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  “Ahem, well, we hate to leave so soon, Dr. Simpson, but we’ve a long way to travel.” Billings broke the awkward moment. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. We look forward to our continued partnership.” Billings rose, signaling Conover to do the same, shook Sherrod’s hand, and turned to the escalator. The ladies at the bar immediately moved to join their guests at a rapid little jog in high heels, creating a delightful bounce.

  “No, no, that’s quite alright ladies. We can show ourselves out.” Billing’s anger at Conover’s stupid remark was palpable. Soon, the pair disappeared down the moving stairway. Sherrod watched them depart. Conover was pretty stupid, but Sherrod took no offense. Business is business, and you don’t have to like someone to do business with them. He turned to the hostesses.

  “Ladies, enjoy your drinks.” Meaning the drinks made for the now departed guests. Both cuties walked to the nearest lounger, sat, and kicked off their terribly uncomfortable heels. They sipped their drinks. Sherrod sat at the patio table, drew the case to him, and opened it. He was greeted by the site of 30 bundles of hundred dollar bills worth $20,000 each. He pushed the case across table, and resumed sipping his beverage. He just liked looking at all that money.

  After a few moments, a buzzing sound intruded on his solitude. It was mechanical, not an insect sound. He looked skyward, but saw nothing at first. The noise grew more pronounced. He looked to the tree line in time to see a small drone rise from the cliff face to hover over his veranda. Perfect. What some people won’t do to get a glimpse of young tits.

  Center for Disease Control Headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia

  Dr. Sherrod Simpson was politically connected and entrenched as the head of the Centers for Disease Control known simply as the CDC. Sherrod, a medical doctor trained as an able Healthcare Organization Administrator was brilliant at his job, and rose in his profession like a meteor due to his business management skills, which were rare among physicians. Unfortunately, he checked his Hippocratic oath at the door in the process.

  His phone rang. “Dr. Simpson.”

  “Dr. Simpson, this is Special Agent Roger Beckley with the FBI here in Atlanta. We would like to interview you, sir, at our downtown offices this afternoon. You are welcome to bring counsel.”

  “What’s this all about?” Simpson was stunned.

  “Specifically, an opulent villa in Costa Rico alleged to have been built entirely from private gifts to the CDC Foundation by Royce Biomedical, and its parent company Pachel Pharmaceutical. The Internal Revenue Service would also like to speak with you.”

  “Ah, um, let me check my schedule and get back to you. Sherrod was ready to soil himself.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be necessary. We have two agents speaking with your executive assistant outside your office at this moment. We certainly do not wish to cause you any unnecessary embarrassment.” Meaning, come quietly, or we’ll perp walk you out of the building in cuffs. “Please. We have provided a car to transport you.”

  “I see.” Sherrod hung up, walked around his desk, and opened his office door to greet the two agents.

  FBI Headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia

  The agents, led by Agent Beckley had questioned Sherrod for the past hour, at least until his attorney arrived. Unlike what people are subjected to on television programs featuring surly and threatening agents hammering suspects, the agents were polite, professional, and relentless. Sherrod played innocent, simply repeatedly stating he had no knowledge of any villa in Costa Rico. His passport said otherwise. And that was not the only evidence the agents presented. Essentially, they had a very detailed trail of money, phone records, and property deeds. Their case was formidable.

  Much as lobbyists representing private industry make financial donations to the campaigns of politicians in exchange for their sponsorship of laws favorable to special interests, under Simpson, the venerated, and here-to-for reputable Centers for Disease Control was open for business through its Foundation.

  According to FBI investigators, Sherrod Simpson began exploiting the Foundation public/private partnership loophole when he joined the CDC in 2010 with the Viral Hepatitis Action Alliance. The scientific debate along with the price tags of the newer drugs, over $84 000 per treatment regimen for the new drug Florisbin, raised questions, but nothing like this investigation.

  Apparently, the FBI had a source inside the CDC who got the ball rolling. That, and some journalist who flew a drone over Simpson’s veranda. That drone video currently airing on all networks showing him, a briefcase full of money, and two half naked women lounging on his furniture. In another frame, two Pachel executives were embarking on his yacht. Talk about a smoking gun.

  “Sherrod, do you have any idea who the insider at CDC is?” Charles Chelsey, his attorney asked.

  “I have an idea.” Sherrod responded

  “Who?” Chelsey asked.

  “Dr. Katherine O’Neal. That bitch! She asked for a private meeting with the Board of Directors when I was traveling out of the country. She made allegations during that meeting.”

  “What came of the meeting?”

  “Nothing. The Board is enamored with the Foundation donations. All gifts and donations are legit and can be verified as spent on research projects.”

  “Where is this Dr. O’Neal now?” Chelsey asked.

  “I could not openly fire the woman.” Simpson responded. ”She is too well respected as a scientist and immunologist. I could crush her professionally by impeding and discrediting her work, so I promoted her, then promptly sent her off to the the ass-end of the CDC’s offices: Mobile, Alabama. I called some friends in Congress and got her research grants and funding cancelled. Now she’s in charge of nothing. I had hoped Dr. Katherine O’Neal, former shooting star, would soon be forgotten.”

