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  The APOCs Virus

  BY

  ALEX MYERS

  CHAPTER 1

  MEREDITH LABORATORIES, PHILADELPHIA

  DECEMBER 1969

  “These monkey kidneys are infected.”

  “Simian Immunodeficiency Virus?”

  “Yes. Should I throw them out?" Angus Puck asked.

  "Not on your life! Have the kidneys already been prepared?"

  "Yes."

  "Then ice them, pack them and ship them off to Dugway, Dr. Milan Wojick said. He examined tissue in an open petri dish. “Dugway” was short for Dugway Proving Grounds, located southwest of Salt Lake City in a remote area of Utah. Since 1941 it had been the US Army’s chemical warfare testing facility.

  "But, sir, we know it causes tumor cells and that’s probably just the tip of the iceberg."

  "Puck, how boringly trite,” the doctor said in a heavy Russian accent. "I'm not sure what the protocol is here, but in my homeland, first-year medical students do not question their professors. Especially when your scholarship from here is in such a, shall we say, precarious state. Dr. Zenona needs every specimen we can provide. A month from now he plans to inoculate at least a quarter of a million people with a polio vaccine in the Belgian Congo. The funding he provides is as important to Meredith Laboratories as your scholarship is to you. ‘Big Buzz’ and ‘Big Itch’ happen in less than a month from then.”

  Researchers planned to plummet infected mosquitos into a drop zone for “Big Buzz and “Big Itch” was to cluster bomb live infected fleas. Both would be used for ethnic cleansing purposes.

  “Am I making myself clear?" The older man smirked, pushed back his glasses on his round, basketball-sized head. He leaned into the hard back of the lab chair, his large rolls of fat almost obscuring the reinforced seat.

  "But Doctor, please look at this." Angus opened a liquid nitrogen freezer and, using forceps, pulled out a smoking, cold metal tray.

  Dr. Wojick peered over the top of his glasses, looked at Angus suspiciously, and asked, “What do you need me to see?”

  "Kaposi sarcoma tumors I removed from two of the animals."

  "Impossible! SIV does not cause such a reaction in rhesus macaques. There must be some mistake." He stood up, crossed his arms, and turned away from the student.

  "There's no mistake. I took a biopsy back to the University. Dr. Vidal confirmed my thoughts."

  “Dr. Vidal does not have proper security clearance to be confirming anything.”

  He walked around until he was facing the doctor. “Are you even aware that these specimens are not from rhesus monkeys, sir? We haven't had a rhesus since India banned their export last fall. You have been gone so much, between Dugway and Ft. Detrick”

  “Don’t talk to me like I am a child. What species are they from?" Wojick asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  "They're from African greens, the natural hosts of SIV."

  Wojick looked nonplussed. "My point exactly, boy. The African green monkey does not exhibit these kinds of serious side effects from the virus." Dr. Wojick used his chair like a wheelchair, rolling from one steel-topped table to another, looking into microscopes and examining test tubes and thus all while never having to stand.

  "These are from breeders we raised ourselves. Only the mothers were African greens. The father was a single rhesus. I'm not sure what exactly we have created with this crossbreeding, but the rest of the monkeys caged in the same room with these either have already died or are dying.”

  “So?” The doctor said disdainfully.

  “Please, we could cause a cross-species epidemic.” Angus Puck began to sweat. He had to push this, “We are creating a Frankenstein virus. This man-made virology is a very real factor we have to consider."

  "The debate is over!" the doctor said, slamming both hands and sausage-like fingers on the lab table. "Pack the specimens and ship them to Dr. Zenona. And if Meredith Laboratories is to be your educational benefactor, you will keep your theories about this 'foamy' virus to yourself. The Congo is only the first step in worldwide immunizations, and Meredith Laboratories will continue to provide the raw materials.”

  Dr. Wojick heaved his incredible bulk off the chair, using his arms to push himself upright. His legendary body odor overpowered the ever-present scent of bleach. “You can profit immensely, I might add," he said, opening the door to the outer hallway, “by learning to keep your mouth shut.” He left the room, the slamming door accenting his point.

  * * *

  The Belgian Congo became Zaire, SIV became HIV and Angus Puck and Dr. Milan Wojick watched the cross-species viral-jump spread outwardly in the form of AIDS like a deadly spiderweb from the heart of the Dark Continent. Meredith Laboratories became Meredith Pharmaceuticals and fired a controversial Russian doctor, head of its former research department. They also stopped their educational fellowship program. Angus Puck continued his education with funding from the Army ROTC. Upon graduation, he found a home at the Army's Center for Biological Warfare at the Dugway Proving Grounds. Working his way up the ranks, the first civilian researcher he hired was Dr. Milan Wojick.

  Dr. Wojick spent the next thirty years trying to right his wrong and to do it before it reached epidemic proportions. Dr. Puck stepped in under the auspices of the CDC to cover up an early cure attempt in 1976. Twenty-nine American Legion convention attendees were infected with HIV and then mysteriously died in a Philadelphia hotel from the vaccination.

