The Black Death of Babylon

THE BLACK DEATH OF

BABYLON

THE BLACK DEATH OF

BABYLON

Edward J. McFadden III

Post Mortem Press Cincinnati

Copyright © 2012 Edward J. McFadden III Cover Art copyright © Eti Swinford | Dreamstime.com All rights reserved. Post Mortem Press - Cincinnati, OH www.postmortem-press.com All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. FIRST EDITION Printed in the United States of America ISBN: 978-0615706092

For my daughter, Samantha Paige McFadden, who inspires me every day to push forward.

ONE

D

on Oberbier investigated anomalies, and the one before him stank of a thousand deaths. The blackened husk of a human corpse lay atop a stainless steel table, wrapped in a clear plastic body bag. The bag’s zipper was pulled shut, and a white paper tag with the name “Brath” written on it in black marker dangled from the clasp. At first glance, the cadaver looked to be burned beyond recognition, but closer inspection revealed the gentle curves of death-darkened skin sagging over bones, like the body had been decaying for many years. Hair still clung to the skull in short tufts, and pearly white teeth appeared to glow against the leathery lips, showing no signs of decomposition, almost as if they were still in a living mouth. In contrast, the eyes had totally wasted away, leaving only empty black sockets that seemed to stare out at Don through the plastic. In places, pools of blood thinned by water filled the small creases in the body bag, as something continued to suck every molecule of life from what had once been a living human being. Above, fluorescent lighting hummed and buzzed, its life-sucking rays of pale light casting dancing shadows across the timeworn concrete floor. What made the corpse an anomaly was the fact that the subject, William Brath of Boston, Massachusetts, had only been dead three hours. The room smelled of disinfectant, but it didn’t mask the smell of decomposing flesh. Don’s eyes watered, and he pulled a paper

2 | Edward J. McFadden III napkin across his nose to dull the scent. Boston City Hospital was cleaned several times a day, yet the smell from within the body bag seeped into the air like sewage into fresh water. Don glanced at what was left of the victim’s clothing, which rested in a plastic bag on a shelf beneath the body. What once had been a pair of jeans and a red flannel shirt had become a pile of string that looked like something you’d untangle from a boat propeller. Atop the blood-soaked garments lay a chain with six round stones, each a different shade of earthly brown. The rocks were strung on a silver necklace through natural water holes, which had been created by a mixture of dripping water and time. Don sighed. His usual fare consisted of an extra kidney, or some unidentifiable organ. Those physical anomalies couldn’t be fully explained, but there had never been any evidence that would support any other conclusion than random human cells mutating. Those who believed some of these freaks of nature were from another world were hard pressed to explain why almost all physical anomalies cataloged were different, cancer clusters and the like being the exceptions, not the rule. Sometimes, Don would encounter what he liked to call unexplainable human phenomena or UHP, like kids who talked to imaginary friends that were in fact actual people. That was a common UHP, and Don had encountered many over the years, each with its own degree of creepiness—the little girl in Austin, Texas, being perhaps the most eerie. She had lengthy conversations with President Abraham Lincoln, and historians had been brought in to verify speech patterns, and many of the common phrases Lincoln had used were identified. Emily was only two years old and could barely say her own name, so it was certain these tricks hadn’t been taught. Plus, there was no motive that Don could discern. UHPs came in all ethnic breeds, from all parts of the globe, and across all social and economic boundaries. You were either chosen, or you were not.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 3 Across the spectral currents of the United States—and when the higher-ups deemed it important, other countries—Don sailed on a sea of oddities whose only similarity was that the United States Government thought it important to investigate and catalog them. Like most governmental tasks, the finish line often remained hidden, and the mission unclear. Yet there had been benefits thus far, and Don believed the attacks of September 11th, 2001, made his work even more important. Over the last few years, Don’s job had been a constant circus ride through a freak show funhouse, but that path, however difficult and monotonous, had brought him to the case he had been waiting for. This one looked to be different than his others, and whatever had killed the victim had infected its host extremely fast—thoughts of terrorism filled Don’s mind. He was already contemplating bringing in the big dogs, which he only did when every nerve in his body urged him to. “How did you guys learn about this so fast?” asked Dr. Bernard Fernstien, attending physician at Boston City. His angular face was tanned and freckled, the thin tuft of red hair atop his balding head neatly gelled and stuccoed. His lab coat looked as though it got pressed and starched every few hours, and Don wondered when the man had last touched a patient. “We see. We see very well.” Don smiled; his crooked teeth and balding head making him look oddly like a jack o' lantern with white creamy skin. He wore his usual blue suit, its once sharp lines faded and stretched. His red tie had a small spot of chili on it, and above that a yellow dot of mustard. One chili dog, two stains. “The federal government has to be in a position to act quickly if some type of biological agent is someplace it’s not supposed to be.” “What division of the FBI are you with again?” “You verified my credentials through the Boston PD, did you not?” answered Don.

4 | Edward J. McFadden III Fernstien smiled. “But how did you hear about it so fast and get here? I just finished supervising my own examination an hour ago.” “And you’re sure of the time of death?” Fernstien nodded emphatically. “The guy dropped in the street. There were people around.” “Yeah, I’m gonna need to talk to them too.” “You’re good at avoiding questions you don’t want to answer. Does the FBI give civilians home extension courses on how to do that?” Don jerked back his coat, revealing his Glock 19, and pulled his wallet from a back pocket. The doctor’s deep blue eyes grew glassy, and Don cringed inwardly at his cheap tactic. It unnerved him how much the average person feared guns and authority, and it made him feel dirty to take advantage. Yet that’s what he and the FBI did. Take advantage of people. Fernstien checked his guilt, realizing with anger that there was no way the FBI man could know about the cocaine he had stashed in his nightstand, or the hooker he saw once a month. Despite this, the bottoms of Fernstien’s feet tickled, every nerve in his body tensing as one, guilt seeping from every pore. “If you have any questions—ones that you really want the answers to—call him.” Don handed the doctor a business card that was embossed with the FBI logo; beneath it the name of Don’s false supervisor, Greg T. Jenkins, Director of Regional Operations, was printed in gold foil. “You ever see anything like this?” asked Don, gesturing toward the corpse. “Not in real life. The Poe story is pretty close, but the bacteria here are unknown to me. Some hybrid of Yersinia pestis, I should think, but we’ll have to get it fully analyzed first.” “Could someone carry the disease without showing symptoms?” asked Don.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 5 “Possible, but very unlikely. I would guess the odds are roughly one in a million—assuming I’m right and what we have is a derivation of Yersinia pestis. But that’s just an educated guess at this point.” Don sighed, and he felt the muscles in his neck relax a little. “Is it possible that others could have been infected by Mr. Brath’s body?” The doctor shook his head. “Nope. I had everyone who came in contact with the corpse checked out—two witnesses, six police officers, and nine hospital personnel—and no traces of the disease were found. No, most likely Mr. Brath was infected by a syringe, or by some other direct method.” “I see,” said Don, as he went to unzip the body bag. Fernstien stayed his hand. “I don’t think it’s airborne, or we’d already have piles of bodies here, but I don’t know how it was transmitted, and until I do, I wouldn’t come in contact with what’s left here.” For a moment, Don looked uncertain as he withdrew his hand from the zipper. Pulling free his cell phone, he hit a button, and then replaced it in his jacket pocket. One of the fluorescent lights flickered and sputtered out. Dr. Fernstien reached up and tapped the bulb gently, but it didn’t come back on. There was a long awkward pause, and Don and Fernstien didn’t speak, both men surveying the corpse with looks layered with fear, disgust, and pity. Then the doors to the hospital room swung open, and six men in gray jumpsuits entered. None of them spoke, and when Don nodded, two of the men began to unroll what looked like a deflated children’s swimming pool. The six agents worked quickly, the buzz of an air pump filling the room. In moments, the corpse was encased in a portable quarantine and the men in the gray jumpsuits carried it from the room without a word. “Hey,” Fernstien protested weakly. “I signed the death certificate. What

6 | Edward J. McFadden III about his family?” Fernstien was yelling now, his butter-filled jowls jiggling like a turkey. “Like I said, call the guy on that card. The federal government has officially taken possession of Mr. Brath’s body and his possessions. We will notify his next of kin and the Boston PD.” Don said this using his football coach voice, and the loud booming of his heart as he did so made him think of the Poe story “The Masque of the Red Death,” or was it “The Tell Tale Heart”? Something about trying to hide from death? One of the agents didn’t exit with the corpse, and instead came forward and stood at Don’s side. The tall agent was a blank slate, and no emotion could be read in his lean face. His blond hair was one notch above a buzz cut, and his cold blue eyes watched the doctor like a hawk. Don said, “Dr. Fernstien, please take this agent to all your samples so he can confiscate and quarantine them.” For an instant, Don thought the man would protest, but Fernstien thought better of it. He had an afternoon tee time and didn’t really want the bother, anyway. If the feds wanted to handle this mess, let them. “Right this way,” said the doctor, with no animosity whatsoever. With the body secured, Don hoped that would be the beginning of the end to his little odyssey in Boston. He would investigate the death, try to find a motive and how the disease had been transmitted, but with any luck, there wouldn’t be another corpse. Alone in the examination room, Don held his cell phone in his hand, his emergency call number displayed on the small backlit screen. Above the numbers, the words “Big Dogs” stared out at him with the harshness of an accident you can’t help but look at. If he brought them in, it would no longer be his investigation—but maybe that was a good thing. Thin worry lines creased Don’s forehead, and he looked tired, as if the weight of the world rested on his stocky shoulders.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 7 Slowly, Don pocketed the phone and looked toward the ceiling. The fluorescent bulb above sputtered and chose that moment to come to life and once again cast its unflinching gaze on the sterile room. With a sigh that was more anticipation than resignation, Don headed for the exit and the bustling intensity of the streets of Boston.

TWO

T

here is an ancient saying that has been retranslated and altered for a thousand years, but its basic meaning has remained the same: the simplest answer is often the right one, once you find it. The cogs of Don’s mind twisted and strained with the knowledge that things didn’t always go like that. Like the thing down in Arizona. What had happened there was impossible, yet it had happened, sure as rain. Don looked to the horizon, the sun casting tall shadows across the clear fading of day. The streets buzzed with energy, and Don thought of getting oysters at Quincy Market after he finished with the locals. His mind raced, and he considered the possibility that maybe there wouldn’t be a next clue. Maybe the whole thing would just go away for him like it had for Dr. Fernstien. But even as those thoughts floated through Don’s subconscious, he knew that wouldn’t happen. Things didn’t just go away for him; they grew like mushrooms in wet grass, sprouting from small seeds of anomalies and growing into full-grown hairy messes, like his last case in Arizona. An entire swath of desert and almond orchards had withered and died with no apparent cause, and then everything grew back in a burst that looked nuclear. There had been no answers there to be found, at least without making matters worse. Don always considered the greater good before choosing his course of action, and thus had left Adan—the owner of the magic garden—to tend his new-found bounty, because even though he knew that the man was holding back from him, he understood

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 9 that good came in many forms, and perhaps he had not been preordained to be the world’s biggest know-it-all. Maybe some things were better left misunderstood, even for him. There are two kinds of anomalies. Ones that happen once, created by the chaotic stew that makes up the universe, and that occasionally create something beyond what humans know to be possible or normal. These are the easiest to justify away in your mind. Some circuit somewhere, in some when, along the vast corridor of space, hiccupped, and what is became something different for just a moment. A moment is all it takes for chaos to strike, but an instant is easier to forget than a lifetime. The second kind of anomaly are the ones that don’t go away, the ones that persist as if they are driven to survive in a world that isn’t for them, like the guy from Arizona, Adan. He had looked straight out of a science fiction movie, yet Don had known he meant no harm. He knew agents who would have turned that situation into another Waco, but he had handled it with caution and basically by the book, bending the rules only when he believed the situation warranted it. Adan, and whatever power he possessed, wouldn’t make it to the database. Don could smell a rat a hundred miles away. His stare was laser-like; his ability to twist words that of masters. But none of these traits could explain away the anomalies that remained: the boy who saw the future, the elderly lady who could burn something just by thinking about it. That’s why Don knew what he knew: because he could be trusted. His agenda was the safety of America through use of major threat authority. The problem, as always, was that human beings were involved. ***** The new Boston PD headquarters was already ten years old, but Don’s stomach still twisted as he saw the modern, four-story,

