The Darkness Drops Page 4

  “You’re right.” Daikens’ mouth hardened into a grimace. In seconds he was barking orders to the officers in charge, telling them to lose the Rambo tactics.

  “Now get me down there,” Terry continued, and launched into a stream of orders before Daikens had even switched back to their own frequency.

  “. . . I have to talk with the ship’s surgeon, go over the victims’ charts, examine everyone with symptoms--your men can organize all that in sick bay. Notify PACOM we’ll quarantine the entire vessel, hold her well out to sea, beyond where even birds fly, and confine everyone below decks, whether they’re sick yet or not. Nobody gets off. Not so much as a cigarette butt, spit of saliva, or sneeze-spray goes overboard. We turn the whole damn place into a floating isolation unit, bring our hot-zone teams and equipment out here, plus autopsy suites if people start to die--”

  “Die! Slow down. The only deaths so far are homicides. Aren’t you getting way ahead of yourself--”

  “I hope that I am. In the meantime, consider this a level four biohazard facility until we isolate what the hell is at work here. That means maximum protection gear all around, including disinfection wash-downs for helicopters and our personnel whenever they return to base. Any crew who tries to jump ship, stop them or shoot ’em.”

  “Shoot ’em?” said the general.

  “Well, maybe not shoot. Netting them would be fine--”

  “Jesus Christ, Ryder. Who the fuck made you Hitler?”

  “Not who, what. It’s called TPS.”

  “TPS?”

  “TPS. It stands for The Paradise Shakes. That’s the name the residents gave it. Over the last seven days in ER . . .”

  As Terry breathlessly explained to an increasingly bewildered Robert Daikens why he thought they were dealing with an outbreak that extended beyond the Reagan, how his Eureka circuits had deemed it all part of an attack, and what justified draconian measures to isolate, investigate and treat--the mantra of any hot-zone mission--star-shaped flashes reflected off the visor of Daikens’ hood. Am I hallucinating? Terry thought. Several vigorous blinks failed to clear them away.

  “Oh, fuck,” the general muttered, shifting his gaze to look down past Terry’s shoulder.

  Terry turned, and saw those same small starbursts appear at different levels around the Reagan’s superstructure.

  Either the landing parties were snapping Kodak moments, or that was muzzle fire.

  The general said nothing. He reached into a second pouch of equipment, and brought out two bulletproof vests, handing one to Terry.

  Terrific!

  As he slipped it on over his biohazard outfit, their airship drifted down.

  Soldiers on either side of him shouldered their own weapons and, sliding open both side doors, tossed ropes through the openings.

  Double terrific.

  Before he knew it, the rest of the men were gone, and the pilots were looking impatiently over their shoulders at him and the general.

  The old man grabbed one of the dangling ropes and shoved it into Terry’s hands. Then he reached for one himself and swung outside, disappearing from view.

  His mouth dry, Terry tried to swallow, but couldn’t. The Department of Homeland Security hadn’t appointed him Chief Advisor on Bioterror Preparedness for his ability to play Spiderman.

  “Gotta’ go, Doc!” crackled a voice in his ear.

  They had hired him because he never backed off from a hot zone.

  He walked to the edge of the opening and looked down.

  As often as he’d been plopped in the middle of nowhere, this would be the first time he’d do it hanging in midair. The burning in his chest surged to the back of his throat and bile coursed over his tongue. But the prospect of a hazard suit full of vomit made him swallow hard, sending the contents of his stomach back where they belonged. Then he closed his eyes, tightened his grip, and stepped into darkness.

  The noise of the rotors just feet above his head rattled his brain.

  He felt his gloves slip, and he seemed to drop forever. Yet when he opened his eyes to peek, the helicopter was a mere twenty feet above him, and the pilots gestured impatiently with their thumbs pointing down.

  Not a good sign.

  He loosened his grip and plummeted, the line racing through his fingers. Trying to slow his fall, he squeezed his fists tight. Even through gloves, his palms seared themselves against the nylon. But he saw the deck rising to meet him and squeezed harder.

