Vector, the Fifth Seal

Vector

The Fifth Seal

By K.D. Langston

Copyright 2013 K.D. Langston

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or give away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Karachi

Sylvan Nash squeezed out of the back seat of the three-wheeled taxicab, past the driver’s shoulder being careful not to touch him, and hauled his weak body onto the sidewalk. He assumed the man was already infected. Still, Sylvan didn't want to add to his own regret. Regardless, the cabdriver had been doomed long before, like nearly everyone he had encountered in the previous hour.

Without making eye contact, Sylvan feared his face might give away his condition, he drew a five-dollar bill from the outer coat pocket where he kept several. He never bothered with exchange rates. He mumbled a thank you around his swollen tongue. The driver tucked the note in a special pocket of his own and pressed the accelerator.

Sylvan studied the brightly colored, stamped metal on the side of the cab as it pulled away. He wondered if some people learned to recognized cabs or buses here by their garish, intricate markings. The decorations seemed out of place given the locals’ usual stoicism.

Some vehicles sported geometric patterns in nearly every bright color possible. Other designs appeared more organic, each competing with the others. Most included bright fabrics inside, hanging tassels, and plastic protuberances, everything in seeming disarray. Sylvan tried to concentrate. All he could see was the blur of moving bright colors.

He forced his mind to grab hold of reality, find something to reason about. He recalled that cab drivers in every major city were similar in that respect and they usually tried to distinguish themselves in some way, which explained the decoration here. He had seen none more earnest than in Karachi.

He found himself hoping his driver would retire for the night and seek out what pleased him most in life, a vice would be okay, family or friends, better. The man had only a few hours to live, maybe less than an hour in fact, although Sylvan had not noticed any symptoms in the cab driver.

He expected the Pakistani authorities would respond quickly to the outbreak, but fear and mortification was a typical reaction in these sorts of situations by local governments, even from the well prepared. Many in the city were beyond help already. The pathogen was working faster than any he had ever witnessed. And he had witnessed many; he felt he had to.

He was lucky to have been in the region. He could never stay away from such occurrences even if half a world away. And lately there had been more and more serious epidemics all around the world. He would have to consider the implications some time, when he could think straight.

Sylvan had estimated the final toll would be in the thousands, even with his efforts, especially since the very busy Tariq Road Bazaar was ground zero and it was only two days into Ramadan and at night. Sylvan had been there less than half an hour ago. He would survive, as usual. That was not his present concern. He had to think, plan.

After leaving the now deserted Bazaar on foot, he had skirted the security cordon and investigated what he could find of the city’s preliminary defenses. He found no corpses, only quiet abandonment. They were doing what any city in the world would do. Sylvan knew the disease had already breached the perimeter, however. One could not blame them for their failure to contain the pathogen. The authorities would not be expecting a disease like this one. He could not believe it himself.

Earlier, staying in the shadows, he had slipped past one of the weaker checkpoints and, after three blocks, had found the taxi that would take him to a block near his hotel. Anyone could have done the same. But he could not enter the lobby now, he would even horrify a coroner in his condition. Sylvan checked the empty streets and stumbled over his increasingly heavy feet.

He fell to his knees and retched. As he heaved involuntarily, a small amount of slimy, bilious liquid dripped off his lower lip. There was nothing left in his stomach. The illness was reaching deep now. He put both hands on the pavement to steady himself and let his neck go limp. He felt like he had no energy left.

So close to death, Sylvan had never felt more alive. He had achieved his goal.

He stayed on hands and knees for several minutes. When he found enough strength, he straightened his body and felt his face. His fever was high. Instantly and instinctively horrified, he drew his fingers away and let his hands drop to his side. Usually lean and rough, even bony, his cheek had felt like an overripe plum left in the hot sun. He smiled and tried to imagine the color of his face. He looked at a dark purple patch on the back of his hand. If not already, his face would soon be the same color.

A few moments later he was a little stronger. He struggled to his feet and started staggering along. He looked down dark alleyways as he walked, nothing likely left or right. He would need to be well hidden; the area would be in chaos in a few minutes even though dawn was several hours away. He knew what people were capable of in desperate, lawless situations. Authority would break down in many neighborhoods. There was no predicting what ordinary citizens might do to someone they thought was infected.

He had seen it many times before. It did not matter where he was or who was involved; he had discovered that long ago. Despite the danger, he could not stay away from these situations anytime he could manage. He had to experience them. Little else in life did the same thing for him. Yet, he would never know the feeling of imminent death like the other victims. He had never been any good at self-delusion. He wished he could know what that feeling was like, the feeling you knew you were going to die.

