Grim Reaper: End of Days Read online

  The mother shakes her head. “He’s not really Santa, honey, he’s just some hopeless drunk.”

  “No, Mommy, he’s really sick. Look at all the blood.”

  The mother turned to look again. “My God… he’s got the virus. He’s infected!” Picking up her six-year-old, she pushed her way through the crowd, screaming, “He’s sick! Get out of my way!”

  Heads turned.

  Realizing his secret was blown, Heath Shelby wiped his mouth and stumbled forward, forging a path through the urban forest of humanity—

  — Scythe infecting a new crop of hosts with every step.

  West 38th STREET & Twelfth Avenue

  Manhattan, New York

  3:19 P.M.

  The cab driver glanced up at his rearview mirror at the pretty brunette in the backseat wearing a mask over her face. “Traffic’s not moving. The police station’s six blocks away. Probably quicker if you walk.”

  Leigh Nelson paid the driver, then forced her way onto the crowded sidewalk. She paused to get her bearings, only to be jostled by tides of angry pedestrians sweeping past her in both directions, cell phones plastered to their ears, their conversations anything but private.

  “…then call the senator! I dropped twenty grand on his last campaign, he’d better find a way to get me off this godforsaken island!”

  “Honey, I don’t know when I’ll be home, they’ve shut down everything. I guess I’ll just sleep at the office.”

  The police depot was located en route to the Lincoln Tunnel, the busiest underground vehicular passage in the world. Located in midtown Manhattan, the three-tube passage and its six traffic lanes descended beneath the Hudson River bed, transporting over 120,000 vehicles a day to and from central New Jersey.

  Leigh followed signs for I-495 West. Reaching Ninth Avenue she stopped, the scene ahead surreal.

  Having been dammed at its mid-Manhattan toll booth, the Lincoln Tunnel had spawned a logjam of cars and buses that clogged the city streets as far as the eye could see. Many passengers had abandoned their vehicles to scream obscenities at armed Port Authority workers and police officers. Others congregated in small groups, discussing options for a revolution.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do in Madison Square Garden?”

  “Do you remember what happened to those people trapped in the New Orleans Superdome during Hurricane Katrina?”

  “All I know is that I need to eat and use the bathroom. Lock the car and grab a kid. We’re walking.”

  It took Leigh Nelson twenty minutes to negotiate the mile-and-a-half walk to the impound lot. The police station was chaotic, patrolmen and SWAT team members moving in and out, many wearing gas masks.

  She pushed her way to the front desk. “My name is Dr. Nelson. It’s very important I search one of the vehicles towed to this location early this morning.”

  “Sorry, Doctor. We’re not releasing any vehicles until the city reopens.”

  “I don’t want the vehicle, I just need to search it. There’s medicine inside the trunk. My patient’s dying.”

  She argued another ten minutes before relinquishing her credit card to pay the city impound fee.

  * * *

  The white Honda Civic with the Virginia license plate looked innocuous enough. Still, the sight of it sent chills down Leigh’s spine. She watched as the police officer applied a tire iron to the trunk, popping open the lock and setting off the alarm.

  Donning rubber gloves, she removed the spare tire, exposing a polished wood container the size of a cigar box. Unlatching its two hinges, Leigh opened the lid, revealing a dozen small vials of clear liquid, secured in styrofoam pockets. A typed note lay folded on top.

  SCYTHE MK-36 Vaccine/Antidote.

  INSTRUCTIONS: Take orally. One dose per patient.

  WARNING: This antibiotic contains a powerful neuro-transmitter that crosses the brain-blood barrier. May cause hallucinogenic effects. Anger and reactive behavior exacerbate symptoms. Keep patient calm. Do not leave unsupervised for the first six to twelve hours.

  Leigh removed her cell phone and pressed a preset number. “Dr. Clark, its Dr. Nelson. I have it!”

  “You’re certain it’s the right vaccine?”

  “I won’t know for sure until we test it on a patient, but the woman was practically begging me for it.”