10 | Edward J. McFadden III glass and granite facility. Don had cut his teeth in Boston when he was a green agent, running leads and filling out reports. The new facility was located at One Schroeder Plaza, in the cross-town area of Roxbury at the corner of Ruggles and Tremont streets. It had all the character of a block of ice. The old station on Berkeley Street had been built in 1926, and had thus outlived its “useful life.” Don had learned much in that old stone building, and met some people he still considered friends. The new building was high tech, right down to the buzzer and electronic lock that let Don enter the inner sanctuary, past the watch commander as he sat behind a large desk behind bulletproof glass. “Capone would never have gotten you guys,” said Don, his smile wide. The locals weren’t happy to see him; most usually weren’t. That was the other part of his somewhat lost life: they never sent him to check any “good” anomalies, things that were out of the ordinary in a positive way. When he came, it meant something bad. His friends, what few he had, called him IRS; Don was always collecting, never giving. He waited for a few moments at a second security door. “Name and reason for being here,” said a tinny voice, which came from a small speaker mounted to the left of the closed door. Don searched for the camera that was filming him and sending live video back to the central security station. For some reason, his universal swipe card hadn’t worked. He would have to remember to compliment the Boston PD Chief, and scold the FBI tech division. Don smiled. When he found the tiny camera attached above the doorframe, he flipped it the bird. “Open this door before I get pissed.” Don stared indignantly at the camera, his sharp eyes all anyone who was monitoring the video was going to see. Even cops can be intimidated if you know how. And the FBI knows how.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 11 There was a loud buzz, and Don heard the electronic lock on the door disengage. He passed through, but before he’d taken two steps, a tall black man in a gray suit entered the hall from an adjoining room. Don recognized the man from someplace. That happened a lot, especially in big cities, where he would often deal with the same local authorities multiple times. Increasing communication since 9/11 had been a positive thing, and helped the Feds and locals alike. The Feds went after the big boys, and the locals went after what was in their backyard, and now both had the information of the other . . . when both sides wanted it that way. “Agent Oberbier?” asked the man as he pulled back his suit jacket and revealed his ID card. “What, no badges anymore?” said Don. The man chuckled, but didn’t respond. And smart, too, thought Don, as he appraised the man. “Yes,” answered Don aloud. The man looked confused for an instant before saying, “I’m Chief Parker. Folks call me Chief.” He held out his hand. “Most folks don’t call me,” said Don as he took the man’s hand. “All the witnesses here?” “Oh, no. We took statements and released them. It’s all—” “What? A guy crumbles to dust in the street and you let the witnesses walk? I specifically sent word that the witnesses were not to be released until I arrived. What if one of them is carrying the disease?” “Only two witnesses touched the body and they checked out okay. Plus, we know where they all are, Agent Oberbier, and I’m most certain the statements tell ninety-nine percent of the story.” Parker was flustered; clearly he wasn’t used to being talked to so disrespectfully, but rank was rank. He motioned to his right, and Don shuffled through a door into an empty interrogation room. A wood laminate conference table filled the center of the space, several folding chairs scattered about it. The always necessary

12 | Edward J. McFadden III two-way mirror was on the far wall, and there were six piles of paper neatly stacked on the table. “Sir, these are the statements and supporting documentation of six witnesses. Each says basically the same thing, with the exception of a few minor differences. Ben Tui here,” said Chief Parker, as he reached for one of the stacks of paper. “Where is Brath’s file?” interrupted Don. Chief Parker handed Don a thin manila folder, which had been wedged beneath his arm, and continued as though Don hadn’t spoken. “Ben Tui seems to have the longest and most accurate view. He saw Mr. Brath fall, and was with him when the ambulance came. It was pretty much over by then, according to Mr. Tui’s account.” Don nodded. “Thank you.” Don skimmed through Mr. Tui’s file and stopped at the section labeled “Description of Incident.” It read, in Ben Tui’s trailing hand: “I was making my way to Copley Square where I was to meet a sales representative that was making a presentation to the company where I work, Six Gun Advertising (221 Second Street, Boston, MA). I paused when the person walking in front of me stopped to pick up a piece of paper she had dropped. I turned left, looking forward into the oncoming throng of people as they crossed the street, and I saw the man fall. He was walking and then fell in a kind of spastic slow motion reserved for actors. I ran to him, but when I got there several other people were yelling not to touch him. I could see large dark patches stretching across the victim’s face. It was like watching a body decompose in extreme fast forward. I called an ambulance, but by the time they arrived there wasn’t much left, and most people had . . .” Here Tui had paused, and Don could see that he had scratched out the word “fled” and replaced it with “left the scene.” There were other notes, and as he flipped through the files, he could see that what the Chief had said was correct, and that told

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 13 him everything he needed to know. Not only was he dealing with a bacterial anomaly of immense potency, he had a responsibility to investigate how and why said biological anomaly killed Mr. Brath. Don flipped open Brath’s file, which was only three pages thick. His resume, a police data sheet showing his address, phone number, physical description, and motor vehicle information. He had gotten a traffic ticket six years ago in Bristol, New Hampshire, but other than that, he was squeaky clean. The third sheet was a printout of an article from The Saratogian online edition. The short article confirmed his place of employment of 19 years, which was listed as Babylon University in northern New York. He had recently retired as CFO, and the article explained how he had worked his way through the ranks and was rewarded with a retirement dinner at the Student Union attended by 200 staff, faculty, and students. The Babylon University PR person was quoted: “Mr. Brath has served the university for 19 years, and in that time the university has grown and become a leader in biological research and how it provides clues to our past. He will be missed.” The hair on the back of Don’s neck rose, and his cell phone began vibrating and playing a ringtone from The Animals song: “We gotta get out of this place, If it’s the last thing we ever do.”

THREE

G

wen Stephens ran through her predictable day as she wound her way up the long road that led to Babylon University. Passing a small security booth with a wave, she traversed several narrow roads as she made her way toward the heart of campus. Gwen frowned as she realized that this day would be like every other, because she knew what everyone would say, what they would do. She worked in the Alumni Office as the publications coordinator for the alumni directory, and her days were filled with the same problems, rehashed but never solved. She was part of what some at Babylon University called “the lost”: those so steeped in procedure and bureaucracy that they failed to see the organization’s main goal, which was to unravel the mysteries of the distant past, both biologically and historically. Gwen’s frown deepened as she passed the graduate dormitory where Cam lived. The little turd is probably still sleeping off last night’s party binge. Sowing his oats while Dr. Frost is out of town, she thought. She had seen him the night before at The Grad Place, the campus bar, animatedly explaining to several science geeks Dr. Frost’s most recent research grant. Frost. Now she scowled. The man had ruined their relationship, driven a wedge between them in the name of some science that nobody cared about except Frost—and those who taxed his grants that he still managed to get despite his lack of results and unruly disposition. Of course, most of the research faculty at Babylon had no patience for “the lost,” and saw many of the administration’s daily

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 15 tasks as unnecessary and poor uses of university resources. This was true to an extent—all institutions of higher learning were waste machines—but Babylon generally ran well, and complaints about staff often hinged on a particular faculty member’s prestige and the amount of grant money they brought in. Gwen had many blowouts with faculty members, but in the end, she always managed to make her case, and keep her job. Gwen lowered her window and breathed deeply, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. She visibly relaxed, the smell of the pine trees and flowers easing her bitterness. Her dirty blonde hair fell about her shoulders in loose curls, her blue eyes peering through her yellow-shaded sunglasses. Slightly overweight, Gwen’s full figure was hidden by designer clothes and spiked heels. It was this shell that made her feel attractive, and she felt that made her special. Many of the faculty and students at Babylon were more concerned with other things, but not caring for one’s appearance was such a foreign thought to her that people who didn’t meet her standard of dress were immediately rejected. The campus was her home, the only one she had, and it angered her that many of the people who also called it home didn’t appreciate it as she thought they should. In truth, she was the one who didn’t fit; she was a country girl posing as a New York stylist, and everyone knew it. This often put her at odds with the faculty and students, especially the women who were more concerned with their studies and research than styling their hair, or shopping for clothes. This didn’t compute in Gwen’s mind, and this made her appear dim-witted and superficial, when in fact she was quite smart. Gwen cared about Babylon, but it wasn’t her obsession. Babylon faculty and students were what drove what went on at Babylon; their need to know the answers to questions that have haunted mankind for millennia. Nestled on 160 wooded acres in upstate New York, Babylon University was a child compared to

16 | Edward J. McFadden III most noteworthy institutions of higher learning. Established by T.J. Orienchaft—an archeologist credited with a major find at the ancient Babylon excavation site in modern day Iraq—the college grew to include many disciplines, but Biological Sciences and Ancient Studies (Anthropology, Archeology, History, and many other departments collected together under this heading to encourage cross-discipline collaboration) were the university’s focus. Gwen knew all of this, yet she understood very little of it, and cared for the details even less. Gwen moaned, her mind recalling the speech on discretion she had gotten when her friend, Tina, had gotten her an entry level position in the admissions department at Babylon. Gwen knew that though most scientists at Babylon worked in obscurity, the university partnered with the federal government on numerous projects, and their laboratories were often fully funded by the National Institute of Health and the National Science Foundation, and were thus bound by their rules and regulations. Although Babylon hid nothing, it didn’t try to attract attention, and there were never job ads or open house advertisements in any paper. One had to be invited. Gwen had been on vacation for a few days, but the smell of the campus and the placement of every plant and tree were so etched in her mind that she felt she could drive with her eyes closed. The undergraduate dormitories ran off to Gwen’s right, and a large cluster of academic, teaching, recreation, and administration buildings to her left. Towering in the center of the cluster of buildings, Gwen could see the three quarters size replica of the Ishtar Gate looming in the distance. The blue glazed bricks had been hand-painted by students, and the golden dragons and aurochs alternated with rows of blue brick. The large archway was the main entrance to the quad, and it stood 35 feet tall, its long shadow falling over the two and three-story buildings that surrounded a park-like field. To the casual observer, the brick

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 17 buildings covered in ivy looked to be no more than they were, but what most people didn’t know was that most of the university’s buildings extended underground, well beyond the surface footprint, sometimes going three levels beneath the earth. Thanks to the new student tours that Gwen was required to lead each spring, she knew that the real historical replica of the Ishtar Gate was in Berlin, but that several actual blue-glazed dragon tiles and other pieces were displayed in museums throughout the world. One of the dragon formations on the Babylon University copy of the gate had several authentic tiles from the original Ishtar Gate, having been found by Orienchaft while on a dig at the Babylon site. The artifacts had been placed near the base of the gate, and were surrounded by brass plaques detailing how the artifacts came to be at the university. The replica was awe inspiring, even at three quarters size. When the grounds had been designed, the gate was meant to be the heart of the campus, and so it was. Gwen brought her old Honda Civic to a crawl as she surveyed the parking situation next to the admin building. Normally reserved for VIPs, Gwen pulled into a space marked “Guest.” She was friends with Holly, who worked in the parking office, so Gwen had a special pass that let her park right next to the administration building where her office was. Two faculty members had complained, one the prior year after a particularly heavy snowfall, when she had to lug her books and computer through the parking lot and across an un-shoveled campus to get to class. Gwen, with her coffee and stylish handbag over her shoulder, had parked right next to her building and thrown the professor a sly little smirk. Passing through two sets of automated glass doors, Gwen made a sharp left and headed for the stairs. In the admin building, the elevator was a dangerous place, and people had been known to disappear between one floor and the next. At least that was one