He heard distant wails of anguish, actually the sirens of emergency vehicles. The blood in his ears deceived him. A light breeze carried a faint stench of infection. Soon the odor would overwhelm the more pleasant smells of intimate Karachi neighborhoods: smoky leather and raw cotton, roasted lamb with piney herbs, steeped fermented tea. He sucked in air through his mouth and thought about what was next.

After some careful study, Dr. Wasserman would understand the disease. She would be along shortly; he was sure of that. She would figure it out. He admired her so much. She had all the resources of the CDC behind her and the medical personnel of several NGOs and UN agencies, but it was her tenacity that mattered. Sylvan thought it might all be too late for many. They might save a few lives; maybe that was all they could hope for this time. He felt guilty, could he do more himself? He believed he already did all he could. Maybe if he confided in some one but then… if he did… he might make things even worse.

He coughed again but harder, and then again. It felt like bright scarlet embers filled his chest. He had to bend over and put his hand on his knees as the spasms squeezed his ribcage again and again. He had wondered how long he would have to wait for that reaction. He coughed more until it seemed like it wouldn't stop. He heard a rib crack. Blood splattered the sidewalk from the second to last convulsion and then trickled out at the last. His torso began to tremble involuntarily. His arms and legs had no strength left. It was all he could do to stumble to a small orange trash dumpster.

Sylvan passed an enormous dead rat in the middle of the alley swollen with pus. He studied the animal for a moment and saw a little movement under the fur. Soon the disease would be borne by winged vectors for miles around. He made it to the dumpster.

He rested his elbows on the lip of the metal container for a moment and then flipped back the plastic lid. The smell was not as bad as he feared. It did appear to be a restaurant dumpster, however. He could smell cumin, rosemary, and garlic. He would ordinarily find the odors pleasant, not this time. He knew the dumpster would smell worse in the morning but he had no choice. He had to hide from the angry mobs that would soon command the streets. He did not want to suffer because of the mob’s frustration.

He looked down and saw a whey-like liquid leaking from the dumpster. The thin, rancid ooze was filling the cracks between the raised gravel in the pavement. He watched a moment mesmerized by how the liquid moved quickly for a few inches, winding its way through the crevices, and then it would stop while another arm would spread in another direction. He could not detect any differences in elevation between the cracks. But the liquid told him a difference must be there. He was fascinated. It spread more than a meter as he stood there leaning on the dumpster. Realizing he was distracted again he shook his head. Blood dripped from his nose.

Sylvan willed his legs to move, and to his amazement, they responded, and over he went. He couldn't control his fall, however. The container was about half full. Folded cardboard and wilted cabbage leaves cushioned his landing. He groaned, not from the fall, but because he was seized by convulsions. It was going to be a bad one this time. Sylvan sighed and smiled.

In spite of the increasing severity of the symptoms, he still knew he would survive. He always did. Every time, he regretted being a survivor. He could never really feel the way of the doomed, not even this time.

He felt moisture on his legs and backside and felt something slimy there with his hands. Was it from him? Was he oozing something? No, but maybe the dumpster was not the best refuge after all. He hoped it was just spoiled yogurt.

He forgot about the slime, at least it was not moving. The faces of people he had seen at the market colonized his mind. He remembered faces, always. Then the cab driver’s eyes were staring at him from the crowd in his head. He thought about how they would suffer the same symptoms he had now. Could he save the driver or any of the others? He could never know for sure. Many would die, in fact, close to 90% of the infected with this one, he figured. He began sobbing.

He retched a few more times not having the strength to turn his head. The blood trickled down his chin and pooled on his neck between rigid tendons. He thought about the water bottle in his coat but decided to save it for later. He lost consciousness a moment later.



Two days later Dr. Karen Wasserman leaned back in the seat of the airliner and tried to consciously relax her shoulders. She was unsuccessful. In fact, the more she tried the more tense she became. She thought ‘damned useless yoga class’. Karen understood she was to blame for the ineffectiveness of her training. At her last visit she had tried to make it into an aerobic workout. The instructor tried to get her to relax, as usual. Maybe it was impossible to change her attitude.

She had been awake now for more than thirty hours. She knew others could have coordinated the response as well as she, but did not want to take the risk. A small delay or a tiny mistake could mean hundreds more dead.

