Ebola K: A Terrorism Thriller: Book 3 (20 page)

The room wasn’t bad, considering what it was—a Middle Eastern interrogation room.  Smooth brick walls.  A sealed concrete floor.  Austin sat in a chair secured to the floor with his hands cuffed to it.  The room was small and clean with good light.  A formidable door and a closed-circuit camera in the corner at the ceiling.

Austin and Mitch had both been cuffed at the scene of their crime and then driven away in separate vehicles.  The men who’d captured them were all some type of military or policemen.  All wore gloves, helmets, and protection against any virus that Austin might be carrying in his blood or his breath.  No one asked Austin any questions.  They gave orders.  He followed their instructions.  They’d eventually put him in the interrogation room and cuffed him to the chair.

How long he’d been sitting there alone, he didn’t know.  An hour.  Possibly several. 

It was plenty of time to develop a list of worries over outcomes.  It was enough time for him to decide what he could—or should—tell his captors.  And though he had time to make the decision, he couldn’t.  What he should tell his captors had everything to do with who they were and what their reasons were for detaining him.

On the surface, the reasons were clear.  Austin and Mitch had broken into the construction company’s building and had probably tripped a silent alarm.  Either the building had a functioning generator or the power was on the whole time and lights had just been turned off.  When the police—militarized though they were—arrived, they’d caught Mitch and Austin in the act of stealing a vehicle.  Of course, they’d arrested him. 

But surely stealing a car from someone who was likely dead couldn’t be
that
big of a deal.  Could it?

The possibility that Austin didn’t want to spend any time thinking about, but one that kept sneaking its way into his thoughts was that the policemen who’d detained him were allied with the terrorists who’d attacked the refueling Osprey.  If that was the case, Austin had no doubt he was going to die.  He’d be tortured for hours, maybe days or months.  Then they’d saw off his head with a knife not big enough for the purpose.

Austin shuddered at the thought.  He didn’t want to go that way.  He’d die fighting if it came to that.  And with that thought, he regretted dropping his M-16 and raising his hands back at the scene of the crime.  As bad as his chances were in those moments when the soldiers were getting out of their cars and raising their weapons, his chances of escape had only gotten worse afterwards.  Had he thought the situation through quickly enough, reacted fast enough, he might have saved himself. 

Indecision had cost him, maybe his life.

It was easy to be invisible.  The guards, like the men and women who brought the food and supplies, saw Paul as a lower-class acquaintance.  Most of them had signed contracts and were being compensated for their work.  The only reason Paul wasn’t in a cage like the other uncooperative reconvalescent donors, in the camp against their will, was that he hadn’t yet broken a big enough rule.  The tone of their words when they did speak revealed what they thought of Paul—lesser.

They communicated with Paul enough to get their jobs done and to let him do his.  When Paul tried to talk even about something as innocuous as the weather, he got little in return but grunts and gestures.  Social training at work.  Rules of the federal and state government as well as the camp tried to keep everyone separate lest their germs spread.  The physical distance became social distance.  Everyone an island, floating across the surface of the earth, habituated to repel.

Paul had no friends in the camp, not in any way that he’d ever defined them before.  He talked to Millie, but she was a greedy hag with a heart of stone.  She pretended to kindness only to profit from their relationship.

Captain Willard treated Paul like a piece of property.  So those exchanges of words could hardly be called conversations.

Some of the guards had become friendly enough to trustees like Paul, though tolerant was probably a better word.  Not one ever asked his last name.  How could anyone care about anyone whose name they didn’t know.

Paul figured he only had two people that were anything like friends, Salim the mass murdering terrorist, and the gangbanging thug whose name, ironically, Paul had never asked.  The longest conversations Paul had since his arrival in the East Denver Internment Camp were with those two.

And Paul hadn’t talked to either of them in days.  They were both due to come into the lab to make their donations before lunch.  They were on the first page of the list Marazzi had left him before breakfast.  But Paul had other plans.  He rearranged the list, put both Salim and the gangbanger in the same time slot in the early evening near the end of the shift.