18 | Edward J. McFadden III of the oldest jokes around campus. You never knew who you were going to run into, and Gwen had heard to many horror stories about people being caught in the elevator with President Dilworth. Or Linda Fareno, the Vice President for Advancement. No, no, no, thought Gwen, as she pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the enclosed fire stairs. I need the exercise anyway. As Gwen approached the second floor landing, she peered through the tiny window in the exit door and, seeing the corridor empty, she smiled and pushed through the door into the carpeted hallway. “Hello,” said Gwen as she passed the reception desk and headed for her office. “Gwen. Gwen,” said Mia, the receptionist. When Gwen didn’t stop or respond, Mia yelled, “Gwen!” Gwen paused, but didn’t turn around to face the second-year work study student. “Yes?” “I have a call here I think you should take.” “Really, that’s so good of you,” Gwen said, sarcasm filling her voice. “Seriously, Gwen. This one’s really weird and I think you should take it. Can I transfer it in?” pushed the young blonde from California. “If you must,” growled Gwen, as she threw her designer handbag into her guest chair and plopped down behind her desk. As soon as her butt hit the chair, Gwen’s phone buzzed. “Gwen Stephens, Alumni Relations, how may I assist you?” “Assist me. You can assist me by digging up my coffin,” said a male voice. Taken aback, Gwen stammered, “Excuse me?” “Do I sound alive to you? I mean, I’ve never been accused of being the life of the party, but dead? That’s a first.”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 19 “Sir, may I have your name and inquire how I may help you today?” said Gwen, and her face twisted like she had just taken a tablespoon of cough syrup. “My name is James Sandower, you know, Sandower Library? That was my dad.” “Sir, I . . .” “Don’t have a coronary. I’m just messing with you. I’m calling to find out how someone who just wrote a check for $100,000 to the university and personally handed it to President Dilworth just last week can be dead? I mean, I feel like I’m alive.” With a growing unease that had never driven itself so deep within her before, Gwen began to realize that she had made a big mistake. Everything she had agreed to and approved over the last few weeks was going to be her undoing. For starters, she had signed-off on the print version of the alumni directory, and she had killed one of the university’s major benefactors. If anyone found out, and if history was any indication of future events, her time at Babylon would be short. “You there?” asked Sandower. “I guess you figured out why I was calling. I just got the new alumni directory, and I’m listed as deceased, class of 2006. I’m alive and I’m class of 1992.” Gwen said, “Mr. Sandower, please hold for one second while I check this out.” “You check it out and call me back,” said Sandower, and hung up the phone. Gwen spun her chair around and stared at the brown box that sat next to her door. Her copies of the new directory. She lunged toward the box, ripping it open with her nails, and pulling a copy free. The cover text was laid over a black and white rendering of the original Babylon city in ancient Mesopotamia. Frantically, she flipped through the book until she found the section containing obituaries and the listings of deceased alumni. There, under

20 | Edward J. McFadden III “Deceased 2006”, staring out at her with the harshness of her fading future, was the name James Sandower.

FOUR

G

wen composed herself as she stared out the window at the rear entrance to the Center for Ancient Studies, and wondered how she was going to fix the Sandower problem without her boss knowing. Normally, a typo wouldn’t cause Gwen’s knees to grow weak, but Sandower was one of the university’s main benefactors, and a personal friend of President Dilworth. The president would blow a gasket if he found out, and Gwen would most likely be fired. After all, she hadn’t simply misspelled his name—she had killed him! Then there was the . . . Gwen was startled from her musings by the buzzing of her phone. Lifting the receiver, she spoke briefly with Mia, then asked her to get Sandower’s phone number. Within minutes she was apologizing profusely to Sandower, and begging the millionaire not to take the issue any further. “You owe me a drink at next year’s alumni dinner. A martini with olives.” There was a pause and static filled the line. “Listen,” said Sandower after several long moments. “You make sure it’s fixed next year, and I’ll pretend I didn’t open the directory, like I usually don’t,” said Sandower, as static filled the line. “You got it, Sir. Thank you. You’re really doing me a big favor. If there is anything I can ever do for you, please let me know. Thank you.” When Gwen stopped jabbering, she realized Sandower was no longer on the line. Her head swam as she dropped the phone back into its cradle. If she lost her job at Babylon University, she would have to start over, and she had done that too many times already. Sandower

22 | Edward J. McFadden III seemed like a good enough guy, and he had said he wouldn’t report her. Her nerves began to ease, and she picked up her coffee and took a long pull. She was sweating, tiny droplets slipping down her back beneath her white silk blouse as doubt began to seep over her. What if Sandower changed his mind? Her stomach lurched, and bile crept up her throat. Deep down she knew this mistake would be her undoing. With everything that had happened in the last few weeks, somehow she knew this problem would just get bigger. Cam will know what to do, she thought, popping out of her chair, spinning on her heels, and grabbing her handbag. Before Mia or anyone else could stop her, she was through the suite’s exit, down the hall, and escaping down the fire stairs. Her heals clicked on the concrete steps, the metal stair treads sounding an occasional clink as Gwen almost tripped several times during her nervous sprint. Exiting the front of the building into the late morning sun, she saw the Ishtar Gate in all its blue magnificence. She rushed toward it, passing under the archway and heading for the biology building. When she was half way through the archway, something pulled at her subconscious, and she paused, stopping so suddenly that two girls walked right into her. Her mind was spinning again. Cam won’t be in the lab yet, not after last night, her mind told her. Will he even see me? She turned, heading back through the Ishtar Gate the way she had come. The campus was quiet in the morning, most students opting for later classes, and many researchers still sleeping after burning the midnight oil. She liked the campus when it was peaceful and serene. Usually she could hear the birds, enjoy the peace of the landscaped grounds, but not today. Her anxiety had tweaked every nerve in her body; her hands shook, her head was

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 23 throbbing, and every step she took in her stiletto heels caused pain to shoot up her legs. Arriving at the graduate dormitory, Gwen dragged Cam’s roommate Lenny from his bed via the intercom at the entrance and learned that Cam had woken early and headed to the lab. Her spine tingled. The day wasn’t going like every other, as she had thought it would while driving to work that morning. Things were in fact decidedly different from any day she had experienced before. ***** Gwen hated going to Cam’s lab. It was a fortress with multiple layers of security, its own ventilation system, and equipment that looked like it was stolen from the USS Enterprise. When Cam was in his lair, he was nearly unbearable, the place fitting him and his ego like a glove, and that had been one of the major problems in their relationship. Without even realizing it, Cam often talked down to Gwen, treated her like one of his graduate student lackeys, and though Gwen made an effort to ignore him, fights usually ensued, and the last one had been the precursor to their breakup. Though it seemed like overkill to Gwen, the NIH and NSF both had stringent protocol that was to be followed at all times when research was being done on “nasties,” which were biological diseases and other organisms of immense potency. Cam routinely worked with nasties under Dr. Frost’s various grants, and this had made Gwen very uneasy. More often than not, Gwen would make Cam wash his hands before she would allow him to touch her, and no degree of explanation would placate Gwen’s unease. So Cam used to play along and wash thoroughly when he arrived at her apartment. Entering the biology building, Beth walked to the rear of the lobby and entered the fire stairwell, but instead of going up as she did in admin, she went down three stories. There, she was met by

24 | Edward J. McFadden III a steel reinforced door that looked like it led into a bomb shelter. There was a small intercom on the left side of the door, and a camera mounted above the right corner. Gwen pressed the intercom’s button, and said, “I need to see Cam. It’s very important. It’s Gwen.” Cam’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Look up into the camera, please.” Gwen closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then she turned her head toward the camera, and Cam said, “That’s the venomous face I miss.” There was a buzz, and the electronic lock gave way as Gwen pulled the door handle. Before her, a sterile white hallway stretched into the distance, no doorways on either side. Fluorescent lighting buzzed, and her shadow danced on the concrete walls. The passage scared Gwen; it was cold and immediately made her think about the things that were studied beyond the door at the end of the hall. When she finally reached the doorway, Cam had swung it open and was waiting for her. Cam, who had been born Cameron James Lorenz, looked European, but was in fact Brazilian. He had light olive colored skin and curly black hair, and his hazel eyes stood out on his face like cinders. He was sleek and muscular, his rugged good looks giving him an air of authority, which he never failed to use to manipulate people. “How are you?” asked Cam, as he came forward to embrace her. To Gwen’s surprise, she involuntarily recoiled, pulling away from his embrace. He looked hurt, and she looked away. The awkward silence lasted for a few seconds before Gwen said, “Can we go to your office? I really need your advice.” He nodded and leaned forward, letting his ID, which hung from a lanyard around his neck, dangle in front of the magnetic lock. The door buzzed, and he pulled it open, entering the lab complex of Dr. Alex Frost,

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 25 foremost authority on ancient Babylonian diseases and their possible effects on the present day. While in the complex, one was under constant surveillance, and every door required an ID card as well as keypad security codes, which were changed each week. Every lab had both, and the labs that contained the real nasties had several layers of decontamination chambers, which required a retina scan, ID card, and an eight digit numerical code that had to be entered within fifteen seconds of the retina scan or a system wide alarm would be sounded, and that would bring security. The office wing that housed Dr. Frost’s six graduate students was in a dungeon-like corner of the facility, and it was small and dirty, but Cam’s office wasn’t bad. He was the lead graduate student, and got several perks the other students didn’t. They entered his cluttered office, which was stacked with computer printouts, books, and piles of wooden crates that contained artifacts that needed to be catalogued and photographed. Gwen found his guest chair and moved a bunch of books and papers that rested there to the floor. Gwen knew that Cam kept the papers there to keep people from sitting down. Cam believed that once someone sat down, all kinds of time got wasted. “So what’s the problem? How come you didn’t say hello last night at The Grad? We said we were going to stay friends, right?” His eyes gleamed, a slight grin of superiority showing on his face. “You said that. I got a call this morning from James Sandower, you know who he is?” “I do,” said Cam. “Philanthropist, Babylon graduate, and he of the rich life thanks to his dad. I’ve met him. Dr. Frost hates him. They had a falling out when he was a student here. No idea what it was about.” “Well, apparently I somehow listed him as deceased in the alumni directory.”

26 | Edward J. McFadden III Cam burst into laughter, and not the polite kind either. He grabbed his stomach, and began to cough he was laughing so hard. “You what? You killed one of the university’s biggest donors? Shit, you’re screwed.” Cam’s laughter died away when he saw the look of hatred on Gwen’s face. “Great, thanks,” she said, and rose to leave. Cam intercepted her and placed her back in the seat, holding her shoulders. “I’m sorry, go ahead.” She related her conversation with Sandower, and his promise to keep quiet. “Sounds like you’re covered,” said Cam. “If he doesn’t tell, who’s going to notice? Nobody reads those things anyway. I throw . . .” Cam stopped and looked at the floor, like he always did when he put his foot in his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly. “Come on, big brain! I need you to poke holes in it like you do everything else. What’s my exposure here?” Cam thought for a moment, and then said, “A bigwig might notice, but I doubt that. Sandower could change his mind, but somehow I think he’s already forgotten about it.” Then his eyes grew wide. “Did you check for others?” he asked. For a moment she didn’t understand, and then it came crashing down on her like a ten-foot wave closing out. There were other names listed under the year 2006, she knew that for sure, but how many, she didn’t remember. She closed her eyes, concentrating. Yes, she thought, there was a name I recognized. Had Brath’s name been there? The old CFO? A chill ran down her back as she remembered with complete clarity that it had.