Immediately after being notified, she had worked in the lab until just before her flight on the data the Pakistani authorities had sent. No sleep, and she had hardly eaten anything. She felt like she could eat a dozen chili cheeseburgers. What would her yoga instructor think of that? He would probably cite Ganesha or some other Hindu deity on self-respect and oneness with the environment. She needed to work harder on her yoga, she knew that… or was that a contradiction too? ‘Let go’, he would tell her, ‘do not think of it as work’.

Karen thought about food again. She had come close to eating a dozen burgers before; in her case the feat was not too far-fetched. She liked to see how amazed people would be to see someone so small eat so much. She thought about having to rely on chickpea patties for satisfaction, ‘what did they call them?’ She frowned thinking of the enthusiasm of legume-lovers, her parents especially. The chili could be replicated, maybe, but not the beef or cheddar or bacon, not really.

She had been to southern, Islamic Asia before. She tried not to think about the lack of cheeseburgers and worse, scotch, and banished the longing from her head. She doubted she would be able to eat anyway. Her work would consume her.

Based on the reports, she had already narrowed the pathogen down to mammalian origin, another species leap, a so-called zoonose, the third major one in two years and second since she had joined the Service. Oddly enough, some of the evidence pointed to marsupial. She had no idea how a contagion of that sort could have found its way to Karachi, but she had seen stranger things recently, too often.

Wallaby? Dr. Roberto O’Neill asked from the seat next to her. Are you sure, Karen? He was tapping away on his laptop with his long, thin fingers, analyzing her preliminary report. A series of color-coded, three-dimensional parabolas appeared on the screen. He seemed harried and frustrated, as though he were having trouble figuring out what she was presenting. Karen watched for a moment.

Seems to be, Bob, she said, pointing to a graph on his computer screen. Look at this one. She drew back her hand and touched her chin. Karen was comfortable calling him ‘Bob’ now, this being the second year of her post-doc and residency with the Epidemic Intelligence Service of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. She still considered him her boss, however. Showing him up would not be good.

I just don’t see how, O’Neill said. He ran a hand through his slick, dark brown hair and gently patted the tuft above his ear.

We’ll look over what new data the Pakistanis have found when we get there but I don’t think our conclusions will be any different, Karen said. And the data’s still pouring in.

What you’re suggesting has never been seen outside the Territories, Bob said, looking at her long enough to maker her uncomfortable. And never in humans.

Whatever it is, Karen said. Nearly every one of the 120 hospitals in the city is overloaded.

I guess my stint as a trauma surgeon might be useful after all, Bob said, cracking his knuckles.

There, go back there, Karen said, waving three fingers at the screen while ignoring the unpleasant cracking sound and his self-serving comment. She stared at the screen instead.

Scroll down, she said. Karen hated watching someone else operate a computer and she was anxious to put the pieces together as quickly as possible. Still, she was hesitant to be brusque with her supervisor.

What do you see? he asked, then with frustration in his voice: what are you looking at? He slapped his hands on the tray table which cause the computer to bounce.

See that? She pointed at a graph from the Australian Center for Epidemic Contagions. Go to the data for this one. Bob tapped a few keys and a series of bar graphs appeared. They both studied the screen for a few moments.

That’s it then, Bob said, MHFV. Yes, it’s obvious now. I would have seen it if this had been organized more carefully. Karen ignored his pettiness and looked at him with a grim expression.

I’d rather deal with hemorrhagic fever from primates or livestock, Karen said, breathing out loudly. We’ve got so little to go on with this one. We might not even be able to contain it and now we’ll have a devil of a time treating it. She groaned deeply.

We were lucky we even had it in the database, Bob said, evidently realizing he should pay her a compliment. Good thing you had that compilation done. Everyone said it was a waste of valuable resources. I had a hunch though, knowing you. I told them how good you were. He looked at her with his dark brown eyes and smiled awkwardly. She regretted what she assumed was another lovelorn scientist in pursuit of her. She also knew he would only support her theories when he was sure she was right.

Lately, she had begun to see the frequency of petty jealousy in academia. And to make matters worse, men could not seem to respect her work and not want her sexually too, and this was her boss. She looked away and gritted her teeth.

Sure, he was a handsome man. She glanced at his face to recall the small, broad nose and full lips. He was thirty-five years old, a few inches taller than her, and certainly bright, had lots of interesting things to say, but she did not want to have yet another relationship with a colleague.