While Paul waited through dull hours listening to the two remaining machines whir, hearing the drainees complain about the loss of their plasma—one bag to the government, one to the contraband pile—Paul thought about and rehashed his plans.  In the end, he always came to the same conclusion.  He couldn’t escape, not without turning himself into a fugitive and probably ending up with a long prison term when things finally settled down.  Despite his visit to Larry, despite all that he’d done in Dallas and after, life on the fringes of the law wasn’t for him.  But he couldn’t shake his desire to see Jimmy, Larry’s nebulous partner, die.

And the more time that passed with Larry out of the picture, the more tenuous that link to Jimmy would become until one day, there’d be no link at all. 

Paul had the gangbanger and Salim strapped into the two beds beside the last of his functioning plasmapheresis machines.  Paul stood at the foot of the gangbanger’s bed.  “I never asked you what your name is.”

The gangbanger looked at Paul with suspicion. 

“My name is Paul Cooper.  I’m here because I infected myself on purpose and lied about it to the authorities.  Everybody thinks I brought Ebola to Denver.”

Salim said, “It wasn’t you.”

Nodding and grinning, the gangbanger said, “I thought you looked familiar.  I’ve been telling myself this whole time I knew you from somewhere.  I thought maybe you were a teacher from high school or something.  But that was a lot of years ago.  A lot of weed ago.”

“I hope I’m not that old.” Paul ran a hand through his graying hair.  He was.

“Rafael Garcia.  That’s my name.”

“Good to meet you.  Finally.” Paul looked at the other bed.  “That’s Salim Pitafi.” He looked back at Rafael.  “I promised you a favor, but you never asked me to do anything.”

“I only want one thing.”

“To get out.”

Rafael nodded. 

“I have a plan for that.”

Rafael looked at Salim.

Pointing as Salim, Paul said, “I can get you both out.”

Salim said, “I’m not going.”

“Shit.” Rafael shot Salim a withering look.

“I don’t need to escape.” Salim glanced at Rafael then looked back at Paul.  “Help him if you want.  I don’t need to get out.  I’ve done too many bad things.  I need to stay and take my punishment.”

Rafael said, “You’re an idiot.”

“You can’t,” said Paul.  “I mean…” He knew what Salim had done.  He knew Salim had been duped into the depths of his crime.  He knew Salim’s guilt would follow him for the rest of his days.  Maybe that was punishment enough.  “You should go.  If you stay, you know what’ll happen when they don’t need your plasma anymore.  They’ll eventually figure out what you did.  They’ll put the pieces together.”

“And I’ll hang.” Salim said it with no emotion.  “Maybe they’ll give me the lethal injection.  Maybe solitary confinement for the rest of my life.” Tears ran down Salim’s cheeks, but he didn’t sniffle.  He didn’t try to hold them back.  “I made mistakes.  When I saw how bad things were going, I could have done something to change the outcome but I didn’t.  I was a coward.  I tried to save myself.  I deserve more than they’ll ever be able to do to me.”

“Don’t.” Paul couldn’t piece together an argument beyond that single syllable.

“Truly.” Salim’s voice grew strong.  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this.  I need to stand and accept whatever I deserve.  I won’t hide in shame.”

In a way, Paul was proud.  He was envious.  Seeing Salim’s resolve made him fear what a long, introspective examination might reveal. 

Thoughts for another time.

Rafael glanced from Paul to Salim and back again.  “I want to get out of here.  He can stay if he wants as long as he keeps his mouth shut ‘til I’m down the road.”

“I have no loyalty to this place,” said Salim.  “If you go and Paul helps you, that’s between you two.”

Paul thought about it for a minute and then focused on Rafael.  “I need to know what you’re in for.”