FIVE

T

here was a long awkward pause, and Gwen’s eyes grew glassy with tears. She looked to Cam for answers, but he had none. The size of the problem had just grown, as Gwen had instinctively known it would. She smoothed her pants, pulled her jacket tight about her, and appeared to be mastering herself as best she could. Cam simply watched, waiting for her to speak. The low hum of the lab’s equipment and ventilation system sounded like a roar as they sat silent, and Cam’s mind began to wander. When Gwen finally spoke, her voice was low and austere. “What was Sandower’s most recent gift for specifically?” she asked. “To secure the most famous historical site on the earth,” answered Cam, and Gwen sighed as he began his lecture. He was a teacher, after all. “Babylon was the New York of the ages,” he said, his voice rising. “Deemed one of the largest cities in the world several times throughout history, as far back as 1770 BC, Babylon’s ruins rest in the Babil Province of Iraq. The original city, which throughout history changed its skin more times than its present-day equivalent, provided the rich mythic history that is the foundation of Babylon University. But most of that you already know,” he said. Then Cam explained to Gwen that with the war in Iraq kicking off in 2003, the Babylon site had been in danger of being destroyed, and several Babylon University professors had worked with the US military in an attempt to stop the destruction, but

28 | Edward J. McFadden III despite their best efforts, one of the most prestigious archaeological sites on Earth had been at grave risk. Cam quoted Dr. Curtis, of the British Museum, from memory: “‘The war in Iraq has caused substantial damage to the Ishtar Gate, one of the most famous monuments of antiquity. US military vehicles crushed 2,600-year-old brick pavements, archaeological fragments were scattered across the site, more than 12 trenches were driven into ancient deposits and military earthmoving projects contaminated the site for future generations of scientists.’ “What’s worse?” Cam continued. “Saddam Hussein permanently altered the site in imitation of Nebuchadnezzar by inscribing many of the site’s bricks with the phrase ‘This was built by Saddam Hussein, son of Nebuchadnezzar, to glorify Iraq.’ In many ways, Hussein’s attempts to write himself into the history of Babylon are more crushing to the scientists of Babylon University than anything the US military could have done,” finished Cam as he watched Gwen. She was rubbing her hands together as if she were cold, but the lab was a comfortable 72 degrees. Gwen hadn’t made a sound as Cam lectured about Sandower’s recent $100,000 gift to the university and its specific purpose. “The guy is a powerhouse, Gwen, so I doubt you’ll have any issues with him. It’s rumored that he called the president of United States and threatened to pull campaign donations if the US military didn’t vacate the Babylon site immediately.” Cam paused, realizing that he had provided more information than the question required. Turning the discussion back to Gwen’s problem, he asked, “You think there are more errors? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Gwen looked stricken by the question, and Cam could see that she was coming unglued. “Yeah. I think there’s more,” said Gwen. “What can this mean, Cam? I certainly am capable of making one mistake, but several? I’m so screwed.” Gwen began to cry, and Cam looked at the floor.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 29 He had tried to hug her before, and she had shunned him like he had just slept in a bed of manure. But seeing her like this, black streaks of makeup running down her face, her ears turning bright red, he knew he had to do something. He had loved her once, and part of him still did, but Dr. Frost had been right; she was nothing if not a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions at this point in his career, when he was trying to make his bones. “I think maybe you need to tell your supervisor, Harry. He’ll understand,” said Cam, taking a step closer to her, and preparing to embrace her. The look of disdain that she shot him made him step back a pace; the sorrow and fear had been replaced with rage. “Are you insane? He’ll understand? President Dilworth will freak, and now I’m in the middle of a mess that you can’t possibly understand.” He sighed. “Oh, right, I could never understand. Me of the Ph.D., or as you always say, Phallic Hyped Deity.” Gwen chuckled despite her misery. “I didn’t make that up, you know. Besides, I call you that because you think you’re a god, and act like one. You should see the way you walk around campus, like someone should be spreading roses before you as you walk.” “Okay, so here we go, same old fight.” He sat behind his desk, and he saw that her mascara-stained face had reverted to anguish and fear. “If you recall, I have a name for you also. Remember? You’re one of ‘the lost’, going nowhere fast.” His words bit her, and the pain he saw in her face made him flinch inside. This was another reason he had broken up with her: she brought out the worst in him. Cam usually went out of his way to be polite and to not hurt people’s feelings, yet he had just hurled a nuclear bomb at the woman he claimed to have once loved. “Maybe I’m going nowhere, but when you die alone, surrounded by bones and old stones, I hope you remember that it’s your own fault. Controlling, unable to care for anyone or

30 | Edward J. McFadden III anything that doesn’t have to do with a patch of dirt halfway around the world. You can go to hell, Cam, really.” She rose and went to leave, but as she did so, Jun Xing came through the door. The young Asian graduate student was several inches shorter than Gwen, and a foot shorter than Cam, yet his sturdy build and keen eyes made his presence stand taller than his four foot ten inches. When Jun saw Gwen, his face softened, and he turned to her and held out his hand. When he saw her tears, his smile evaporated, and he looked at Cam with scorn. Jun thought Gwen was gorgeous, and he and Cam debated his reasoning for breaking up with her on a regular basis. “You okay, Gwen?” asked Jun. “Yeah,” she answered, trying to slip past him out the door, but what Jun said stopped her in her tracks. “Cam, you know a guy named Brath that used to work here?” Cam’s eyebrows lifted, but Gwen seemed detached. “Yeah, I stood in for Dr. Frost at his retirement party. What about him?” asked Cam. “He’s dead.” “What? How? He just—” said Cam. “Come see, there’s a report on the local news station, something about him collapsing in the street with a heart attack.” Gwen sniffed, and Cam followed Jun to the lunch room where there was a small TV. When they arrived, the report was half over, but Cam saw a petite blonde standing in front of a Babylon University sign. “. . .After he retired, Brath moved to Boston, where he was active in several local charities and was the chairman of the board for the Boston Museum of Science. He is survived by his wife, Anna, and his two sons, Rob and Jay,” said the blonde reporter. Then a picture of Brath filled the screen, and Cam saw Gwen enter the room. “It is unclear whether Brath had prior medical problems, and the facts regarding his death are veiled in secrecy at the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 31 moment. All requests for medical reports have been denied, and the whereabouts of Brath's body are unknown at this hour. Family members were unavailable for comment. More on this sad event as the day progresses. This is Brenda Lange.” The image went back to the studio, where the anchor moved on to the weather. Cam turned to Gwen, and she read his mind before he spoke. “Tell me Brath wasn’t one of the people listed in the directory as deceased,” said Cam. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she lied, as she pushed past him out the door. Cam could hear the buzzing of the security locks as she exited the complex, and a chill settled over his entire body. ***** Once outside, Gwen rested on a bench, the green grass of the quad stretching out before her. Students and faculty rushed by, the mid-day sun glaring down at her like a giant accusing eye. Brath’s name was listed as deceased. I know that! But how is that possible? It isn’t—but this whole situation isn’t possible! Gwen’s internal debate raged. She had proofed the directory, word for word, comparing the prior year’s directory and the newly received information to ensure complete accuracy. Yet she was still afraid to go back to her office and examine the new directory, because what she feared she would find there would surely cost her the job, and the police would come and ask difficult questions: “When did the printer’s copy of the directory leave your hands? Who did you give it to? How are the files secured?” Babylon University was small and elite. Everyone knew everyone, the largest undergraduate class in the university’s history being but 469. What she had done would get out, and it would spread like a virus through the halls of the university and way beyond, finding alumni all around the world. Gwen started to cry again, the severity of the stress she felt breaking her will, making her feel weak and scared. Then the anger began to rise in her, spilling through her pale skin in red blotches.

32 | Edward J. McFadden III An old boyfriend in college had called her damaged. Told a friend he hadn’t read the label before he asked her out. The rage Gwen had felt when she had heard the ass say it had been a seed that helped form the core of anger that drove her, and it fueled a fire that she felt kept her above the fray, and protected her. But no one was above the fray, especially at a university. The university. It had become her home, the place where people knew her, respected her, and made her feel that she contributed in some small way to a higher purpose, even if she didn’t fully understand what the higher purpose was. Her home treated her well, gave her things no other job could give her, and she was proud of what she did and how she went about doing it. She had navigated most of the landmines, sprinted through several fires, built a house or two, and aided countless students in many ways. She taught a freshman seminar, and tried to help the young students understand how lucky they were to have the opportunity to go to Babylon, and how she wished she had had a support structure that allowed her to go to Babylon. That was her fancy way of telling them she could have gone to Babylon if her parents had been rich like theirs. That made Gwen think of her mother and her bruised face, her scarred arms and legs. Her father would be on his second drink of the day by now, and her mother would be at home, bracing for his return from work. Gwen remembered the night he had hit her, the night she had left. The image of her mother’s tear-streaked face watching her through the small window on the front door as she fled down the walkway haunted most of Gwen’s life. Her mother had smiled and waved goodbye through the small window. Campus life pushed on around Gwen, and she was nothing more than an immobile rock in a stream. Fear stoked her inner fire, because she knew that at Babylon University, you had to roll with the current or you would be worn away.

SIX

D

r. Frost’s ears popped as the plane began its descent toward Albany International Airport, and he instinctively grabbed the glass on the tray before him and downed the tequila within. Frost’s long, narrow face ended in a gray goatee, and his bright green eyes were encircled by dark sockets, the result of fifty-six hours without sleep. Aside from being half drunk because he hated flying, it was the anniversary of Susan’s death, six years ago that very day. He had awoken that day, thinking it was going to be a good day. The sun had been shining, and a crisp October wind had bit at the mountains and stirred his scientific mind. Things had been going great at the lab, and Susan was having a great second year of school, when chaos came calling. A small bump of turbulence shook Frost from his self-pity. His nerves were frayed, the last few days having been extremely difficult. He rubbed his hands together, his thoughts drifting back to his dead daughter. Frost flagged down the first class waitress by tapping his glass, and a fresh tequila neat in an octagonal tumbler appeared before him. An air pocket caused the plane to drop, and Frost reached for the fresh drink. He stared out the window at the gray clouds drenched in sunlight from above, and saw Susan’s face there. He grimaced and drank the tequila, its sharp bite and sweet tang making his heart race. Those clouds revealed his daughter’s six-year-old face as it stared out the bus window at him, a wide smile revealing the pure joy that only children can experience.

34 | Edward J. McFadden III That had been the last time he had seen her, because he had been too weak to identify her body. A tear slipped down Frost’s face, and he smiled. The great Dr. Frost, wouldn’t Susan be proud? he thought, and lifted his glass again. The blonde flight attendant smiled at him nervously, and then brought him a fresh drink. As the plane broke through the low cloud cover, rain pelted the fuselage, and Frost could see streaks of lightening in the distance. The runway was getting close, and the plane dropped, falling from the sky like a meteorite. Then the aircraft’s giant wings grabbed air, and the plane shook, and then steadied itself as it drove into the wind. The flight attendants had strapped into their safety seats, and Frost downed the last of his tequila and secured his glass between his legs. “Ladies and gentleman,” the captain’s voice crackled over the inboard speakers. “It may get a little rough, but we’re fine. Buckle up and bear down for landing.” Just as the speaker snapped off, the plane fell again, this time coming dangerously close to the ground. But as the pilot lifted the plane’s nose, it caught air, and the plane came down gently on its rubber tires with a sharp squeal. The pretty blonde was on her way toward Frost with the bottle of tequila before he could raise his hand. ***** “Look, Barbara Bush is the only First Lady in my lifetime I’d screw. I can’t even fathom your Nancy Reagan thing.” Cam’s voice echoed through the halls of the lab, the suck-up laughter of his five graduate slaves ringing through Frost’s kingdom like a death rattle. “Dude, I didn’t realize you were so stupid. I’m talking Nancy Reagan in 1980.” The voice of Jun Xing further angered Frost as he listened outside the graduate wing. The old man’s lips disappeared, his eyes squinting. He had a special ID card, one that allowed him to pass through security while bypassing the beeps