  “How soon until you can get back to the VA?”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Okay, I’ll alert the CDC. Well done, Dr. Nelson. You may have just saved us from a pandemic.”

  Her heart pounding with adrenaline, Leigh removed her backpack and opened it, carefully positioning the case between her surgical gown and wool scarf. Adjusting the carbon-filter mask over her face, she headed for the impound lot’s exit at a brisk jog.

  Central Park, Manhattan

  3:42 P.M.

  Situated at the very center of Manhattan, it was the most frequented city park in the United States. Two-point-six miles long and half a mile wide. A perfect rectangle of nature, yet completely man-made. Comprised of 136 acres of forest, 250 acres of lawns, and 150 acres of waterways, the largest being the 106-acre, billion-gallon Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. There were 58 miles of pedestrian paths, 4.5 miles of bridle paths, 6.5 miles of park drives, and 7 miles of benches. Twenty-one playgrounds. Thirty-six bridges and archways. The highest structure was a seventy-one-foot, 244-ton granite obelisk made in Egypt in 1500 b.c., the oldest was Central Park’s most important natural feature — its underlying geology — a glaciated metamorphic schist bedrock that dated back 450 million years.

  * * *

  Thirty-six-year-old Marti Evans and her life partner, Tina Wilkins, followed the flow of humans moving south along West Drive. The winding pedestrian walkway took them past a boulder grotto, known as the Pool, where the women had first met. The grassy banks from that spring day eleven years ago were now blanketed in snow, the willows, laid bare by winter, bent over the lake’s partially frozen surface.

  Marti pushed the stroller holding their five-year-old daughter, Gabi. The lesbian couple resided in Des Moines, Iowa, but had decided to spend the Christmas holiday in New York. They had visited Radio City Music Hall earlier in the day and promised to show Gabi the giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center after dinner.

  Now they just wanted to leave Manhattan alive.

  The two women followed thousands of other frightened civilians, everyone moving to one rallying point advertised on a hastily printed flyer. They passed the reservoir on their left, the waterway so vast it covered ten city blocks. American Elms closed in on either side of the winding footpath, the bare branches creating an arching briar-patch effect overhead. Spindly fingers cast against the gray afternoon sky like a vision out of Sleepy Hollow.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the Great Lawn. Ahead, Belvedere Castle rose out of Vista Rock. The stone structure loomed above Delacorte Theater, where ten thousand people have gathered, with more on the way, their presence on the fifty-five-acre lawn turning the blanket of snow into slush.

  A large vinyl banner on wires stretched high above the stage:

  city of n.y. presents disney on ice

  december 28—january 7

  Volunteers had set up a microphone and PA system on the amphitheater stage. All eyes followed a Caucasian man in his sixties, sporting dark, slicked-back hair and a south Florida tan. He strode purposely across the stage and took the microphone.

  “My name is Lawrence Hershman. I served as deputy assistant to the undersecretary of defense for policy during the second Bush administration. I’m here to tell you that all of us are being lied to, and unless we act soon, we’re all probably going to die.”

  The restless crowd hushed one another to hear.

  “What I’m about to tell you is confidential. For years now, the United States and other Western governments have been preparing to unleash a new pandemic that would be even more devastating than the Spanish Flu epidemic that wiped out 30 million people back in
1918. The pharmaceutical industry is in it up to their elbows, having been secretly awarded huge government contracts to mass-produce vaccines for genetically engineered hybrid viruses. These viruses, developed by lunatics over at the Defense Department, were designed to wipe out the populations of targeted hostile nations. One of these biological weapons was unleashed this morning at the UN. Somehow, the crazy bastards screwed up the vaccine and lost containment. The military’s keeping everyone away, but the bodies of the dead are piling up faster than they know what to do with. In a city like Manhattan, the virus will spread like a wildfire.”

  Tina gripped Marti’s hand, the two women shaken.

  “There’s only one chance to survive, and you need to act now, before they start shooting people in the streets: Cover your mouth, nose, and skin as best as you can, then find a way off the island. Take to the subway tunnels, swim if you have to… just get out of Manhattan before you end up in a body bag.”