  “I think she’s back. Have you seen the news out of Mobile?” Chelsey asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Somehow, that bitch, as you call her, has found herself in charge and at ground zero of an unknown, lethal outbreak in Mobile.” Chelsey informed him.

  “Nothing ever happens in Mobile!” Sherrod shouted. “That’s why I sent her there!” He had to get her off the case, and fast. Once the media re-discovered Kate, she would once again be the Knight in Shining Armor that saves the world.

  Reaching for his cell phone, Sherrod dialed his office.

  “Get Dr. Cecil Billings on the line, stat!”

  Chapter Three

  University Medical Center, Mobile Alabama

  Bodie Washington did not know where he was, only that it was very bright. Not sunlight, really white light, like from florescent lights, but brighter. And there were people, too. They were light green or blue blurs moving about. They talked to each other, and sometimes to him, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It had been like this for some time. He didn’t know how long. The light and the people blurs would come and go, fading out to darkness, then coming back again.

  One of the blurs leaned over, a face hovering above him. He could make out funny glasses, and something white covering the mouth. When it spoke it seemed excited, and he knew it was a woman from her voice.

  “He’s waking up. We have focused eye movement,” Bodie heard her say.

  “Well that’s good,” he thought. “People’s shouldn’t sleep all day. They’s work to be done. Them fish ain’t gonna catch themselves.”

  Bodie tried to sit up. He needed to get on deck. The funny looking light told him it was well past sunrise. He managed to only raise his head a few inches, and grip the rails of the bed, but without the strength to actually rise. The bright light lady returned, too.

  “Hold on there, tiger. Just lie there.” Bright light lady spoke. “You’ve been away from us for a couple days.”

  Gentle hands pressed his shoulders back down on the bed. Blue blur lady became more clear as Bodie tried to focus. “She’s a nurse,” he registered in his mind. “I must be in a hospital.” He brought his hand up to cover his cough, and d
iscovered a plastic cup covering his nose and mouth.

  “Ooh, don’t mess with that Mr. Washington. You need that to help you breathe. You’re still a very sick man.” Nurse lady fussed with his mask, checked a computer screen next to his bed, and adjusted a plastic hose that came from a bag hanging on a metal stand that led to his left arm.

  “Call Dr. O’Neal, tell her patient zero is awake.”

  Kate was down the hall from Bodie examining the medical charts of the Helena crewmen who had walked into the ER two days earlier. She had arrived that first day to interview the Helena crew to ascertain if anyone had been sick or feeling bad before they sailed, where they had been, or if they had encountered anything unusual. She learned no one had been ill before leaving port, and that they too had been at sea in the western gulf just north the Yucatan peninsula. But that’s all she learned, as each crewman experienced respiratory events that required immediate medical intervention. All three were now unconscious, getting crammed with antibiotics, and on respirators.

  Both shrimp boats had been sealed, searched, and tested for contaminants, other than what was usually found on a fishing boat. The CDC and Coast Guard found nothing. The bodies of the dead crewman were secured and removed for autopsy and blood analysis, searching for chemicals and/or microbial invasion. Results were still pending.

  Plotting the course of the Magnolia and Helena from GPS data, the Coast Guard was able to determine both vessels had sailed south, southwest to fish off the coast of Mexico, but still in international waters. The Magnolia had departed port 24 hours before the Helena, and had been in that area longer. This partially explained why the crew of the Helena still lived, but not what afflicted them. The weather the past two days was bad, with poor visibility for Coast Guard flyovers of the fishing area off Belize. Nothing unusual had been spotted, yet. Today was predicted to be clear, and additional Coast Guard flyovers were scheduled in a grid pattern over the southern gulf. All civilian and commercial craft had been warned to stay clear of the area until further notice.

  “Dr. O’Neal, patient zero is awake,” an aide told Kate.

  “Thank you.” Kate wasted no time heading for ICU. So far, Bodie Washington was the only victim that still lived that bore witness to whatever had befallen these six men. Briskly, Kate rounded the hallway corner and ran smack dab into Dr. Cecil Billings, the troll appointed over her by Sherrod Simpson to oversee the CDC investigation of this outbreak. Billings would assume all the credit for a successful resolution as surely as Simpson would see to it Kate received the blame if unsuccessful.

  Dr. Cecil Billings could best be described as a thumbprint with hair. Billings was a remarkably educated research physician with an equally unremarkable record of accomplishments. Meaning, none. It was rumored his father, a wealthy alum and current CEO of Pachel Pharmaceuticals, had gotten his dim-witted son through Johns Hopkins by donating a new building to the institution each year of his son’s time in medical school. Even so, the institution had negotiated with Cecil’s father that his son would confine his future career to administration only. Under his father’s guidance, Cecil gravitated to large institutions where he could become part of the administration versus an actual research scientist.