  Dr. Wojick eventually developed the cure for Aids from transplanted stem cells from a single unknown donor. How ironic that the man who caused the epidemic was also the one to end it. While the donor was immune from aids, he was sick with a much more virulent affliction—and the disease was not to be contained.

  Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.

  Oliver Goldsmith (1728 - 1774)

  CHAPTER 2

  A MOUSE IN THE HOUSE

  The power went off in Nattie Pigott's house with a loud snap! It was nightmare dark in the house and Nattie was scared. Portentous shadows filled every corner of the house, stretching its unseen fingers out to grab her. She held her hand up in front of her face and could barely see the outline.

  "Where was that flashlight? And now that I'm thinking about it, why didn't that generator that Henry rigged-up come on?" Nattie didn't realize she was speaking aloud.

  She reached out to grab the walker and it wasn't there. That's strange, she thought. She knew she had used it, because she couldn't have made the trip from the kitchen without it.

  Nattie hated the walker; Henry wasn't at home this minute with her now because of it. And to think he almost put his foot down and made me get a wheelchair. I only use the darn-blasted thing to make him happy. He worries like a mother hen. The walker was something an old person would use, and she wasn't old. She was only fifty-five and felt great�
��great except for the partial paralysis on her left side, thank you very much Mr. Strokie-Pokie.

  It was because of the stroke she had to give up her housekeeping job. Without that money and with all the medical bills, her husband Henry had to get a second job. He had to stop making gadgets for her, though he loved doing so. It was either that or lose the house. She was a strong-headed woman, refusing Henry's insistence that they get a nurse.

  It's a shame he had to get that night job on the docks. The worrywart doesn't think I'm still fit. Been taking care of you and myself most of our lives, thank you anyway, Mr. Smarty-pants. Now, Nattie honey, just take it slow and think things through. No use letting yourself get so upset over a blown fuse, she thought. Now where's that flashlight Henry gave me? He told me not to let it out of my sight. Hope it wasn't them leprechauns again.

  Lately, even before the stroke, Nattie had started to hallucinate. Nattie wasn't sure if they were leprechauns or little green men. Either way, she hadn't mentioned it to anyone, especially Henry. Besides, they weren't as bad as the snakes and giant spiders she sometimes saw.

  Bizarre things had been happening around town the last few days and Henry had to work even longer hours. Lots of people were out sick—either that, or just too frightened to leave their homes and families. So, Henry went to work before sunrise and didn't get home until after dark. Tonight, he was working later than usual. An ‘all-nighter’, she remembered him saying. Just that morning Henry had begged her to stay with Nina, her friend from bingo, but she had refused. "Please," he begged, "at least until this thing blows over and I'm back on my regular shift."

  "Nonsense Henry, I'm not ready for the bone heap yet, you just take care of yourself and I'll worry about me."

  Now she was worried.

  She had to get the lights back on. Everyone, even the pretty boys on the TV News had warned her about that.

  She was using the arm of the chair for support, trying to stand up, when she heard a crash in the kitchen.

  "What was that? Who's there?"

  There was no answer, but she thought she had heard movement.

  Now, more determined than ever, she actually made it to her feet. Her legs felt as heavy and oppressive as the blackness around her. She sensed the rush of blood to her lower extremities and thought she was going to pass out. She took a step forward and found a handhold on the lamp table. Her arms and legs felt like lead shot in a sock. Then she heard the noise again.

  Scrape, scrape, shuffle, like a half dead cat dragging itself across a tin roof.

  "Who's there, I said?"

  But still, no one answered.

  I hope it's not them little green bastards, she didn’t mean to curse, even to herself, but she was in no mood to play patty-cakes.

  She was so lightheaded, she was close to passing out, which by the way, seemed like a rather good option, that way she wouldn’t have to deal with any of this nonsense. Her head was swimming, and she wasn't thinking correctly.

  Keep thinking like that, Nattie dear, Henry will do more than get you a nurse, he'll put you in the old folks home. Or worse than that, the loony-bin.

  The blood made its way back to her head and was hammering in her temples like a machine gun. A pungent odor filled her nostrils and she thought she had wet herself yet another embarrassing time. As she thought about the smell, she realized, it wasn't her.

  Scrape, scrape, shuffle, shuffle. It sounded like the devil with a dead dance partner. She ascertained that whatever it was, it was now in the dining room. The same place the smell seemed strongest.

  She peered into the darkness . . . nothing. Yet, somehow, she knew, someone or something was in the house with her. She could feel it.

  Oh god, please don't let it be the spiders again. Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably and she could taste the bile backing up in her throat. Seeing the little green men didn't bother her that bad. They were mischievous, oh sure, hiding her reading glasses and needlepoint, but all-in-all they kept her company while Henry was away. The spiders though, with their beady, black, lifeless eyes, their spiny, hairy, legs and fangs—oh those hungry fangs—nearly scared the pee out of her. Even Henry knew about the spiders. On the night of her stroke, he found her on the floor delirious with the talk of them attacking her. To appease her, he bought her cans of Raid that she kept strategically placed around the house. He hadn't even put up much of a fuss the times she accidentally sprayed him with the stuff.