  The next second he hit the surface with such force his knees drove into his chest and knocked the wind out of him. The hard, gritty surface, coarse as a grindstone to provide traction for the jets, pressed through the material of his suit and into his skin. He gingerly moved his limbs, dreading a sudden lance of pain to tell him he’d broken something.

  None came.

  He got to his feet and staggered after the general, following him through a hatch at the base of the carrier’s tower. Inside, their feet crunched on broken glass as they came to a stop in a dark stairwell. The general snapped on a headlamp attached to his outfit.

  Terry did the same.

  The jagged edges of a smashed ceiling bulb in an imploded metal cage glistened like one fragment of a popped soap bubble. Behind it, steps disappeared into darkness, one leading up toward the bridge, the other down to the lower decks.

  They chose down, and directed their dueling beams into the blackness at their feet. As they descended, the white light marked the passageway with annular patterns, making it appear to undulate like a living gorge. “Into the belly of the beast,” Terry said, big on the use of chatter to keep people loose, just like in ER.

  The general flashed him a grin.

  Somewhere a PA system crackled, then cut in and out with snatches of orders.

  “All persons on watch stay at your posts . . . rest of you confined to quarters . . . surrender any weapons to the personnel in biohazard suits . . .”

  They entered a corridor at the next level. The lights were gone here as well. At least in this area everyone must have obeyed the order to stay put. The place was deserted. Seconds later they stepped into another stairwell, also deserted, but a sudden cacophony of overlapping cries, shouted commands, and the clang of boots on steel carried up from the levels below them.

  “Freeze !”

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “Drop your weapon!”

  “We’re MPs!”

  “I said, freeze!”

  High-pitched with fear, the voices continued, probably echoing throughout the ship, and sure to crank already taut nerves a turn tighter.

  “So much for these cowboys of yours not scaring the bejeesus out of everybody,” Terry muttered, still connected to the general’s radio frequency.

  “They’re not my cowboys,” he replied.

  Terry led. He knew the way to sick bay from his previous trips on board, having certified the Reagan’s isolation measures during the bird-flu pandemic of 2007. They’d gone fifty feet when the dry cough of three muffled shots sounded from somewhere in the depths of the ship.

  Terry’s gut seized. He fought the instinct to race toward the noise and see if he could help anyone who’d been wounded.

  Another shot sounded, and a scream erupted, seeming to come at them from all directions at once. It pulsed louder, stripped of any semblance to the human voice, until it might have been the terrified howl of an animal in pain, then faded to a sickening wet gurgle.

  Terry imagined blood bubbling out from a torn neck.

  Leave him to the medics, he told himself, coming to an intersection of corridors and turning right. They could stabilize, intubate, and line a man with IVs as well as he could. Such were the brutal realities of battlefield triage--scoop and run. Then the surgeons in sick bay could take over. He had his own job to do.

  But he couldn’t shut out that wet, throaty wail. Never dying away altogether, it seeped through his hood and filled his ears, cleaving his sense of duty.

  A dozen men wearing pilots’ ja
ckets appeared out of the darkness and, paying neither the general nor Terry any heed, pushed by to continue in the direction of the stairwell, arguing loudly about taking off without clearance.

  The general unsnapped the flap of his holster and allowed the black handle of his sidearm to be visible. “I better dissuade them,” he said, giving Terry a wink. “Excuse me gentlemen, but you didn’t salute a senior officer . . .”

  Terry stopped to watch him confront the group and played his beam of light over them like a spotlight from a police car.

  The airmen wheeled in formation and glowered at both of them, squinting from the brightness in their eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” one of them said, shoulders hunched forward as his brow slouched into a scowl.

  It struck Terry as a pretty good imitation of James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.

  “I’m General Robert Daikens. Now give me my salute, son!” Even muffled by the hooded outfit, the general’s voice carried the snap of authority that only men used to issuing commands can summon. What sounded odd was hearing him give his formal name. He’d always reserved that exclusively for people he considered his peers in rank.