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 35 and buzzes that accompanied everyone else’s entry into or exit from the lab. It had cost extra to have the software modified, but what he was hearing just proved to him that the money had been well spent. “I know that ass. Still, no. There’s something a bit sexy about Barbara. It’s not the tits, the face . . .” Cam trailed off and there was silence, and Frost could hear the churning of the world’s greatest minds. He shook his head. “We all agree that you couldn’t screw Hillary Clinton. First Lady of the United States or Arkansas.” “Screw you, dude, now you’re just being stupid. I saw press photos of Hillary, and she looked good in her mid twenties. Covered in ice? Yeah. But she still looked good,” said Andrew Salinger, the youngest of the flock. “True,” said Cam. Silence. “Well, I guess all the shit I sent back from Iraq is catalogued, photographed, indexed, and fuckin’ authenticated!” Frost’s voice boomed through the cubicles like a gale. Jun fell off his stool, which was perched next to Cam’s desk. With one arm, Cam caught the small Asian, and with the other, he stubbed out a thin joint. Raj Talba stood frozen, leaning against Cam’s doorjamb, and Pasqual Templeton, who everyone called Tire because he was so round at the midsection, stood to run. Then, realizing there was nowhere he could go, he sat back down on the small couch that Cam often called his bed when Dr. Frost was in residence. With the sound of his voice, the entire power structure of the lab shifted. Cam was no longer a god, the guy who could let them skate on some of their responsibilities. The fact that Cam didn’t trust some of his flock to do as good a job as him, Cam kept to himself. After all, it was Cam who had the chance to appear as a co-author on some of Frost’s papers, and that would land him a job at a top university, and a fat grant with a nice salary and

36 | Edward J. McFadden III hordes of adoring graduate students. But none of that was going through Cam’s mind at that particular moment. His mind had been consumed with the fact that Frost wasn’t supposed to be back until the end of the week, and half the stuff that was supposed to be done wasn’t done. “First off, assholes, what business do any of you girls have talking about who you’d fuck? Old lady Bush—not sonny boy’s wife, the old man’s—would tell you all to screw off.” Frost paused and sniffed the air. “But I suppose you’re impaired; why else would you girls even be talking about First Ladies? You can’t get any ladies! Is this what you talk about when you’re at The Grad? Cam, note to self, we need to start personality testing our slaves.” Everyone looked down. They all knew that when he got going he said stupid shit, and they knew he didn’t mean it; his breed and genetics made him an asshole. Frost stared at each of them in turn, daring one of them to challenge his use of the word “slave,” for he had chosen it carefully. He owned them, and they needed to be reminded of it at every turn. Cam broke the silence. “Dr. Frost. You’re really screwing us here. Little team building going on. You know, shit without the boss?” Cam was brash when he had been drinking and smoking, but he also knew that needling calmed Frost down, as strange as that might sound. Cam thought it was the honesty of it, coupled with the humor, which appealed to the old man in Frost. Once Cam had made fun of Frost after he had made a mistake during one of his talks. No one could believe it, especially Cam. But Frost had laughed, played it light, let everyone have a laugh at his expense. Frost knew that a little self-deprecating humor could go a long way, and humor seemed to open up his steam valve and release all the hot air. “I see,” said Frost, and it appeared as though he were actually considering Cam’s words. Cam waited, watching the other five

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 37 graduate students in their half bowed, eyes turned down, pathetic stances. Frost harrumphed, and said to Cam, “Meet me at my house in an hour. Get this shit . . .” he motioned toward the group of graduate students who were huddled behind Cam like ducklings behind their mother, “. . .cleaned up, and make sure everything on my list is done by morning, or some of you kids are going home to your mommies! I shit you not!” “Yes, my captain,” said Cam, and Frost smiled, turned on his heel, and exited the way he had come. ***** Frost’s library made Cam extremely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the books—which lined the walls from floor to ceiling—or the huge ornate mahogany desk that made him feel that way. It was the life-sized bronze statue at the center of the room. The sculpture of Frost had been a gift from Jarrid Allili, an oil man from Iraq whose son had been in danger of not passing Frost’s graduate seminar. Cam rested in one of two high-backed leather chairs that sat before Frost’s kingly desk. Frost lived alone, his wife Barbara having left him after Susan died. To Frost’s credit, he took responsibility for that one. If people thought Frost was hard on his graduate students, they should have seen how he treated Barbara in the months following the tragedy at Susan’s school. The house was silent, and suddenly Cam could hear Frost ambling up the spiral staircase toward the library. The door creaked open, and Frost entered, making his way around Cam and sitting on the edge of his desk. “Don’t worry about today, boy. I know I was unexpected, but you need to start expecting the unexpected, or your career in bioarcheology is going to be short.” Frost’s green eyes bored holes in Cam, and he felt his face growing red. Then the old man’s eyes softened. “Besides, where did you get that shit pot from anyhow? Stank up the lab like horse manure!”

38 | Edward J. McFadden III Cam snickered. He knew better than most that when the Doc wanted to talk, he talked. Any attempt to inject a “sure” or “Yes, I agree” would be met with those steely green eyes and slightly down-turned lips. He had worked for the Doc for almost seven years, and never once had he told Cam he was right. Cam had proven himself countless times, sacrificed a normal life for Frost’s glory, and that commitment was the centerpiece of his life; the most important task he had. It was even more important than Gwen, or so Frost said. “Listen,” Frost said finally, his real lecture just starting. “I’ve discovered something. Something so powerful that every government in the world will cower before it.” The light in Frost’s eyes was scary, and Cam had never seen him so jumpy, so alive. The old man’s slow way usually drove Cam crazy, but the Doc on speed was way worse. Cam smiled, and said, “What is it? What could be so valuable?” Frost chuckled, his thin face widening with a jack o’lantern smile. “The black death of Babylon.”

SEVEN

D

on stood in an alley behind a thirty-story building in upper Manhattan, his mind racing through the events of the past twelve hours. The building, which housed Sandower Endeavors—James Sandower’s not-for-profit philanthropy company—had two distinct faces. The front was mirrored glass, its dark surface reflecting the rays of the early morning sun. The back and sides were brick and mortar, giving way to the prototypical New York alley with all its smells of shit, garbage, and wet rats. The faint sound of beeping horns, wind, and the occasional scream or laugh floated on the stale breeze, but Don thought the alleyway was somewhat tranquil, which in New York meant semi-constant noise, as opposed to constant loud noise. Don straightened the lapel of his jacket and settled into a doorway cavity that led to the building’s loading dock. He could see a steady stream of people making their way down Sixth Avenue as he peered down the alley, and he wondered what the coming day would bring them all. The building, and Sandower’s floor, was secured by the NYPD, but the remains of Sandower’s body still rested where he had fallen approximately seven hours earlier. Don had ordered Sandower’s office sealed in preparation for quarantine, but his crew was running thin at the moment, and he had been the first to arrive on scene. Prior to leaving Boston for New York, Don had quarantined William Brath's body, and tests were already underway to determine what had been the definitive cause of death. The why part still bounced around in Don’s head like a rubber ball on

40 | Edward J. McFadden III speed, and based on the available facts, he could see no motive for Brath’s murder. But he knew he didn’t have all the facts, and he hoped the Sandower crime scene would bring some answers. Don had already made up his mind that Brath and Sandower had been murdered, and that the murders were somehow connected. Sandower's body, as described to him by an NYPD lieutenant, had matched Brath's, and while Don understood that coincidence was an everyday part of life, this one was just too odd. Someone was delivering a mystery virus to the victims somehow, for some unknown reason. At least he hadn’t thought about calling in the big dogs in the last couple of hours. At the moment, whoever was behind the killings was targeting specific people, and that made him no different than any other serial killer. Don knew, however, that this particular killer was using an extremely powerful weapon; a weapon that, if deployed over a large target area, could kill millions of people. Don shook his head. I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t even know how the thing is transmitted, he mentally scolded himself. Don looked at this watch. It read 7:06 a.m.. Don turned and walked across the loading dock toward a service elevator. Pulling his universal security card from a pocket, he held it in front of the card reader that controlled the elevator’s locking mechanism. Twenty seconds later, the red light on the exterior of the elevator panel turned green. Don pushed the up button, and the doors slid open. The universal card worked about 85% of the time, and of course the 15% failures came at the absolute worst times. He didn’t need it this time to gain access to the building, but Don relished his ability to appear out of thin air and surprise the locals, because they feared and respected him more for it. The card was actually a microcomputer that was preprogrammed with interfaces to 95% of the world’s security software. The card utilized back doors that were programmed into the security

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 41 software by their makers, and while it took an extra few seconds for the small computer to access the software and release a given door lock, its operation and technology were still way beyond what could be obtained by the average person. Once in the elevator, Don hit the button for the nineteenth floor. The car began to rise, and Don checked his phone, hoping there would be a message from the lab, but there wasn’t. All that sat in his queue was a text message from his brother Marty that read simply, “THE JETS SUCK.” Don smiled, thinking about his brother, who lived in their childhood home in New Jersey. He had bought it from their parents, who now hid in Florida fifty-one weeks of the year. Don’s parents didn’t know what he did for a living, and they rarely bothered to ask him about his job any longer. Don had changed his name several years back, after a suspect he had been investigating had shown up at his parents’ condo in Florida. After that, he felt the best way to protect his family from any crazies he might encounter was to distance himself from them as much as possible. When he went home to visit, he played CIA agent and took several circuitous routes, making sure no one followed him. His father had called him paranoid more than once, but agreed that prudence was the best course of action. The elevator doors slid open and revealed an expansive foyer. An officer in blue almost fell off his chair as Don strode from the elevator and brushed past him. “Sir,” said the officer, as he stumbled to step in front of Don. Past the reception desk, two hallways ran in opposite directions: the one to the left leading to a cavernous conference room, and the one to the right to Sandower’s private office suite. Don turned right and was met by a cadre of officers as they stood outside Sandower’s office. The office door was open. Don paused, pulled free his ID, and yelled, “What the fuck are all you CSI wannabe assholes doing contaminating my crime

42 | Edward J. McFadden III scene? I’ll have every last badge in this motherfucker if there’s one goddamn thing out of place. Did any of you morons touch the body?” The stare down between the cops and Don didn’t last long. One of the things that made Don such an effective agent was his presence. He could stop a conversation with a look; intimidate an entire group of people with just a few words. That was his gift, and he used it well. Don’s phone made a strange sound, and he flipped it open, hit one button, and replaced the phone in his jacket pocket. The cops didn’t know what to do, and while they were pissed off at being yelled at like little kids, most of them seemed to understand that any type of protest might bring aggravation beyond reasonable limits. An older officer in a gray suit stepped forward hesitantly. “Sir, I’m Detective Kennedy, and no one has disturbed the scene. Even our forensics and homicide guys stayed away—it came all the way from the top.” He took another step toward Don and his men followed. “How can I help you? Those are my orders. To assist you in any way I can.” “Stay out of my way while I quarantine the body. Since you all couldn’t wait in the foyer, you’ll have to be medically checked out,” scolded Don. “Hope none of you end up like the victim.” As Don pushed past the cops and entered Sandower’s office, his face turned from a frown to a smile. I have way too much fun screwing with people, he thought. As Don entered Sandower’s office he was assailed by a smell that almost took his breath away. The rancid stench of decay, unencumbered by cleaning fluids and hospital workers, had grown to an intensity that made Don gag. Several times he dry heaved, waiting for the oysters he had eaten before he left Boston to come back to tell Don they didn’t appreciate being eaten practically alive. He took off his tie, a red and yellow number his mom had given him for Christmas, and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and the spittle from his lips. Then he wrapped the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 43 silk around his left hand and placed it over his nose. Even with the scent dulled, Don’s eyes watered, and when he saw the body, everything inside him that had told him he was screwed in Boston came calling “I told you” so loud his head ached. Sandower’s body was nothing more than bones and deathblackened skin, the pearly white teeth staring at Don with a mock smile. Nothing looked broken or out of place. The desk lamp was on, and there was a pen on the floor beside the body. It was pretty clear that Sandower had been doing some late-night paperwork and fallen from the chair onto the floor. The security cameras had revealed no comings or goings after business hours, but Sandower had no cameras within his private sanctuary. The perimeter had been alarmed at 5:41pm, when his last remaining employee had left the office and locked up. The alarm hadn’t been deactivated until 7:03am, when Josh Hudson had come to clean the offices and found Sandower’s already decayed body. As Don scanned the room, he saw white walls with expensive art, the wall behind Sandower's glass desk housing a 52” plasma TV that was also linked to the firm’s mainframe. A small glass bar was nestled in one corner with two white modern couches surrounding a small cocktail table. There was no clutter, other than a few pieces of paper on the desk. His keys lay on the floor beside him, as if he had pushed them from the desk as he fell. There was his appointment book, which Don took, and several contracts with “Sign Me” stickies of various colors protruding from them. The office door opened, and three men in gray jumpsuits wearing breathing masks entered the room with a gurney. The men were nothing more than machines, ex-military men who had been trained to do as they were told without asking questions. Don knew most of the men by name, but none of them understood who Don was, or who he worked for. All they knew was that when he called, they came and did what he told them to,

44 | Edward J. McFadden III no questions asked. Within seconds, Sandower's body was encased in the cocoon of a portable quarantine bag, on the cart, and moving from the office. “Detective! Detective!” yelled Don, and Kennedy came running. “Yes, sir.” “The government has taken the body. I need all your officers to remain here and wait for my medical team so they can be checked out. No one, I repeat, no one is to leave until cleared by one of my personnel. Also, once you’re cleared, I need you to do a few things for me.” Don handed Detective Kennedy a small piece of paper. “Can you do all that? Report to me in two hours,” said Don, his coach voice going full tilt. “Two hours? I think—” “Who cares what you think? Get it done, unless you want a call from the top,” jabbed Don, and the cop scuttled from the room. Don opened Sandower’s date book and scanned the page for the prior day. There was only one appointment written in the late millionaire’s trailing hand. Dr. Frost, Babylon University. Written in the notes portion of the day planner was: “donation budget allocation.” Don’s head danced, his mind rolling through the last twelve hours. Babylon University. That’s where Brath had worked, and now a prominent donor died of the same strange virus. Don smiled. He had his clue, and off he was to Babylon U.