“I told you.  I’m a token in the for-profit prison system.  I’m a line on a spreadsheet.  Keep Rafael in jail, buy a BMW with the profits.  That’s the way it works now.  Ever notice how mandatory sentences coincide with popular loan terms? Four or six for a car.  Thirty for a mortgage.  Think about it.”

“I…” Paul didn’t know what to say.  “How long have you been in?”

“I been in eight years.  Four to go.”

Paul didn’t say anything about twelve-year loan terms he’d never heard of.  “Have you done anything violent?”

“Man.” Rafael stretched a sour face.  “Why ask me that? What am I supposed to do, lie to you? If I’m good enough you’ll help me out? If I’m not, you won’t.” Rafael went back to his usual insulting tone.  “I’m in for marijuana possession, man.  I was buying for my sick grandmother back when it was still illegal.”

“I don’t care what you did,” said Paul.  “At least not in the way you’re thinking.  I need a favor from you, a violent favor.  If I get you out, I need you to promise me you’ll do it.  That’s why I wanted to know what you were in for.  I needed to know if you had any qualms about killing.”

“Killing?” Salim blurted.

Rafael glared at Salim.  “I ain’t makin’ no promises to do nothing illegal with him watchin’.”

“If you knew what he’d done,” Paul glanced at Salim, “you wouldn’t worry about it.”

Rafael pointed at Salim.  “Seems like he’s found Jesus or something, bro.  You heard what he said about accepting his punishment and guilt and shit.”

“You guys do what you want,” said Salim.  “Sorry, I interrupted.”

Paul stepped up beside Rafael’s bed.  “There’s a guy on the outside.  I can give you all the particulars I have so you can find him.  He killed my wife, and I want him dead.”

“Why don’t you bust out and do it yourself?” asked Rafael.

“I will if I have to, but if I slip out, I’ll be missed.” After what he’d done to Larry, Paul’s morals had bent enough to allow for the murder of Jimmy.  “They’ll come looking for me.  Maybe they’ll search for the rest of my life.  I don’t want to deal with that.”

“So you’re gonna make the Mexican deal with it.” Rafael laughed with a brutal edge.  “I see.”

“No.” Paul raised his hands to get Rafael to keep his voice down.  “If I get you out, it’ll work because the guards will think you’re dead.  You’ll be listed as deceased.  As far as the government will know, Rafael won’t exist anymore.  After you’re out, just go by anybody’s house where the dude kind of looks like you and if he’s dead, steal his identity.  It’s the perfect crime.  Plenty of people don’t have any more relatives to identify them.  You could get away with it, easy.”

“Why don’t you do that? Bust out? Kill this dude.  Change your name?”

Paul shook his head.  “I still have a daughter.  She works at the NSA.  Whatever I do might roll back on her.  She could lose her job, her clearances.  I’ve already done enough harm to my family.  That’s why.”

“What if you let me out and I don’t kill this guy? What if I haul ass to Canada or something with my new name, and you never hear from me again?”

“I don’t imagine I’ll ever hear from you again anyway.” Paul stepped away from the bed.  He’d thought this part through and couldn’t come up with any reasonable way to verify the kill.  “I don’t have a phone.  I don’t have access to a computer.  I’m stuck here with no contact with the outside world.  All I can do is take your word that you’ll do what I ask you to.”

“You’re not worried about whether I’ll lie?”

“I am.  I can’t do anything about that.  That’s all I’ve got.”

“And a couple of years from now when this is all over, and you’re wondering what happened with me and your friend Jimmy, you’re not gonna go look up my old lady or my family and try to ask me what happened?”

“I’ll probably find out whether Jimmy died or not, eventually.” Paul knew Millie might tell him.  “I know someone who knows Jimmy.  She’ll probably tell me if Jimmy turns up dead.”

“If that’s good enough for you then that’s good enough for me.” Rafael raised his hand as far as he was able given the strap tying his wrist to the bedframe. 

Paul shook Rafael’s hand.

