The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series Page 6

  “Um ...” Dean snickered. “Probably not.”

  “Not a career choice, huh? I wouldn’t want that either. They have a stigma. Pictorially speaking, Generals get a bad rap. I mean, they usually are bald and heavy and ...” Henry paused to case Dean. “... tall.” Henry watched Dean unpack the boxes. He moved even closer. “It’s funny.”

  “What is?” Dean noticed Henry keeping his eyes on what was taken from the boxes.

  “You don’t act like a doctor. I mean, you don’t look like one. Of course that uniform throws it off. But you don’t talk like one either. Will you talk like one at your expensive lecture?”

  Dean’s head spun some from the fast rambling young maintenance man. “I’ll probably sound like a doctor today, yes. But when I’m not lecturing, I attribute that to my father. He always said if you want to reach people you have to be what they are.”

  “Good theory. I like theories. I would think you’d want to talk on people’s level so you don’t bore them. You don’t want to do that. Especially when they are paying so much to hear you speak. Why is that? Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. I heard they don’t pay a lot in the military. That’s probably why.” Henry reached for a photo from the box. An object was on there and Henry tilted his head in wonder. “Weird. What is this?”

  “A virus.” Dean took the photo from him. “Henry, if this interests you, you are more than welcome to sit in on the lecture. I won’t even make you pay.”

  Henry snickered. “Yeah. Um ...” He backed up. “You know what? I’m sure it’s gonna be a kick-ass lecture, but I’ll wait until you release it on video, then I can watch it in the privacy of my home.”

  “The invitation will remain open.”

  “Thanks.” Henry walked to the door. “I’d better get back to work, or at least let someone in authority see me doing something.”

  “Thanks again for your help.”

  “If you need anything, let me know.” Henry walked through the door.

  “I will.” Before Dean could get out a second ‘thank you’ Henry was out the door, moving as rapidly as he spoke. Dean shook his head as he finished unpacking his lecture supplies, not only in wonder, but in an attempt to jar his thoughts back together after Henry rambled them off track.

  May 30th - 8:33 a.m.

  Rock Island Arsenal, Davenport, IL

  About the only abuse Frank Slagel ever took was verbal and that was about his choice in music. He had a thing about the band Journey. Their entire collection of music was in his pick-up truck. Without being aware of it, Frank would be heard humming it as he walked about, denying it at all costs, stating that nothing even remotely musical escaped him in the form of a sound. He’d always had to hear snide comments about it for as long as he could remember. Mostly because the type of music Frank listened to and hummed just didn’t seem to go with his personality. In fact, music altogether didn’t go with Frank’s personality. But even people who razzed Frank tended to watch what they said to the towering, intimidating man who considered himself a visually misinterpreted sensitive guy.

  Carrying a clipboard and his mug of coffee, Frank made it down the corridor to his duty office. He stopped, tilted his head and huffed out a grunt when he saw the boxes still stacked in front of his door. So Frank, in his ‘sensitive’ way, decided to speak to the two privates who had loaded them there and maneuvered them. “Do you think, it’s even a possibility that you gentlemen can have these boxes moved by say ... sometime before the end of the fuckin’ century?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the one replied. “We’re trying; Master Sgt. Captain Lewis said to leave these here. He’ll tell us what to do with them in a few minutes.”

  “Which brings us to another problem,” Frank stated. “How tall is Captain Lewis, Private?”

  The private thought. “Five-eight, Sir.”

  “How big am I?”

  “Big.”

  “Exactly. Now I have two feet to squeeze this body through to get to my door. I will make an attempt because ...” Frank lifted a finger. “I’m a nice guy.” Walking sideways and reaching for the knob first, Frank slid his body in between the boxes to his door, grunting then groaning when his coffee splashed up at him in his attempt. “Now, see what you made me do. Fuck.” Shaking his head in disgust, Frank heard the ringing of his phone. “Saved.” He told the privates. “For now.” With another squeeze he slid into his office and slammed the door, Frank hurried to the phone. “Duty office, Second Battalion, Infantry Division, Sergeant Slagel speaking, how may I help you, sir?”

