hard for it, abandoned his beliefs and convictions. All those years in a constant battle against bureaucracy, which only led to compromises, and it was always—always—about money. Well now it was his time to make the money, and the rest could be damned. Damned all to hell.

“I was just going to ask about any details I should know.”

“They’ll be forwarded to you before you leave. Now if you have any arrangements to make, I’d get to it, Moya.”

“Yes, sir.” Moya stood and began to leave, then turned back. “Sir, one question before I go.”

Thorncroft just looked back with a half-cocked eyebrow.

“Why Des Moines, I mean any particular—”

“The American director of the Centers for Disease Control came up with the idea. I approved of it. It’s the center of America, my boy, and a manageable size for the initial program. We’ll start at a hospital with CDC personnel to assist—should be a breeze. Now, is there anything else?”

“No, sir, thank—”

Thorncroft raised an arm and gave a backhanded motion toward the doctor. He was almost royal in appearance, but he thought himself much higher than that.

* * *

D
elaney went
down to the buffet at the hotel for breakfast as soon as it was open. She wanted to get a full day’s orientation at the hospital and most of all check out which of the staff she could rely on. After a night’s sleep she’d come to the conclusion that companies are there to make money and have always been. It was less palatable when a company made profits from medications designed for the sick, as well as preventative medicine. This, she believed, was what could give some the ammunition to throw out the allegations that the more unhealthy people there were, the better it would be for these companies. You could debate that until you turned blue, but to suggest pharmaceuticals in collusion with governments would be engineering ill health was preposterous. Her more practical side had won the argument—for the moment—and it wasn’t her concern who made money as long as people were the beneficiaries. If the vaccine being touted could prevent the Baltic flu from getting a foothold in the Americas, then it would be beneficial. And could prevent it from having such an affect in Europe in the next few years.