EIGHT Dead men, not potsherds, Covered the approaches, The walls were gaping, The high gates, the roads, Were piled with dead. In the side streets, where feasting crowds would gather, Scattered they lay. In all the streets and roadways bodies lay. In open fields that used to fill with dancers, They lay in heaps. The country’s blood now filled its holes, Like metal in a mould; Bodies dissolved—like fat left in the sun. –Sumerian poem found inscribed at Babylon site by Dr. Frost. Recent translation by ANET 455-63.

F

rost and Cam stared at the translation of the ancient poem that hung on Frost’s library wall. Frost turned to Cam, holding out what Cam called his Indiana Jones book. It was a thick, leather, perfect-bound notebook on whose pages were Frost’s handwritten journal, with maps and drawings, of the various finds he had made over the years with respect to disease in ancient Babylon. It was open to the translation of the poem, and was surrounded by notes in Frost’s crooked hand. Frost believed, and there were a few who agreed, that one of the major reasons Babylon had changed its colors over the years was that the people of Babylon had suffered plague, just like every

46 | Edward J. McFadden III other colony of people going back to the beginning. What was astounding, however, was that he had been able to find DNA evidence to prove his theory: the strongest chimera of Yersinia pestis ever to kill on planet Earth. The most unnerving part of his theory, and what made most people instinctively disregard it, was that all of human life was based on death. The chimera was only a tool, and the only question was who wielded it. Looking at history, this putrid fact became crystal clear. Humans spent their entire lives preparing for death, so one could argue that plague was a gift from God, and explained why many religions considered giving one’s life in the name of one’s god to be the greatest and most prestigious of sacrifices. When Frost tried to explain this at cocktail parties, he thinned the crowd faster than fat chicks at a football game. But there was some truth to what he said. Humans did focus on death. As the only major mystery that was guaranteed to be solved, death preoccupied the human experience. Frost told those who came to his lectures that this was the meaning of life, and that the answers to prolonging the human life lay in the distant past. It would be that past that would help the human race beat death. Frost pulled his favorite edition of The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe from his fiction section and flipped it open to the “The Masque of the Red Death.” “Have you read it?” he asked, as he handed Cam the volume, laying it atop his notebook. “Of course, several times,” Cam lied. He vaguely recalled reading it in high school, but fiction wasn’t really his thing. He preferred fact. “I discovered a DNA sample of Babylon’s version of Red Death, or as it’s more commonly referred to, Black Death. A disease so lethal it killed an entire city, leaving nothing but crumbling bones.” Frost lifted the Poe book and began to read, “‘No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 47 were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.’” Frost paused, and then said, “The Babylon Black Death takes about two hours.” Cam didn’t know what to say. So many thoughts, mostly bad, danced in his head with a fever that caused sweat to drip across his forehead. “What?” he sputtered. “When? How?” Frost turned from Cam, his eyes drifting over his bronze statue at the center of his office. “This is a joke. You know that, right Cam?” “What? The statue?” “Yes,” answered Frost, as he turned back to his lead graduate student. “I accepted it because I had to. Mr. Allili makes what I do in Iraq possible. He wanted me to put it on the campus, so everyone could see it. I convinced him it was an artifact that was too personal to me, and that I wanted it in my private collection. So I hide it here, where few dare to tread. But you dare, don’t you, Cam, my brave little scientist?” Cam was ready to rise and make some excuse to leave. Frost was nuts, all geniuses were, but he had never seen the Doc in such a state of gleeful insanity before. His eyes danced and glowed under the study’s faint lighting, the corners of his mouth rising in a slight grin that reminded Cam of a wicked clown. And the nothingness of his speech, the calmness with which he attempted to pull Cam in. He decided to play stupid. “Uh, you asked me to come, Dr. Frost. Why would you say I’ve been brave?” “No matter,” said Frost, as he sat behind his desk and leveled his gaze on Cam. “I can trust you, right Cam? I mean, implicitly. Because if, for instance, I were to go down, what do you think would happen to my graduate students?”

48 | Edward J. McFadden III A deep silence filled the room. “Of course you can trust me, Dr. Frost.” “To do what?” barked Frost, so loudly that Cam jumped in his seat. “To do what you tell me,” answered Cam, his voice surprisingly steady. “Good,” said Frost, and Cam was unnerved by the way the word slithered from his lips. “As you know, I believe the large gaps in Babylon’s history, going back as far as 5000BC, were due to plague. Others have felt differently, but I discovered a sarcophagus from the pre-Sumerian period.” Cam grabbed the arms of his chair, his eyes wide, and pushed himself to his feet. “You . . .what? That’s 5000BC to 2700BC; we know very little going back that far. How did you—” Frost cut him off with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter, really. All that matters is the ‘collective we’ always thought there was a ‘first’ civilization in Babylon around 5000BC. There are artifacts, evidence of civilization, but then it all appears to have just faded away for over a thousand years, before people started to settle the Babylon area again. Then the Sumerian rule began.” “Around 2700BC,” said Cam, and as soon as the words escaped his lips, he wished he could have them back. Frost’s eyes narrowed, but he continued without scolding Cam. “I have always believed plague killed that first society, and maybe a derivation of that same strain has killed billions over the course of human history.” “You’re saying you’ve found the plague? The one that gave birth to all others?” Cam’s voice revealed his true feelings, and those feelings were disbelief and fear. “Maybe the first one, or just the first in that area, but plague has shaped human history, starting in Babylon, yet proof has always eluded me until now.”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 49 Frost paused, daring Cam to speak. He didn’t. “What we have is a chimera of Yersinia pestis that is far stronger than anything mankind has ever seen before. Buried with the history of the early civilized world, its bane has lain hidden for almost seven thousand years.” Frost leaned back in his chair, the telltale signal that he was done and would now accept questions. “How is that possible? Nothing can live for seven thousand years. Not even bacteria.” Frost’s smile grew wider, and Cam said, “Right?” “Right. But DNA, now, that’s another matter.” Pieces of the cosmic puzzle began to fall into place in Cam’s mind. “You and Dr. Platt reconstituted the DNA of the disease utilizing recombinant DNA to fill the gaps?” Cam half explained, half asked. “My student should be able to explain it better than that,” said Frost, as he rose and began pacing behind his desk. “As you know, plague of this type is not typically airborne, and my strain is no different. It can live for a very short period airborne, but needs to be warm, otherwise it will begin to deteriorate at a very rapid rate. “Dr. Platt and I reconstituted the nucleic acid molecules in the DNA sequence of the chimera that had degraded. We created a template from the DNA structure that I found, and used recombinant DNA, thereby creating a new template. We repeated this process until the newly formed nucleic acid molecules were substantially representative of the nucleic acids from the genome of the original degraded DNA sample,” said Frost, a wide smile splitting his face. “Where did you get the DNA sample from? How can you possibly know how old it is?” Cam was desperate to find a hole in Frost’s theory, because if he went public with his findings and their claims weren’t true, they all would be done. “The how, is teeth.” Frost let that idea sink in.

50 | Edward J. McFadden III “You found remains you were able to date, with teeth that contained the DNA?” asked Cam. Frost nodded, and Cam felt a tingle zip down his spine. The phone rang, and they both jumped. Frost laughed and lifted the receiver from its cradle. The call lasted only a minute or two, and when Frost slammed the phone down on his desk, Cam’s heart jumped. “What’s wrong?” asked Cam. “William Sandower is dead, and the authorities would like to question me.” The tingle in Cam’s spine now became pain. Sandower was Frost’s biggest supporter, and provided a substantial amount of his funding. Then his conversation with Gwen came rushing back. He was the guy Gwen had killed via the alumni directory, and now he was dead for real. Cam and Frost stared at one another for a long moment, the professor’s keen eyes surveying his young apprentice. “Well . . .I guess I should tell you how this all happened; they’ll want to question you as well.” Cam’s heart sank. He isn’t even supposed to be back yet, thought Cam as his mind began to create images of his impending fall and the loss of all his free time into perpetuity.

NINE

G

wen seethed as she sat in her office, looking out the window, chewing her nails. She had been on her own a long time, and when crisis struck, she went into self-preservation mode. How would she stop the house of cards from falling? Could she begin to reclaim her life? She looked down and saw a copy of the new directory resting on her desk. That would be her undoing, and there was no way to go back in time and stop the errors from occurring. She needed to figure out why the errors had happened, and how. At first, Gwen had assumed she had made a mistake, or a lastminute change had somehow been waylaid, but there was more than one name incorrectly listed as deceased, and she knew she wasn’t that incompetent. Someone had, at some point in the process, deliberately made the changes. Why? That was the question that made her stomach tingle and the tiny muscles in her neck pulse. Okay, Gwen thought. Who had it after me? Crissy. Gwen grabbed the copy of the directory, headed into the hall, and passed the front desk without a word. Crissy Whingarden was on her floor, so the dash through common areas was minimal. Like the elevators, restrooms and hallways had the ability to sabotage a day like a storm cloud on Sunday, but Gwen knew several techniques that could be utilized if contact with other Babylonians became necessary. Gwen often joked with her offcampus girlfriends about what she called the four basics of

52 | Edward J. McFadden III Babylon University communication. Gwen smiled as she recalled the speech her friend had given her on her first day at Babylon. “Sweetie, there are four basic weapons when it comes to communication in this crazy place,” said Tina. “First, is limited vision. Despite possessing the thickest, most advanced glasses known to man, academics see what they choose to see. So be prepared to literally walk into them if you need some of their time. That is, unless they want to—or need to—talk to you. Then their limited vision suddenly corrects itself. “The second tactic is the rush,” Tina had said. The rush was Gwen’s favorite, because it also implied a monstrous workload, it was the easiest to feign, and held the most truth. However, its ineffectiveness in the face of persistence made it less than an ideal weapon. “Then there is the walk and talk. Honey, this one is great for dealing with the opposite sex. Just head to the head and your conversation is guaranteed to be of limited duration. Even with the same sex, this technique allows you to actually accomplish something, while limiting your interaction. “Then there is the ghost,” Tina had concluded. “You are invisible, and they see right through you. To them you are no longer here. Not a good sign.” Gwen chuckled to herself. It reminded her of paying the phone company for caller ID and call blocking—paying the communication company not to communicate. The four tactics were only good in common areas, so the ultimate tool when something really needed to get done was to corner said employee, face to face, in his or her office. Gwen had learned that trick early on from Carol Lee Evans, the tough nononsense director of admissions. Yet Gwen knew very well that not even Carol would help her if word got out of what she had done.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 53 Suddenly all the faces in the hallway seemed to be looking her way, their cold eyes seeing through her. She felt their stares, and wondered if they somehow knew about her predicament. That was impossible, yet she couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, like she was walking across a crowded street naked. She knew this was her guilt seeping through her facade, yet that didn’t stop her hands from trembling and her heart from racing. In reality, people smiled and said hello as Gwen pushed her way through a line outside Human Resources and entered the Publication Director’s office suite. Everything that was printed by Babylon University went through this office, and she dealt with them on a regular basis. “Just need to stick my head in and see Crissy,” said Gwen, as she waltzed by the front desk without pausing. When she reached Crissy’s office, she knocked on the open door and stuck her head in. “Hi,” said Crissy, not looking up from a proof she was examining. “We have a meeting today, sport?” Gwen’s hackles rose, then she calmed herself as she remembered she needed this woman. Part of surviving at a university was knowing when to shut up. Problem was, the longer you stayed at an institution, the less you said, until finally you were a mute. Gwen needed something from this woman, and that alone made her uncomfortable, but she wasn’t beyond eating some crow if it helped save her butt. “No, you busy? I can stop back.” Crissy looked up now, her curly brown hair falling around her fat white face. Her green eyes surveyed Gwen, and then she returned to examining the proof before her. “The current promotional documents for Dr. Frost’s new find in Babylon. It’s in ten languages.” Crissy removed her classes and stared up at Gwen expectantly.