  “Frank.” Joe’s voice came softly over the phone.

  “Dad?” Frank was surprised at the call. He walked around his desk, set down his coffee and slowly lowered himself to his seat. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You aren’t calling to bitch at me, are you?”

  “No I ...”

  “Because I’m really not in the mood to hear a lecture,” Frank said.

  “No, Frank, I’m calling ...”

  “Boxes are stacked outside of my office and I spilled fuckin’ coffee on my ...”

  “Frank.” Joe snapped his name over the phone. “Can you shut up and listen.”

  “Dad, God, yell at me.” Frank huffed. “What is it?”

  “What do you remember about the contingency plan?” Joe asked.

  “Why? Did you forget?”

  “No, I didn’t forget.” Joe spoke with irritation. “I’m asking you. What you remember about it?”

  “About what?”

  “The contingency plan.” Joe said sharper.

  “Oh, yeah.” Frank snickered at his lapse of short term memory. “Sorry. Everything. I remember everything. Dad, I mean come on, when most kids were watching television, you were drilling us about what we would do and how we would all meet up if the world ended.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So I passed?”

  “Frank.” Joe took a second. It wasn’t a time to get upset or aggravated with his hardheaded son. “Frank, I need you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. You have to go home. Make the arrangements. Do what you have to do, but get home, to your home ... now.”

  Suddenly and finally Frank felt the air of seriousness hit the conversation. With elbows leaning on his desk, phone clenched tight, and head down, Frank listened to every word his father spoke.

  May 30th - 9:15 a.m.

  Centers for Disease Control - Atlanta, GA

  “I can have the usual team assembled in about two hours.” Catherine moved into her office, Jeff behind her. “Packed up and on their way. My guess from what you described is that we’re probably looking at a case of amoebic dysentery.” She picked up the stack of messages on her desk and began to shuffle through them.

  “That was my first guess,” Jeff said. “But we’ll move on it now so we can get it out of the way by the beginning of next week.”

  “We’re good as long as ...” Catherine paused and drew up a quirky look as she held a message.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Here.” She handed it to Jeff. “Mr. Carrington called me. Weird.”

  Jeff reviewed it. “Were you supposed to meet him or something?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So why is he mad? It says he’s mad.”

  “Haven’t clue. I didn’t even think Joe was his first name. Now ...” Catherine folded her arms. “Where are we sending the team?”

  “Oddly enough.” Jeff handed the message back. “New York City.”

  Catherine’s eyes moved back down to the message as Jeff rambled on; words she didn’t listen to.

  “And I spoke to Mel Crimson of the Health Department.” Jeff said. “He has some concerns about it. He’s thinking obscure illness. I’m thinking about the fact that this is a sixty-eight year old woman who never left the country or ... Catherine?” Jeff noticed the far-off look in her eyes. “Are you still with me?”

  “Viral.” Catherine st
ated in a dazed mode.

  “Could be viral. Doubtful, I mean ...”

  “No, Jeff. Carrington was viral.”

  “So you said. I thought we ended this topic last night.”

  “Jeff.” Catherine clipped his name.

  “What?”

  “Listen to me for once. Read this again.” Before handing the message to Jeff, she tapped him on the head with it in annoyance. “New York. Our woman, her illness ... Mr. Carrington didn’t arrive there, his little island virus did.”

  Before a scoffing laugh or any words of ridicule could escape him, Jeff was drowned in thoughts of how frightening a situation it could be, if Catherine, with her wild notions, was actually correct.

  May 30th - 10:00 a.m.

  Ashtonville, Connecticut

  “Here, Mommy.”

  Ellen’s wet finger tips grazed against Taylor’s as she took the empty breakfast plate from her. “Thank you.” Ellen stood at the sink, her eyes straight ahead through the window in front of her.