  BIO-WARFARE PHASE VI: S.I.D (SATURATION-ISOLATION-DEATH)

  “Five to one, baby

  One in five

  No one here gets out alive, now

  You get yours, baby

  I'll get mine

  Gonna make it, baby

  If we try…”

  — The Doors, “Five to One”

  December 20

  USAMRIID

  Fort Detrick — Frederick, Maryland

  3:47 P.M.

  (15 hours, 28 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)

  Colonel John Zwawa jumped as the cell phone reverberated in his back pocket. “Go ahead, Jay.”

  “We may have caught our first break. CDC just took a call from one of the local hospitals claiming they have a plague patient who says she has access to Scythe’s vaccine. Her description fits the Klipot woman.”

  The colonel’s heart raced. “Where’s the vaccine now?”

  “In the trunk of her rental car, being held at a police impound.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “It’s moot, the administrator sent his assistant to retrieve it. She’s on her way back as we speak.”

  “How far is the hospital from you?”

  “It’s East Side, but in this traffic it’ll take me an hour, and I can’t spare the detail. We’re scheduled to bug out at 1900 hours.”

  “Okay, okay… we’ll send in a retrieval team. Which hospital?”

  “The VA on East 23rd Street.”

  Upper East Side

  3:45 P.M.

  For the last two hours, the irate female driving the Black Chevy Suburban had been using her siren and police emergency light to force her way through and around bumper-to-bumper traffic. Inching her way south on Park Avenue, she approached a neoclassical four-story limestone building located on the northwest corner of East 68th Street.

  Turning to the man slumped in the passenger seat, Sheridan Ernstmeyer violently roused Ernest Lozano from his catnap.

  “What?”

  “We’re passing the CFR. Maybe we should hole up inside?”

  “Maybe.” Lozano leaned over the seat and gently nudged Bertrand DeBorn on the knee. “Sorry to wake you, sir. We’re passing the Council’s headquarters. Should we stop?”

  “What the hell good would that do? You think the Council on Foreign Relations is immune to the Black Death?”

  Sheridan smiled to herself.

  “No, sir. I just thought—”

  “If you had thought, you would have gotten to the Klipot woman instead of her flaky fiancé!” The reverberation in his pocket cuts him off. The secretary of defense rubbed sleep from his eyes and answered his cell phone. “Speak.”

  “Good news. Turns out there is a vaccine.”

  DeBorn’s heart jump-started. “Who has it?”

  “It’s being delivered as we speak to the VA hospital. Inoculate yourself, then we’ll airlift you out. Claim you were part of a DARPA medical team collecting blood samples for a new antibiotic. You’ll play the hero… the press will eat it up.”

  “Well done. I’ll phone as soon as I arrive.”

  “Just be careful out there. I’m watching the news. The natives are growing restless.”

  VA Medical Center

  East Side, Manhattan

  3:49 P.M.

  In the quiet emptiness of an antiseptic room that held neither memories nor a future, Patrick Shepherd stared at the painting of a beach house hanging from a yellowed wall and contemplated what his life should have been. What was it the shrink said? Everything has a cause and effect. Fix the cause and you’ll fix the effect. I went to war, and Beatrice left me. I’m back from war, and my family is in New York. After all these years, why now? Maybe she wants a divorce? Maybe it has nothing to do with me? How am I supposed to know?

  Reaching for the painting with his prosthetic arm, he attempted to grab its wooden frame with his pincers. Failed. Tried again and failed.

  Seething with rage, he swept the steel arm sideways, knocking the painting from the wall. Stop being a victim. Find Bea. Find out why she’s here. One way or another, it’s time to move on.

  Battery Park City, Manhattan

  3:51 P.M.

  Beatrice Shepherd searched the last of the cardboard moving containers. Old manuscripts, bound in rubber bands. Sentimental, but her new apartment lacked the closet space. She tossed them into a trash box reserved for paper recyclables.