  The wild bunch dropped their biker-gang poses, stood erect, and crisply brought right hands up to their temples. “Yes, Sir!” they said in unison.

  Reassured they weren’t going to cause the general trouble, Terry continued along the passageway.

  Whatever other skirmishes were going on between the crew and the landing parties, the winding corridors in this section remained empty.

  He reached an area where the lights were on and stepped through the bulkhead doorway, only to see a burly figure blocking the way.

  The man straddled a raised sill leading to what appeared to be sleeping quarters, the corner of a triple bunk just visible inside the opening, but the bulk of him filled the main passage. “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

  That seemed to be the standard greeting down here.

  Wearing only a gray T-shirt and jockey shorts, he bore no insignia to indicate his rank. But his neck bulged as thick as Terry’s thigh and his veins pumped up on his biceps like he had tree roots growing out of his arms.

  “I’m Dr. Terry Ryder.” In a hot zone, the title “Doctor” had a rank all its own that just about everybody respected, and Terry never hesitated using it to advantage. “So just sit tight, sailor. We’ll sort this problem out in a matter of hours.”

  “Well, Doc, if everything’s so fuckin’ rosy, what are you wearing the Darth Vader costume for?”

  “It’s only a precaution. Now, if you’ll move aside--”

  “Will it protect against this?” The man abruptly stepped completely into the corridor, blocking Terry’s way. He had fists the size of baseball mitts, and his already muscular physique immediately bulked up even more. But his eyes really told the tale. The pupils pulsed once and dilated wide, the sure sign of an adrenalin surge.

  Oh, shit, this guy’s raging, Terry thought, and stopped where he stood, slowly allowing his hands to drop to his sides. He assumed the least threatening posture he could, remembering that there’d already been eleven homicides on board. “Easy, sailor. We’re here to help--”

  “Then take a look at this, Doc.” He stood back and gestured toward the open door where he’d been standing.

  Better humor him, Terry thought, and, still keeping his distance, cautiously craned forward to peek inside the dimly lit room.

  It was bigger than he expected. A dozen triple bunks stretched along the right-hand wall, all occupied by men who appeared to be asleep.

  “Go on in,” the man said.

  Terry stiffened. “You first.”

  “Are you scared, Doc?” He flashed a sarcastic sneer, then moved to reenter the sleeping quarters. Stepping across the elevated sill, he abruptly lurched sideways and ended up hanging onto the edge of the doorway, apparently having lost his balance.

  The Reagan, big as she was, had a slight surge, enough to be a reminder that they were at sea, but not a force that would throw someone off-stride, especially a person with his mass.

  “Sorry,” the man said, “but that’s what’s happened to all these guys. We can’t walk.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Watch!” The large man pushed himself up straight, stepped the rest of the way into the room with a normal gait, then seemed to trip on an invisible bar, his right foot catching in midair and dropping toe-first to drag on the floor. He tumbled forward in a face-down sprawl. “Can you fix that, Doc?” he said, glaring up at him. A scarlet flush crept up his neck to the tips of his ears.

  Terry’s professional instinct to help overruled caution. He entered the room and knelt by the man’s side. “Are you all right?”

  “Fuckin’ A, Doc.”

  The men in the bunks began to stir.

  Terry rose, immediately wary again.

  “What’s up, Moose?” one of them called.

  “Yeah, who’s your spaceman friend?”

  A few of the men pulled themselves out of bed, hanging onto the bunks for support.

  The man they were calling Moose struggled to his feet. “This is Dr. Ryder, boys. Claims he’s here to help.”

  He got a chorus of replies.

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “Fuckin’ little late, isn’t he?”

  “How’s he going to do that?”

