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Authors: Michael Palmer
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infection would feel like. Now he knew. His imagination had hardly done the virus justice. Praying for death was about the best he could do.
“Dr. Rhodes … Dr. Rhodes, can you hear me?… It is Dr. Marielle.… I swear he opened his eyes.… Did you see that?…”
The clanging on his steel door resumed, echoing through the cinder-block hell of his solitary confinement cell.
Which was worse, the nightmare or his reality?
The vulture was joined by another, then another—huge black shadows with fiery eyes, drifting down to gnaw on him. Each bite brought pain—pain and more blood. Griff thrashed on his cot and tried to bat them away.
Help!… Help me!
The vultures were unrelenting now, tearing away huge chunks of his flesh, challenging him to wake up.
Facedown on the blood-soaked ground, Griff continued flailing at the mammoth birds.
The sudden clang of his cell door finally caused the nightmare to loosen its grip. Reluctantly, the lurid images receded.
“Rhodes … Rhodes … Hey, asshole, wake up!…”
Donald Spinelli, the huge, heavy-lidded guard, stood across the room, by the naked toilet bowl, impatiently smacking his riot stick against his own thigh.
Griff rubbed his eyes, turned away from the unadorned cinder-block wall, and peered briefly across at the man. Then he rolled back onto his side, again facing the wall, utterly drained. The nightmares arising from his battle against Ebola weren’t an every night thing, but even after a decade, they still occurred frequently enough, and as vivid and inexorable as ever.
The guard moved to the side of Griff’s institutional cot and slapped him with force on the bare sole of his foot.
Unwilling to give the brute the satisfaction of hearing him cry out, Griff clenched his teeth against the stinging and gripped his heavy beard. He had practice dealing with pain. It would take more than a smack on the foot to get a reaction from him. Much more. Over the nearly nine months he had been in solitary confinement, all of the prison guards had been abusive to one extent or another. But Spinelli had been the worst. If physically possible, there was no way he would give the sadist any satisfaction. Still, it wasn’t worth provoking him.
“What do you want, Spinelli?”
“Put on your Sunday best, Rhodes. You’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Just what I said. You’re out of here.”
“Nine months in this cell with an hour a day walking in the yard alone, and all of a sudden, just like that, I’m out of here? This your idea of funny?”
“I wish. It’s real. Straight from the warden.”
“What’s going on?”
“I got no idea. When you get out there—” he motioned to the small barred window overlooking the exercise yard, “why don’t you ask the guys in that chopper?”
CHAPTER 11
DAY 2
1:20 A.M. (EST)
Senator Harlan Mackey had seen enough. Fear and chaos were erupting around him like Mount Vesuvius. People rushing for the exits were being forcibly turned back. And exactly where was America’s leader now? Gone. Vanished into a back room with his disgracefully inept Cabinet, looking like the reincarnation of Boss Tweed.
The Kentucky senator and majority whip would not tolerate Hiliard’s gross mishandling of this situation one second longer. Mackey’s well-known motto— No way, no how! —applied to this crisis the same as it did to any legislation he worked to defeat. And how dare Allaire violate the sanctity of the House Chamber—firing off a gun as though he were Wyatt Earp taking over some lawless Western town. People were ill, and from what Mackey could tell, they were only getting sicker. They did not need Jim Allaire. They needed medical care.
At least Mackey could feel grateful that his son’s math teacher had refused to reschedule an exam. Because of the man’s inflexibility, Jack and his mother had passed up their pilgrimage to D.C. for the State of the Union Address. Lucky them.
Many people had begun grudgingly to return to
“Dr. Rhodes … Dr. Rhodes, can you hear me?… It is Dr. Marielle.… I swear he opened his eyes.… Did you see that?…”
The clanging on his steel door resumed, echoing through the cinder-block hell of his solitary confinement cell.
Which was worse, the nightmare or his reality?
The vulture was joined by another, then another—huge black shadows with fiery eyes, drifting down to gnaw on him. Each bite brought pain—pain and more blood. Griff thrashed on his cot and tried to bat them away.
Help!… Help me!
The vultures were unrelenting now, tearing away huge chunks of his flesh, challenging him to wake up.
Facedown on the blood-soaked ground, Griff continued flailing at the mammoth birds.
The sudden clang of his cell door finally caused the nightmare to loosen its grip. Reluctantly, the lurid images receded.
“Rhodes … Rhodes … Hey, asshole, wake up!…”
Donald Spinelli, the huge, heavy-lidded guard, stood across the room, by the naked toilet bowl, impatiently smacking his riot stick against his own thigh.
Griff rubbed his eyes, turned away from the unadorned cinder-block wall, and peered briefly across at the man. Then he rolled back onto his side, again facing the wall, utterly drained. The nightmares arising from his battle against Ebola weren’t an every night thing, but even after a decade, they still occurred frequently enough, and as vivid and inexorable as ever.
The guard moved to the side of Griff’s institutional cot and slapped him with force on the bare sole of his foot.
Unwilling to give the brute the satisfaction of hearing him cry out, Griff clenched his teeth against the stinging and gripped his heavy beard. He had practice dealing with pain. It would take more than a smack on the foot to get a reaction from him. Much more. Over the nearly nine months he had been in solitary confinement, all of the prison guards had been abusive to one extent or another. But Spinelli had been the worst. If physically possible, there was no way he would give the sadist any satisfaction. Still, it wasn’t worth provoking him.
“What do you want, Spinelli?”
“Put on your Sunday best, Rhodes. You’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Just what I said. You’re out of here.”
“Nine months in this cell with an hour a day walking in the yard alone, and all of a sudden, just like that, I’m out of here? This your idea of funny?”
“I wish. It’s real. Straight from the warden.”
“What’s going on?”
“I got no idea. When you get out there—” he motioned to the small barred window overlooking the exercise yard, “why don’t you ask the guys in that chopper?”
CHAPTER 11
DAY 2
1:20 A.M. (EST)
Senator Harlan Mackey had seen enough. Fear and chaos were erupting around him like Mount Vesuvius. People rushing for the exits were being forcibly turned back. And exactly where was America’s leader now? Gone. Vanished into a back room with his disgracefully inept Cabinet, looking like the reincarnation of Boss Tweed.
The Kentucky senator and majority whip would not tolerate Hiliard’s gross mishandling of this situation one second longer. Mackey’s well-known motto— No way, no how! —applied to this crisis the same as it did to any legislation he worked to defeat. And how dare Allaire violate the sanctity of the House Chamber—firing off a gun as though he were Wyatt Earp taking over some lawless Western town. People were ill, and from what Mackey could tell, they were only getting sicker. They did not need Jim Allaire. They needed medical care.
At least Mackey could feel grateful that his son’s math teacher had refused to reschedule an exam. Because of the man’s inflexibility, Jack and his mother had passed up their pilgrimage to D.C. for the State of the Union Address. Lucky them.
Many people had begun grudgingly to return to
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