  Taylor giggled and skipped as she made her way out of the kitchen. “Bye, Mommy. Hi, Daddy.”

  Upon hearing those words from her daughter, the dish slipped from Ellen’s hand into the soapy water. She picked it back up and continued washing it.

  The silence was something Peter expected. It was a normal ritual the morning after a fight. And he and Ellen did fight the night before, a fight that paused when he walked out and continued when he returned at two in the morning. “I thought you had that lecture to go to today.” Peter commented as he walked to the coffee pot.

  “Let’s just say I’d rather not show my face.”

  He stopped as he reached for any morning beverage and moved closer to the sink. Hand extended, Peter grabbed Ellen’s face. He felt her tense, fighting him, but he prevailed. Fingers gripping her chin, Peter turned her face into his sight. “El.” He was speechless. The effect of what he had done was clearly visible in the form of a huge bruise marring the corner of her mouth. “El, I am so sorry.”

  “You were wrong.” Ellen roughly pulled away from him. “Dead wrong.” She shut off the sink, grabbed a dish towel and moved away.

  “And you weren’t?” Peter reached out and grabbed her arm. “You weren’t the innocent here, El. How many years did you say it was ....”

  “Drop it!” Ellen spoke strongly. “Just drop it! What needed to be said was said last night. You made your point. I heeded your warning and I ended it.” Her hands flew about as she spoke and moved backwards. “I ended it. But heed my warning, Peter. If you ever touch me again, I swear I’ll put a fuckin’ gun to your head and kill you.” No more words. Ellen barged out of the room.

  “Ellen.” Peter raced after her. “We are not finished yet. Get ....” In the doorway of the kitchen Peter stopped. He had to. An wave of dizziness washed over him and he literally lost his balance. He gripped to the archways so as not to fall. Immediately thickness seemed to fill his head. In the fog, heavy and unable to move, Peter just stood there waiting for the side effect of what he figured was anxiety to subside.

  May 30th - 11:22 a.m.

  County General Hospital - New York City, NY

  Two men on the street stopped what they were doing when Andrea Winters walked by them on her route to the emergency entrance of the hospital. At forty-seven years old, Andrea still had an air of youthfulness and beauty that surrounded her. She smiled; she always did when she walked. She was so slender that she looked tapered in her nurse’s scrubs. She was an African-American woman with natural beauty that needed no makeup with the exception of the occasional lipstick she wore.

  She approached the double doors, spotting Lynn, another nurse, out front. Lynn smoked a cigarette while hunching from the chilly air.

  “The cavalry arrives.” Lynn smiled. “They pulled you in early, I see.”

  “Had to come in.” Andrea swished her head in a motherly, disappointed way. “Girl, I thought you quit smoking.”

  “Sort of. But even if I did, I would be smoking again after this morning.”

  “Oh, come on.” Andrea waved her hand at her in disbelief.

  “You think I’m kidding. Why else do you think they called you in so early? Wait. Wait until you get up there and see. We had seven admissions in the last hour.”

  Andrea chuckled. “Sure we did. And I believed you last week when you said the same thing.” Smiling, she moved by Lynn through the double glass doors.

  Andrea stopped cold. Her smile left her face as she looked around her. If the noise level alone wasn’t enough to jolt Andrea, the sight of what was before her was. Screaming babies, children crying, adults moaning emanated from the massive number of people. Not only were they standing, sitting, and lying in the waiting room, but they spilled into the hall and well into the entrance. The nurse at the reception desk looked as frazzled as Andrea felt confused. She turned with a questioning look on her face to the double doors and back out to Lynn who was lighting a second cigarette. Figuring she would find out soon enough, Andrea made her way to the elevator, shifting and squeezing through those waiting for help.

  May 30th - 12:10 p.m.

  Atlanta, GA

  Catherine appeared ready to pull out her hair as she moved at a quick pace with Jan Connors, her assistant. They walked away from the private Centers for Disease Control plane that waited on the runway for the sixth time, still being loaded up by eight or so people who stood around more than worked.