  Cecil had risen within the CDC simply through being there. He seemed always to get attached as a team member to this program, or that investigation, or whatever project, to which he contributed very little. His father’s regular contributions to the CDC Foundation certainly helped. Cecil’s one redeeming quality that guaranteed his position and status within the CDC were these contributions, and his loyalty to Sherrod Simpson. The standing joke was wherever Billings was assigned a project, you could bet the team would be comprised of able men and women that needed no oversight or guidance, or that the project was funded through Pachel gifts to the Foundation. Cecil was Simpson’s tool.

  “Dr, O’Neal, I was about to interview Mr. Washington.” Cecil remarked. “Would you care to join me?”

  Kate just rolled her eyes, and stepped around Cecil. They both knew he was incapable of interviewing patient zero, digging for answers that would provide clues to the origin of the outbreak, if indeed it was an actual outbreak. This had yet to be determined.

  To Cecil’s credit, he ignored the obvious snub. He was well aware of his capabilities, and didn’t care what commoners thought of him. His father had purchased his pedigreed education, title and position at the CDC. In the ultra-wealthy circles in which Cecil had grown up and currently lived, appearances and reputation within the circle were all that mattered. His uber-rich peers thought of Cecil as a noble, and successful research scientist contributing to mankind’s welfare, instead of jetting around the world with them and the rest of the bored idle rich. Cecil was their hero.

  Kate entered Bodie’s room with Cecil trailing. Both were properly suited up for infection control. Following the Ebola infection in 2014 of an ICU nurse in Texas caring for a West African businessman, the American Medical Association in concert with the CDC got their act together, an initiated proper training and infection control protocols in all major hospitals throughout the country. Desperate for the best medical care he could get, this man boarded a plane bound for the USA knowing he was infected with Ebola, and could infect everyone he came in contact with. He placed his own life above potentially thousands or even millions who could have become infected from his selfish act. The American nurse lived, the West African businessman died. Sometimes, Karma is a wrathful bitch.

  Patient zero was awake, but not out of the woods yet as Kate approached his bedside.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Kate. Do you feel up to answering a few question Mr. Washington?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Said Bodie.

  “When did you first notice you and the rest of the crew were getting sick?”

  “We was out of port bout’ two an’ a half day, fishing off northern Belize I think. It was nighttime, and we got our nets out and started trolling. I took to my bunk to git’ sum shuteye, Nicky and the Skipper was on deck. Nicky came got me bout 6 hours later, long about sunrise.” Bodei paused for breath. “He was coughing something terrible, said he didn’t feel well. I tucked the kid in his bunk and told him to rest up, then went topside fo’ my shift.”

  “Do you always look after Nicky like that?” Kate asked.

  “Yeah I do. He only 16 an’ a skinny little white boy to boot. But he got a good heart, an’ work hard. That’s all I ask anybody. Pull your own weight. Trouble was, Nicky don’t weigh shit.” Bodie smiled. “He try to pull dem’ heavy nets in, but he hardly has enough ass to git’ it done. Reminds me of me back in the day.”

  Bodie chuckled at his last words, but immediately began a convulsive coughing fit, gasping for breath. Kate helped Bodie sit up straighter in bed to help his breathing. His lungs were badly damaged, and full of fluid. Cecil simply stepped back out of range.

  When Bodie finally regained his composure, Kate eased his head down to the pillow after first adjusting the bed to a more upright position. Lying flat allowed more fluid to form in his lungs, which was the last thing Bodie needed. He was exhausted.

  “Can you continue, Mr. Washington, or do you need to rest?

  “We really need to finish our interview. He can rest later.” Cecil announced.

  Kate ignored that last remark, leaving the decision to Bodie. A dead or comatose patient zero was no good to anyone, especially patient zero. Kate needed answers, but she was a doctor first. Cecil always referred to himself as a type “A” personality. Kate once asked him what the “A” stood for. Their relationship had deteriorated thereafter.

  “I’s alright, miss, an’ please calls me Bodie. Mr. Washington is my gran-daddy’s name.” he said.

  “OK, Bodie it is. What happened next?” Kate continued.

  “I gets up on deck an’ the sun’s full up. I never seen nothin’ like dat in my whole life.” Bodie shook his head as if trying to shake the memory away. “It scares me, an I’s a big dude. I don’t scare easy.”<
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  “What did you see, Bodie?” Kate asked.

  “I sees red! Everywhere I sees red! The water in every direction, as far as I could sees is blood red! Alas Babylon!”

  Bodie placed his hand over his heart with that last phrase. The grandparents who raised Bodie were church people, and “Alas, Babylon!” was what his grandmother always said when referring to the devil and his work. “The wicked of Babylon shall be struck down by the Almighty! Alas, Babylon!” grandma would always say.

  “What happened after that?”

  “I turns to the Skipper an ask him what is dat’ in the water. He say it probly some plankton or something reflecting off da’ sunrise, an’ we need to keep fishin’. He could tells by the drag on the nets we was in a fishin’ honeyspot. Nets was fillin’ up fast. Five-six more hours like dis’, we go home with a full hold like never befo. I makes a lot o’ money.”