54 | Edward J. McFadden III “You remember I e-mailed you the alumni directory for printing?” asked Gwen. “Sure. You’re holding a copy.” “Yeah. What happens to the file after I send it to you? Is it checked in any way?” Crissy looked skeptically at Gwen, reading her thoughts. “Don’t worry if there’s a mistake or two in there. There are mistakes in all of them.” Gwen laughed nervously and waited. “So you just forward the file to the printer?” she asked. “No. I check it, but not the data.” “How is it sent? Via e-mail?” asked Gwen. “Yep. Want me to forward it to you?” asked Crissy, smiling knowingly. “Had a little computer crash, did we?” Gwen’s brow wrinkled, but realizing her good fortune, she said, “Please don’t tell anyone. Herb the computer geek is on me constantly about backing up my data.” “Yeah, he’s right, but I’ll forward it to you anyway,” said Crissy, turning her attention back to her work. “Today? I don’t mean to push, but I’m kinda in a—” “Get out,” joked Crissy. “I’ll send it by COB.” “Thanks,” said Gwen. ***** Back in her office, Gwen reviewed the names listed as deceased in 2006 again. Once Crissy e-mailed her the printer’s file, she could compare it to her file. If they were the same, someone at the printer had somehow modified the file. If they were different, then someone at Babylon had falsified the directory. There were nineteen names listed, and all were real alumni except the retired CFO, William Brath. In addition to James Sandower, she recognized several names, a couple of whom she knew to actually be deceased. That would be her next task: trying to figure out if there were other alumni prematurely listed as

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 55 deceased who had been killed, or if they had predeceased the listing. Big difference. Gwen’s thoughts drifted again to the police, and she fought the urge to pick up the phone and call campus security, who would engage the local authorities. Gwen knew, without any doubt, that if she did that it would mean the end of her employment at Babylon University. The police would ask those hard questions, the ones Gwen wouldn’t have the perfect answers to, and that scared her more than anything else. Despite the fact that she had never done anything illegal—aside from speeding and smoking pot once in a blue moon with Cam—she feared the police, and surely she would crack under the pressure of an interrogation. Where had she been over the weekend? Did she understand that the fact that she handled the directory made her a suspect in a homicide? Did she know the victim? These questions and many others danced in her mind like a drunken ballerina, and her head pounded in unison with her heart. She could deal with the shame of being fired, but she could never go to jail. She would die first. Gwen wiped her brow with the backside of her hand and sighed loudly, the stress pulling at her insides. I’m over-reacting, she said to herself. And she was right. So far she couldn’t be blamed for much—incompetence, inefficiency? But what else could they really know? She bit at her nails again and stared out her window. Again she thought of Cam. Their life together seemed so far away, the love they had shared almost a dream. Dr. Frost, the killer of dreams and destroyer of souls, had caused all that, but he had also agreed to fix things, when he deemed the time right. Yet Gwen felt Cam slipping further and further from her each day. Frost had told Cam that Gwen was a distraction, and asked what they could possibly talk about when the lights were out and it was only the two of them. They had nothing in common except attraction, and that only went so far.

56 | Edward J. McFadden III She felt more than that, however, and that scared her. Every relationship she had ever been in, she had controlled. The old saying “one person always loves the other more” was true. She was used to having men fawn over her, obsess over her, so when these relationships fell apart, it was the men who left crying, wondering what had happened, and what they had done wrong. But this time was different. She loved Cam more than he loved her, and that meant he controlled things, set the tone and pace of their relationship. She hadn’t been able to handle that, and often became angry and controlling. Then, when Frost had started to turn Cam against her, many of the small problems had became big problems, and that had led to their current estrangement. Gwen turned her attention to her computer screen, where more than a hundred unread e-mail messages awaited her response. She loved and hated e-mail. It allowed her to avoid people she wanted to avoid, but it also let anyone who had a thought, a random unnecessary question, contact her with said useless question whenever they saw fit, and she was expected to reply even to the most ridiculous questions and requests. Her nerves jumped again, her mind torn between police and self preservation. What if more people were killed? Would they blame her? Could they? But so far as she knew, Brath was the only one dead, and she reassured herself that he would be the only one, but that level of delusion was beyond her. Mia poked her head into Gwen’s office and said, “Did you hear about that guy who called here last week? The guy whose dad built the library?” A chill ran down Gwen’s back. “James Sandower? What about him?” “Guess you knew something the rest of us didn’t. He’s dead for real.”

TEN

T

he midday sun cast long shadows across Frost’s cold, wood-paneled office, and Cam sat still as stone before his boss’s desk, silent. Frost paced back and forth, and the Doc’s silence made Cam uncomfortable, but he knew the routine well. Frost was getting ready to lecture, getting all the words just right in his mind. Usually, Frost’s tales grew in the telling, as do most, and by the time he got around to putting pen to paper in his giant journal, the story had usually grown to an epic adventure. What Frost did was adventurous, there was no denying that. He got to sift through the birthplace of humanity and draw conclusions based on what he found. He was creating history, and sometimes he could feel the power at his command, like electricity surrounding and penetrating his body. It was the science that had drawn him in, but it was the adventure that kept his feet from going to sleep. “It happened by accident,” he began, and Cam focused all his attention on Frost. “Several soldiers were on a routine patrol when they thought they spotted something floating in the air above the Babylon excavation site. The soldiers described it as a white light that seemed to pulse, almost fading away before returning brighter than before. One soldier said he saw a face in the white light.” Frost paused for effect, and Cam knew that if the pause lasted for more than a couple of seconds, he was permitted to ask a question. “For real? I mean, were these guys drunk or something?” asked Cam.

58 | Edward J. McFadden III “No, but that’s exactly what their commanding officer thought when they called him on the radio to report what they had seen. He told them to return to base immediately. When they arrived, they were given sobriety tests, and all five of the soldiers appeared sober. Breathalyzer tests were administered, and the results were negative. There was no sign of other drug use, or any reason to believe that they were under any more stress than normal. Remember, these guys knew there was a possibility they wouldn’t return each time they went out on patrol. They’d seen the remains of vehicles hit with missiles, or destroyed by bombs buried in the road. So these were tough, sober men who had been trained to be observant and rational.” “Maybe they were earthlights?” said Cam. He had written a paper on the phenomenon as a freshman. “No. There were no plate shifts or other major earth movement in the area. No fault lines, no high mountains. It’s an anti-earthlight environment,” said Frost. “Plus, they tried to photograph the phenomena, and couldn’t.” Earthlights were UFO-like apparitions that had been seen and photographed all over the globe. A commonly held theory was that the lights were somehow generated by the Earth, and would appear under special conditions, usually in the mountains or along other of Earth’s crust stress points. “True . . . and the not being able to take a picture of it. There are plenty of pictures and video of earthlights. If it’s the same phenomenon, it’s gotten shy all of a sudden.” Cam stared at the ceiling for several long moments before he asked, “What do you think they saw?” “A ghost in the machine.” Cam shifted in his chair and looked out the window, where a woodpecker was tapping diligently on a giant oak tree. Ghosts? thought Cam. He had hitched his proverbial wagon to Frost, and if the man failed, or was going crazy, Cam needed to figure out

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 59 how he was going to stop it, and fast. “So, you’re saying they saw what? The ghost of Nebuchadnezzar?” “Don’t mock me, you little turd! This is top level security clearance information, and you’re joking around like you’re still in high school. You want in on this, or what? You want your name on the biggest paper in history? Then smarten up and get your head screwed on straight. Do I strike you as a man who believes in ghosts? I spent half my life crawling around in graves!” Frost was done, but the show wasn’t quite over. He marched over to his bar, which was built into a corner of the room. He pulled two tumblers from an overhead rack, lifted a bottle of Jack Daniels, and poured some whiskey into both crystal glasses. He lifted one, downing its entire contents with one pull. Cam had seen this routine before as well; it was a version of his mother’s “you’ll drive me to drink” act. Frost poured himself another tall shot of Jack Daniels and brought the second glass to Cam, who sipped at it gently. “Thank you. Sorry about that comment. Didn’t mean anything by it. But it did sound like you were saying they saw a ghost.” “They think they did,” said Frost, as he dropped into his leather chair behind his desk and took a long pull of his drink. “These soldiers swore they saw something, and their commanding officer believed them. He had put them through all the tests, after all, and he saw no reason why they would lie. If anything, I’d think they would lie to cover up what they saw. Surely that would be easier than explaining to your commanding officer that you had seen a ghost. “So Lieutenant Harry Rushner went to the Babylon site, with the five original soldiers, to investigate.” Frost paused and took another sip of his whiskey. “Remember, Mr. Sandower had just been successful in getting the US military to stop using the site, and there were rumors that the military had been given strict orders to protect the site from looting.” This part of the lecture

60 | Edward J. McFadden III Cam knew well. “As you may know, Iraqi archeologists, in their struggle to survive, were digging through the sites they knew for any artifacts they could sell. Even the Babylon site.” “Yes, I was just reading about how several pieces recently came to light under shady circumstances,” said Cam, thinking he might be giving Frost new information. Cam knew that was the only thing that really made him valuable to Frost. The moment Cam stopped finding new information, his career with Frost would be over. Frost ignored him and continued. “So when the Humvee arrives, the light is pulsing faster than before, and Lieutenant Rushner takes out his video camera and tries to document the phenomenon. He shoots for a few seconds, and then plays it back, and poof! There’s nothing on the tape except the tops of some desert palms and the star-filled sky. So he tries again, and gets the same result. Then he tried a still photo with his cell phone. Same thing. He then tests the camera by photographing the Ishtar Gate, which was only fifty feet away. The camera captured the blue and gold tile perfectly.” The tapping beyond the window had been joined by the chirping of a bird, and the rustling of leaves, as a harsh gust of wind tore at Frost’s house. Cam tried to look away from Frost, but he couldn’t. In all the years he had known the man, he had never seen him in such a state of excitement. His eyes were bloodshot, and he held his glass of whiskey with both hands, staring into it like it was a crystal ball. Cam knew Frost better than anyone, and could predict how he would react in most situations. He could tell the Doc had practiced telling this story in his mind many times, making sure he got every detail just the way he wanted it, like a cop at a crime scene. The man had a photographic memory, but Cam knew his vision was often blurred by the light of his shining star. More than once, Cam had heard Frost describe how they had discovered a