  Terry took a step back. Everyone in the room seemed as aggressive as Moose. One or two pushed off from where they were clinging to their iron beds, and staggered toward him in grotesque, gyrating strides that carried them no more than a few feet before they collapsed to the floor. The one nearest Terry sneered and dragged himself forward, getting close enough to make a grab at his boot. “Come here, you goddamn cruise-ship quack,” he said.

  Terry back-stepped again, out of range of the man’s arms, but not out from under the smoldering gaze of Moose.

  “Don’t bullshit us, Doc,” he said. “We know we’re fucked. But what are you going to do about it?”

  “How long did it take you to get like this?” Appalled by what he saw, Terry was already reducing it to bite-sized, clinical chunks in an attempt to make a diagnostic guess at what the hell had happened to them.

  “A week ago we all fucking skipped the light fandango,” the man at his feet answered in a mocking, singsong voice. He took another swipe at Terry’s legs.

  “You like ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’?” Terry asked him, having recognized the lyric lifted from Procol Harum’s classic. Sometimes a question out of left field could distract an agitated patient.

  “Look at us!” the crawler screamed, and took yet another swing at Terry’s legs. He put some real force behind this one, as if crippling Terry would even the score for his own loss of mobility.

  Terry turned to Moose. “Your foot-drop trouble is different from their problems--”

  “Oh, yeah, Doc. We each got our own style, like you could award points for the most original gimp walk.”

  Each of Terry’s observations set off an avalanche of diagnostic possibilities. His mind flipped through visuals of the nervous system, anatomical snapshots of where the damage lay, the process taking no more than seconds. Drop foot meant a lesion in the motor-neuron pathways. Loss of coordination resulted from a breakdown in the midbrain, the same site as the withering pathology that caused parkinsonian symptoms. Erratic violent behavior and extreme emotional swings indicated frontal lobe problems, the area primitive medicine would lobotomize as a means of restraint--

  He checked himself. Pinpointing the site of the troubles required a detailed hands-on examination. And answers to the big question--what caused the lesions--necessitated a state-of-the-art work-up with all the equipment Terry intended to ferry in.

  Some more of Moose’s roommates at the back of the room had hefted themselves from their beds to their feet, apparently having decided to join the crowd. They lumbered toward him, mumbling incoherently, advancing with a leg-dragging lurch that suggested damage to the peripheral motor n
erves that traveled outside the spine. Without examining their reflexes, Terry couldn’t know for sure, but the tableau in front of him began to look uncomfortably like the casting call for one of his beloved zombie movies. It didn’t seem a particularly good time to start tapping on knees with a little rubber hammer.

  As they moved, crawled, and staggered toward him en masse, apparently intent on holding him, Dr. Terry Ryder, personally responsible for their neurological meltdown, he backed toward the door. “Are your friends always this friendly, Moose?” he asked, stepping over the sill.

  “Couldn’t have asked for a sweeter bunch of shipmates up to a few days ago, Doc,” the big man replied, seeming to have drawn a bead of his own on Terry. He crouched down as if about to pounce.

  Acute personality changes, Terry thought, adding it to the growing list of symptoms as he edged out the door. And an odd disconnect--the ability to give lucid answers in the midst of a building storm of hostility.

  Definitely time to skedaddle. He quickly backpedaled the rest of the way into the corridor.

  The sudden movement inflamed Moose. His pupils dilated as big as pie plates. and he lumbered closer, crossing the sill with no difficulty this time. The pores in his wide expanse of forehead glistened as they excreted a thousand pinpoints of perspiration.

  Terry turned to run. “Moose! Listen to me.”

  Too late.

  Moose lunged from behind, knocking Terry off his feet. His massive hands closed around Terry’s neck, the material of the biohazard suit no more an impediment to them than tissue paper.

  “Moose!” Terry screamed, before fingers clamped on his windpipe and choked off his breath.

  Chapter 4

  The ringing in his ears became a roar.

  The pressure in his chest built as if an air bag had gone off inside it.

  His vision went backwards down a hole, reduced to a pinpoint of light, the way Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton movies ended.

  But Terry could still hear.