Body bags were in good supply in the camp, not because plenty of new ones came in on the trucks.  Not enough did.  Bodies were hauled in the bags from the infirmaries, the clinics, the dorms, anywhere someone happened to die.  The bags were opened, and the contents dumped into the pit where they burned the bodies by the east fence.  The crews then sanitized bags, or at least washed out the big lumps, recycling them through the system until they wore through or the zippers broke.

One such bag was stored in Paul’s clinic.  He unfolded it and examined it to ensure it wouldn’t rip open and spill the body it would soon hold.  He used his lab scissors to poke air holes through the backside.  Then it was time to take the most dangerous step in his plan.  He loosed Rafael from his restraints.

Rafael got off the bed, and Paul tossed the empty body bag on the floor.  “You need to get in if you want this to work.”

Rafael rubbed his wrists and looked at Paul.

Paul, having stuffed the lab scissors into his back pocket where he could get to them quickly, wondered if he’d made a mistake.

“I won’t let you down, man.” Rafael extended a hand to shake.  Definitely a violation of the law but the least of the ones being broken at the moment.

With his scissors in his right hip pocket, Paul hesitated before extending his hand.  If he did, the scissors would be useless for his defense if he needed them.  He looked into Rafael’s eyes and chanced it.  He shook.  “This place is turning into a nightmare.  We’re saving people, but we’re murdering people to do it.  Good luck.”

Rafael got onto the floor and tucked himself into the bag.

Paul got on his knees beside the bag.  He handed Rafael a pint of blood in a plastic bag that he’d harvested from a patient earlier in the day when the patient thought he’d been donating plasma.  “It’s disgusting, but after I zip up the bag, dump that blood all over your face and hair.  If someone opens the bag to check you out, we want them to close it as quickly as they can.”

Rafael nodded and accepted the bag.

Paul took the scissors out of his pocket.  No, wait.  He needed them.  “I need to use these for a second then you can take them.  Don’t hurt anyone.  Just cut some more air holes if you need them, okay?”

Rafael nodded again.

Paul jumped to his feet and went to the pile of pints he’d collected through the day, six bags of deep red.  He cut the first open and emptied it on Rafael’s bed.  The other five followed as Paul spilled them on the bed, the plasmapheresis machine, and the floor.  When he was done, he handed the scissors to Rafael and zipped him up.

Paul stood and looked at Salim.  “If you’re going to back out, now is the time.  Once I open that door, we’re all committed.”

“I’m ready.”

Paul stepped to the lab door, opened it, and hollered into the hall.  “I got a bleeder.”

A few minutes later one of the guards trudged up the hall and into the room.  His face turned to disgust when he saw the blood. 

Paul looked down at the body bag.  “He went fast.  He was bleeding all over the place.  He’s dead.”

“It was disgusting,” Salim added.

Paul knelt down beside the bag and pulled the zipper a bit.  Black hair thick with red blood pushed through the plastic gap.

“Stop.” The guard stepped back through the doorway.  “I’ve seen enough.” He looked down the hall.  “They’re hauling out three bleeders already.” He looked down at the body bag.  “Might not get to him tonight.”

Paul huffed and jumped to his feet.  “Captain Willard has quotas.  You know what happens if I can’t use my clinic tomorrow.  I can’t draw donations.” He looked over at Salim.  “How about I take this kid and he can help me haul the dead guy out.”

The guard’s face turned to concern, and he shook his head.

“Look at him.” Paul pointed.  “That scrawny kid.  What’s he going to do?”

“He could escape.”

“Over the fence?” Paul laughed.  “He’ll get shot.  Who cares about that? The Colonel gets the example he’s had a hard-on for.”

Chuckling, the guard said, “
That’s
the truth.” He looked Salim up and down.  “Fine.  Haul the dead guy up but you check in with me when you bring the skinny kid back down.  I want to make sure he gets back to his cage.  Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need the dead guy’s name so Sergeant Marazzi can take him out of the system.”