  At the bottom of the container was a plastic file box. She hauled it out. Peeled away the sticky yellowed tape and opened it. Removed a stack of unopened letters. Found the picture frame. Wiping dust from the glass, she regarded the photograph of the bare-chested, strapping twenty-five-year-old in his Army desert fatigues.

  Her eyes welled up in tears. For a long moment she stared at the photo, then set it on the bookshelf by the flat-screen television and wondered how she would explain her decision to her daughter.

  Her eyes caught the muted news report on the TV. Locating the remote, she turned up the sound. Heard the words pandemic and mandatory curfew and grabbed her phone, speed dialing her daughter’s cell-phone number. After four rings, it switched to voice mail. “It’s mother. Call me as soon as you can.”

  The phone rang the moment she replaced the receiver. “Where are you?”

  “Mrs. Shepherd?”

  The older man’s voice startled her. “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Ma’am, you don’t know me. I’m calling about your husband, Patrick. He’s in New York, and he needs to see you.”

  Hamilton Heights, New York

  4:02 P.M.

  The Tibetan monk sat in a lotus position on the polished bamboo floor before the open laptop. Microthin wires ran from the back of the computer and out the open door onto the seventh-floor balcony facing the Hudson River, connecting to a small satellite dish mounted on the brick facing.

  The Elder meditated.

  A Coast Guard cutter rolled south along the waterway and the monk could feel its twin engines gurgling thunder, the disturbance reverberating in his bones.

  At precisely 4:08, Gelut Panim opened his eyes. He reached for the Japanese Kabuki mask by his right knee and slipped it in place over his face

  as the satellite uplink connected, the screen instantly splitting into three rows of three. Eight different ornamental masks stared back at him, including his own in the upper left-hand corner. Slot number seven remained blank.

  The Society of the Nine Unknown Men convened what more than a few members feared would be their final transmission.

  The Elder confirmed his brethren’s biorhythms before he spoke. “My friends, the world is changing before our eyes. The first domino has been toppled.”

  “Scythe was never intended to be the first domino. The Klipot woman was a wild card.”

  “Yes, Number Four. But was she a wild card, or was it divine intervention? Either way, it altered the Illuminati’s plan.”

  “I’d wait a few days before calling it divine intervention. By then, every person on this planet not wearing
a loincloth may very well be dead.”

  “Perhaps, Number Two. But I sense something important is happening. That the Creator chose to intervene before the evil ones could ignite World War III is… encouraging.”

  “DeBorn and his enlightened brethren won’t go quietly into the night,” uttered Number Five, the accent distinctly French-Canadian. “They’ll spin this as easily as Cheney convinced the American public that Saddam had to be brought down for 9/11. Next thing you know, the Klipot woman becomes a Muslim fanatic and a US-led coalition will be invading Iran. Russia and China will mobilize, and DeBorn will have his war.”

  “Number Four, where is DeBorn now?” Number Eight asked.

  “My contacts confirm he is still in Manhattan.”

  The Elder nodded. “He must be dealt with before the end of this day.”

  “What about Number Seven?”

  “He and his family are trapped in New York. Cell-phone transmissions are being blocked, but I can sense his presence.”

  “You will continue to use him as bait?” Number Three asked.

  “If this is truly the End of Days, as we believe it to be, then the Creator has selected a righteous man to offer humanity a last chance at salvation. For reasons that remain unclear, Number Seven’s family has been chosen to serve the cleansing process as a conduit, linking this righteous person with the supernal world. By monitoring Number Seven’s biorhythms, I can determine if and when contact is established and offer my services to the righteous one, should he or she require it.”

  “What about Scythe?”

  “My immune system can handle it.”

  “Seven isn’t immune. He and his family could be dying as we speak.”

  “In fact, Number Six, I fully expect Seven and his family to be stricken before this night is over. And yes, there is a good chance they may perish, along with the rest of us.”

  Verbal responses were at odds with the eight unyielding expressions.

  The Elder waited for silence. “Many people are going to die before the winter solstice dawn. What remains to be seen is whether our species survives the cleansing. Scythe is not the executioner, my friends, it is the test.”