  "Henry, is that you?" she asked.

  There was a deadly pause. Then a voice from the other room said, "Yes Nattie, it's me. Come to me dear. You're safe now."

  She was safe; it was Henry. Her pulse quickened and her head swam.

  Then she heard it again—scrape, scrape, shuffle, shuffle—a little faster now. It seemed renewed with a different kind of urgency. Nattie was sure of the sound now.

  It sounds like a giant spider with its stick-like legs clicking on the hardwood floor.

  When she had been in the hospital recovering from her stroke, it was the only time in thirty-five years of marriage that Henry had seen her without her makeup or her hair fixed. That was her job: keep a clean house, cook the food, and be beautiful for Henry. Her job as a housekeeper was mainly something to keep her busy while Henry was away. The few dollars she earned was just money she used to buy dresses, get her hair done, or buy a gift. She was a proud woman, but she knew everything she had was due to her husband. He was a good provider.

  She raised her hand, letting go of the table to adjust her hair for him. Her legs buckled under. The instant she hit the floor she knew her right leg was broken. She heard the crack on impact and could feel the warmth of her blood seeping out through the compound fracture.

  The pungency in the room almost gagged her and it was getting worse.

  A wave of relief rushed over Nattie. Henry was there, he'd save her. He was always there when she needed him.

  "Henry, Henry I need you. I fell, I'm hurt, hurt bad." She heard how frail her voice sounded.

  "I'm here, Nattie," the voice answered.

  Something's not right, she thought. It doesn't sound like Henry.

  She listened more intently and could hear heavy breathing. "Just relax, I'll take care of everything."

  A putrefying smell overcame her. No, not urine—something more powerful and tart. The smell was so strong she could taste it on her tongue with every breath.

  "Just relax and let it bleed . . ., “ A grating, raspy voice said somewhere from the darkness.

  She broke out of her daze—this wasn't Henry. She tried to move; her leg sent out shock waves of pain. She managed to sit up. A strong hand grasped her ankle in a death grip. She flailed her arms trying to find something to pull herself away with.

  The hand strengthened its grip. She felt herself being jerked across the floor. She knew she was in trouble—bad trouble. She knew this wasn't Henry; moreover, he wasn't going to save her either. She knew she had to save herself.

  With her left hand, she reached out and found a handhold. It was the leg of the sideboard table.

  "Stop moving around old woman. You're spilling my precious blood," a voice blasted her ears.

  With all the strength of her wasted body, with all her love for Henry, she pulled the leg of the table. The front leg of the waist‑high sideboard rose off the area rug. She heard things roll off the back, then crash and break onto the floor. There was another sound, something rolling. She instinctively knew it was the flashlight. She picked it up to use as a weapon to fend off her attacker.

  She wanted to live. She had to live. Henry needed her as much as she needed him. She tightened her grip on the light, preparing to bludgeon her antagonist. Her palm moved over the switch, and a beam knifed out.

  They both shrieked; it in agony, and her in horror.

  Nattie was caught in a moment that stretched into an eternity. She could see tribulation in the baleful‑yellow eyes of the creature; eyes that flashed with vitality and an edgy, nervous hunger. She
saw indignation and something more perilous. As she stared at the thing other details became noticeable. The bits of hair, like that of Emma Reese who had undergone chemotherapy for the tumor in her chest, hung from its scaly head. As she looked at the malignant face, she realized that it wasn't scales. It was skin so rough and cracked, it looked like a dried fish. The demon had teeth, a sickly gray and sharpened like fine arrow points.

  It grimaced: an expression that was part smile, scowl and snarl. Then its jaws stretched inhumanly wide. Inside its mouth was death; death in the form of daggers.

  The thing was swaying side to side with its mouth still open impossibly wide. The gray molted tongue flickered and then lashed in the cavern of his mouth. Then it screamed. The sound wasn't a human thing; it was something more primal than that. It was a sound from a nightmare; from another world, a world filled with misery and distress.

  The moment that the beast was immobilized by the scream passed as quickly as it began. A cacophony of sounds and moving limbs erupted as it sprung into action. With a speed Nattie could not believe possible, it was up and behind the chair. She tried in vain to follow its movements with the flashlight. She flipped back on her stomach. Her leg was aching like a cop car siren, sending out rhythmic, noisy paralyzing pain. She started to crawl, her right leg dangling behind her; more a useless weight than a viable appendage. She was using her arms to drag herself across the floor. She was making headway—until the easychair came crashing down upon her.

  The air left her body in a puff. She instinctively curled into a fetal position. Her insides felt crushed. She didn't move or try to get away again. She waited for the inevitable to come. The wait wasn't a long one.

  A feeling was flooding over her and she welcomed it. All her life she had feared death and now as she was racing toward it, she longed for the trip to end. Thoughts about death and dying had come to her often lately. She wasn't quite sure there was a God, but prayed that there wasn't a hell. Yet, as skeptical as she was about God, she couldn't face the other alternative that all that awaited her in the end was a void, a giant, fat, black sea of nothing.