He continued: I think you’ve taught us more than we’ve taught you. I suppose I can forgive all those absences from the lecture hall. And it’s not just because I like you so much, you know. Still, the undergrads will complain about their grades if they don’t see you more often. Karen resisted making eye contact again despite the compliments. She knew he had other motives. Bob never gave a compliment unless he wanted something.

My career is not what matters here, she said, putting a little anger behind her words. His mention of her attendance was troubling. She had seen professors use leverage like that before, and for personal reasons. It had never worked with her, even though she had been an irregular attendee in most of her classes throughout graduate school. Now, as a teaching fellow, it seemed, she was no different.

Bob seemed to be trying a different approach. Almost like he was saying, ‘see, I could punish you'. Karen believed his attitude might be worse than the more overt passes other men made. He had probably manipulated the teaching fellow assignments to get her. Resentment percolated inside her. They had critical work to do and here he was creating an irksome distraction. He seemed to read her mood and maneuvered back to the outbreak.

What made you think we would need the database? Bob asked. Everyone else called you as an alarmist… a conspiracy hound because of it. Good, he had gotten the message. He was almost criticizing her now.

I guess there’s been a pattern in mammalian zoonose development over the last decade… from what I’ve read, Karen said. We’ve seen several that fit the same pattern ourselves. I haven’t been able to nail it down yet. This might be the one that brings it all into focus. I wish I’d seen it before now.

Nobody sees it, Bob said, looking out the window beyond her. We might never figure it out. Karen shook her head and turned to look out the plane’s window. She did not want to believe that.



Half a world away, in Atlanta, Georgia, two vice detectives investigate a break-in.

I tell you Lee… another strange list, Detective Victor Somers said under his breath, handing the list of stolen drugs back to his senior partner. Hard to believe. Detective Lee Bibb, blinked his blond eyelashes rapidly while he read the list. Then he rhythmically opened his eyes wide, showing the red perimeter, like he was exercising them. When Bibb seemed too conscious of his blinking Somers knew it meant his partner was working his deductive powers.

And you say he came in this way, Mr. Roberts? Bibb asked. Somers looked at the small round-faced man with a red crew cut in the white lab coat and round-rimmed glasses and tried to size him up. He stepped towards the broken transom window that opened out level with the sidewalk. He could see the legs of people walking by. The window was off a shallow well on a side street around the corner from the pharmacy’s main entrance on Peachtree Street at the border between downtown and midtown Atlanta.

I know, it seems strange, that window there, Roberts, the head pharmacist, said. It’s like he didn’t know where he wanted to go, you see. He would have had to break in twice, practically, really… I mean... you know?

I see, said Bibb in his high-pitched monotone. Somers could tell his partner thought the burglar knew exactly what he was doing. He watched his partner straighten his cheap gold tie and tuck it into his cheaper navy blue, pinstriped suit, and then he yanked on the poorly tailored hem.

Somers was always surprised at how much his partner managed his appearance, yet he shopped at the cheapest clothing outlets. Detective Somers believed a man needed to wear the best if he wanted people to think he cared about his appearance.

He smoothed his own purple and green paisley tie that cost more than his partner’s whole suit and watched Bibb complete his quiet analysis, reflected in a series of clothing and hair adjustments even though nothing was really out of place. He used to wonder why Bibb bothered with all of it but he knew now that the mannerisms helped him think, and the movements told a story, like he was sending a sign language message. To Somers they said his partner was convinced they had learned all they could about this case. They would need more evidence to solve it, and he was ready to go.

Anything else sir, or is that it? Bibb asked.

Just what I showed y’all already, Roberts said, smiling faintly and then correcting his expression to a more serious one. Usually there’s much more of a mess, you know, a scramble to get the drugs they want, and an insane dash to get out… lots of stuff broken and all. Do y’all want to look at the system again?

No, that’s fine, Mr. Roberts, said Somers. A professional had disabled that too, clearly. All it had taken was a glance to confirm how a hand-held device had been used to override the security system, too easy. The pharmacist piped up again.

I can show you the surveillance tape now but like I said… there’s nothing there.

We’ll have a look anyway, Somers said, asserting the bass in his rich voice and thinking of choir practice the night before. The two detectives followed the pharmacist back up the stairs. Somers looked at the broken basement door again. A professional had opened it, no doubt.

He entered the store again and checked the position of the store’s security cameras while Bibb and the pharmacist headed for the office. Somers realized the perpetrator could avoid most of the security cameras by coming in the basement window. Sure, he had to break in twice, but it was worth it from the burglar’s standpoint. This one had thought it through, not like a desperate