  “I cannot believe how far behind schedule we are.” Catherine shook her head.

  “Setbacks. We had to wait to bring in more supplies and equipment.”

  Catherine stopped walking. “What on earth for?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Jan asked.

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Morrows. He said he’d tell you.”

  “He’s an asshole. He didn’t. Tell me what?”

  “Take a look.” Jan opened then extended a folder to Catherine.

  Catherine’s eyes shifted as she scanned the information. “This can’t be right. I spoke to Dr. Crimson a couple hours ago. He said it was only the one woman.”

  “Yes, well, Dr. Crimson faxed this twenty minutes ago. They have one hundred and fifty now and Mercy Hospital is sending more over.”

  “How in God’s name did ....” Catherine stopped when she heard her name yelled in the distance. She turned to see Jeff running toward her.

  “Catherine.” He caught his breath when he made it to her. “Care to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Leaving.”

  “I know that. Why? You cannot go to New York. You have work to do here.”

  “No, Jeff.” Catherine shook her head. “I have work there. It doesn’t look good. It’s getting worse. Fast, too. Did you see this? I mean really see this.” She handed him the folder. “The latest developments don’t look good.”

  From the distance, another male voice called out to her again. “Catherine!”

  Annoyed at being interrupted, Catherine felt better when she saw Hugh, another one of her assistants, running her way. “Hugh. Tell me you found it.”

  “I hope,” he said. “You may be in luck. There are six Joe Slagels listed in the phone book under that spelling, one of whom lives about forty minutes from Washington, D.C.” He handed her a sheet of paper.

  “Excellent.” Catherine looked down at the number. “Hopefully this is him.”

  Jeff was curious. “Why are you calling Agent Slagel?”

  “Because I have a feeling, that the Joe who called last night and Agent Joe Slagel are one and the same.” Catherine ignored Jeff who routinely rolled his eyes at her theories and snatched the cell phone that rested on top of Jan’s things. “Thanks.” Holding the number in her hand, Catherine dialed the phone. “Let’s just hope I’m right. If I am, with those figures in New York, we could be in for a rough time. We have to find out what he knows.”

  May 30th - 12:15 p.m.

  Gaithersburg, Maryland

  The hand guns that Joe ha
d stashed in the briefcase on the bed looked as if they should be illegal. After loading just one more, he closed the case, locked it, and lifted it from the bed. His bedroom was empty; no more pictures of family graced his wall or dresser. Picking up the large duffle bag that he’d left on the floor, Joe carried that and his briefcase with him to the living room.

  Setting them by the door, he checked the time, let out a sigh and moved to the phone. Thinking ‘just one more time’, Joe dialed, let it ring and winced when he heard the answering machine pick up.

  “Hey, this is Robbie.” The machine projected the voice. “You know what to do; leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”

  After a click and a beep, Joe broke down and opted for the message. “Robbie, this is Dad. Listen, you’re my last kid to call. I spoke to Frank, Jimmy, and Hal. Things ... things are gonna get busy for you, Robbie. Real soon. I wish I could have spoken to you. But ....” Joe breathed heavily. “Just remember the contingency plan, son. Remember it.” Joe lowered his hand to hang up the phone but stopped. He brought it back up to his ear. “Oh, and Robbie, I love you.” Feeling better about ending the call like that, Joe hung up the phone and walked to the door. He had his keys, his bearings, and a plan to follow. He even had the note he would place on the front door in case any of his sons or anyone he knew, for that matter, came to his house. A note that read: ‘Went to Ashtonville, 5/30, Dad.’ Reaching for the front door knob, the telephone began to ring. Hoping against hope that Robbie had just been screening calls, Joe raced to the phone and picked it up. “Robbie.”

  “No.” Catherine spoke. “Is this ... is this Agent Slagel?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Dr. Catherine Donovan from the CDC.”

  “Dr. Donovan.” Joe spun in surprise. “Why are you calling?”

  “You can say I’m returning your call.”