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 61 find, only to ask himself if he had even been there, the story so foreign to what he had thought he had experienced. Frost knew that part of obtaining funding was drama, and that meant making things appear as if they were more than they were. “So they drive to the center of the site, where the elevation really starts to fall toward the Ishtar Gate, and as they get closer to the ruins the light gets bigger and brighter. With artillery shells exploding in the distance, and the war raging on all through Iraq, these six soldiers were mesmerized by this white light. At one point, one of the foot soldiers asked Lieutenant Rushner if they were dead, and Rushner replied he didn’t know. “So with gravel the Army had spread all about to create a helicopter pad crunching and popping beneath the wheels of the Humvee, the driver lets go of the wheel, and the Humvee slams into an ancient retaining wall that was in line to be restored. The whole thing comes tumbling down and the white light snaps out, leaving the soldiers in complete darkness.” Frost downed the rest of his whiskey and held out his hand for Cam’s glass. Cam had barely taken a sip, but knew that if he passed, he’d never hear the end of how big a pussy he was. So, tightening his gullet as best he could, he downed the bourbon with one pour. As he handed Frost his empty glass, he coughed slightly, but Frost pretended not to notice. “So the next day, they go back to the site to survey the damage, and see that the rent in the retaining wall leads into a chamber of some kind. Lieutenant Rushner called it ‘a tunnel.’ Fortunately for us, he didn’t attempt any exploration,” said Frost, and Cam let a small sigh escape his tightly closed lips. Frost knew very well that Cam’s father and brother had both served in the Navy, and when he insulted the military, he insulted his family, but Frost was quick to qualify himself. “Can’t have soldiers doing archeological work any more than we can have rock rats fighting our wars. After all, their vehicles have crushed ancient roads, and

62 | Edward J. McFadden III several soldiers have been caught trying to gouge decorated bricks and tiles from the Ishtar Gate. Clearly, the importance of the site was beyond them. “So what happens next? They call their boss, who calls his, and so on, until the phone of James Sandower rings. They wanted me to check out the new chamber. They let me explore where no living person has walked for over seven thousand years.” Cam was angry and excited and blurted, “When? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone with you.” “Remember when I said I was going to Japan to consult with Ni Jun Li? That’s when, and I couldn’t tell you. Those Fed guys are scary, and they said if I told anyone, I’d disappear into the darkest hole on Earth. I’m only telling you now because I need you to understand what’s at stake here. Our careers, possibly our very lives, could depend on what happens in the next few days.” Silence fell, and Cam hoped it would never end.

ELEVEN

C

am sat boiling with rage, but he didn’t let it show. He had learned much about trust and betrayal over the last few months via his breakup with Gwen, but somehow Frost’s lack of trust seemed to cut him more deeply. Not that Cam didn’t understand Frost’s position. He did, but not being trusted by his mentor still hurt. They had been in the shit, crawled through the dusty remains of the Earth’s distant past together. Yet Frost had chosen to withhold his greatest discovery. The discovery. Cam’s mind relaxed. So what if he didn’t know? If what Frost was saying was true, and he played the good son, the ticket of his life would be punched, and he would be able to go to any university. Suddenly he felt stupid, like a little kid who’s fallen for the “maybe” answer. Why the hell should I have the right to know? I’m not Frost. But to that the little voice in the back of his head said, But he wouldn’t be where he is now without my help. Frost continued in a loud tone. “I need to hear you say you understand how sensitive the information I’m giving you is. I know you, and you’re pissed right now because you’ve been on the outside. What I’m offering now is a ticket inside, but you have to be discrete, and tell no one what you know. No one.” Cam breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. “I’ve never failed you before, and I won’t start now,” he said. “Good,” said Frost, draining the last of his third bourbon. “I arrived three days later, sneaking into the country under the cover of night on a military helicopter. The white light hadn’t returned,

64 | Edward J. McFadden III but when I arrived, I found a bunch of soldiers who were very uneasy. “For starters, they claimed they felt something, an unease that they couldn’t shake. An underlying dread infected the soldiers’ hearts, and they felt tired and sick. This wasn’t just the six who had come in contact with the white light and accidentally found the new chamber. All the soldiers on the nearby base were feeling the effects of whatever had crept from the maw of the tunnel they had found. At least that’s what they believed.” “Do you think it’s real? Or simply the fear of the unknown spreading because of the white light story?” asked Cam, then he bit his lip, realizing that Frost hadn’t paused the requisite two seconds. Frost didn’t seem to hear Cam anyway. “I had them take me to the site in early morning, so I could poke around under the full light of day. It was a strange tomb, because unlike most monuments and crypts at the Babylon site, this one’s entrance immediately plunged deep into the ground. On stairs that were almost like a ladder carved into the wall, I descended into the heart of the new find. The air was extremely stale, and above me, the light of day filled the small rectangular hole that marked my entry. At one point, the tunnel took another very steep turn downward, and the entrance was lost from view. I was in total darkness save for my flashlight. I pointed the light downward, trying to gauge if the end was near, but could see nothing. “I was beginning to despair, Cam. Alone beneath the Earth several hundred feet. I had never seen anything like this, and the depth of the tunnel made clear the reason this particular find hadn’t been discovered prior. If not for those soldiers and their Humvee, the tomb I found at the end of that long tunnel would have never been seen.” “And a white light,” said Cam.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 65 “Yes, and the strange white light. It was almost as if it had drawn the soldiers to that very spot. The odds are great. There are many small chambers throughout the Babylon site, but most are only a few feet below the surface. I venture to guess that I was 400 feet below the surface in this new tomb, deeper than anything ever discovered before. The tomb chamber itself was crude by the standards of later kings, but it was clearly someone of importance whose remains had rested there for almost seven thousand years.” “I assume the dating has been verified,” said Cam, and he wondered just how much this tale had already grown. “Yes, on site and here. There is no doubt. The mummy I found was from the first days of Babylon, the very cradle of the human race.” Frost looked at Cam’s glass, but seeing he hadn’t touched it, spared him the indignity of having to down another shot he didn’t want. Frost rose and got himself another drink, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers as he went. Cam was starting to worry. When the Doc got drunk, he got sloppy, and there was a federal agent on his way to interview him. All they needed was for Frost to get into a pissing match with the FBI. Cam surmised that the Doc had yet to fully realize what the death of James Sandower did to his power. Without the millionaire and his political connections, Frost was nothing more than a pompous professor whose research could be performed by many other scientists, a line of which would form outside President Dilworth’s office before Frost’s body had been placed in the ground. Cam also knew that Frost was a heavy drinker, and what he had consumed thus far was a mere drop in his daily glass. Cam felt lightheaded from his one shot, and he still felt warm all over. Frost poured himself a double and returned to his chair. Sipping Jack Daniels, he said, “The small chamber that housed the sarcophagus was not lavish, as I’ve said. There were carvings and drawings on the walls, and the sarcophagus itself was crudely

66 | Edward J. McFadden III hewn into a rectangle. Clearly, whoever had made the ancient coffin knew how to use tools of some kind, and practiced specific burial rites. “The stone walls were decorated in a variety of crude pictures and scenes of love. They looked like a young child’s first foray into crayons. But the images on the coffin itself revealed mass death. There were many small drawings showing crowds of stick figures falling over, presumably dying. The artifacts will not be worth the gold of the pharaohs, but when everything down there gets dated, and we start giving pieces to museums . . . oh, boy.” Frost smiled, and Cam couldn’t help but focus on the way he had used the word “we.” Frost never said “we.” What he said was, “There is no we.” He said that a lot. “How did you get the tooth?” asked Cam. Frost ignored him. “It was clear that the chamber had never been disturbed. Rock dust and sand lay on every horizontal surface, and all the artifacts that weren’t piles of dust appeared to be poised in specific positions. Amongst all the treasures, there were only two pieces made of metal. Two tiny figures roughly sculpted were on top of the sarcophagus. At first I thought they were wood, but when I lifted them, I could tell by the weight that they were metal.” “That’s not possible. They weren’t smelting metal that far back,” said Cam. Then realizing he really knew nothing, he hastily added, “Right?” “As far as we know. Those items haven’t been dated yet.” “Perhaps someone had already been to the grave, and left the two metal statues as a sign they had been there,” said Cam. “I thought of that. That is possible.” Both men shook their heads. “I knew that the best place to find DNA would be in teeth of the mummy. So I pushed the stone top off the sarcophagus, pulled away some of the mummy’s wrapping, and pulled two teeth from the skull.”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 67 “That’s some story. Can’t wait to read it in the big book,” said Cam, and Frost laughed. That startled Cam, because Frost hardly ever laughed. Cam hadn’t known Frost before Susan had died, but he’d heard from others that he hadn’t been as nasty as he was now. Frost took pleasure in very little, and he seemed to hold everyone on Earth responsible for his daughter’s premature death. So when Frost laughed, that meant something really good, or really bad, depending on his mood. “But Cam, the story gets stranger, and if you don’t already think me mad, then what I’m going to tell you now will,” said Frost, and he tipped his glass and poured the rest of the whiskey down his gullet. He was commanding his audience now, building up to his great finale that was supposed to leave Cam’s jaw dropped in awe. When Cam lifted his gaze from the green and brown carpet, he found Frost watching him intently. “Do you wish you could go back in time, not break up with Gwen?” asked Frost. The question surprised Cam, and made him feel small. Oh, the places we’ll go, thought Cam, as he tried to puzzle out the answer to Frost’s latest riddle. “Doesn’t matter, does it? We can’t travel in time.” Silence filled the room again. He had done what Frost had asked of him: he had broken up with Gwen, eliminated his only distraction, and dedicated his life to helping Frost in his work, until such time as he would become his own man, a scientist in his own right. Finally, Frost said, “No, we can’t.” Frost’s smile widened. “But when I emerged with my teeth, a scant four hours after entering the new find, the pitch black of night shrouded the entire landscape. Though my watch read 1:36pm, the outside world had somehow pushed forward to 7:36pm. My mouth dropped as I eyed my watch, and there was no other way to explain it: time had moved faster while I was in the tomb.” Silence.

68 | Edward J. McFadden III Then the phone on Frost’s desk rang, and they both jumped. Frost cursed to himself and answered it, his face growing pale as he processed what Jun Xing, one of his graduate students, was telling him. When Frost hung up, he was white as snow, his bloodshot eyes standing out like cinders. “There’s been a death on campus. Out behind the arts building,” said Frost, and slowly he rose to his feet and headed for the door. “Let’s go, Cam. I want to check this out before it turns into a circus.” But Cam couldn’t move, the rock in the pit of stomach held him firmly in place.

TWELVE

D

on stood in a row of parked university security vehicles, sheriff’s cars, and local police cruisers as he waited to make his entrance. He was conspicuous, as always, and when some of the officers looked his way, or ventured near him, his aggressive stare dared them to question him. That person would be the bait on his hook. Fortunately for the townies, no one had the stones to approach him, and he waited patiently as everyone headed into the woods and disappeared over a small rise. A thin blacktop road wound its way through the dense forest that surrounded the Babylon University campus. Tall pines and expansive oaks filled the terrain, and brambles and evergreens crowded about their feet. Aside from the fleet of law enforcement vehicles, nothing marred the pure elegance of the forest except the blacktop road with its yellow reflective lines. It fit no more in that place than a cockroach on a birthday cake, and tree roots were already lifting the blacktop in several places. The road wouldn’t give up without a fight, and in some ways, that eternal battle could be seen in Don’s current situation. His briefing over the phone had been short, but it was clear he had number three on his hands. Don’s mother used to tell him that God would lead the way for him, make his decisions for him, and that was called destiny. Don looked down at the pavement and wondered if it had been God who arranged for the call about the most recent death to have come as he drove onto campus, almost in the same spot he now stood?

70 | Edward J. McFadden III Coincidence? Perhaps, but though Don didn’t believe in the supernatural he did believe that things happened for a reason, that there was some cosmic plan. What the plan was, how it got contrived, and who carried it out—those were questions Don wouldn’t dare try to answer, and he had seen more than most. Being in the right place at the right time was Don’s specialty, and he thought more than once that his luck was more fate than random. That fantasy helped him focus his beliefs, while not allowing them to drive his ethics. Instead of going to the university president’s office and informing him that he was initiating an investigation at Babylon University, he found himself right in the middle of the mess. Dr. Frost, who during their phone call had said not a word, would be his first interrogation. If what the information from central said about him was true, he most likely was the creator, or the discoverer, of the current disease that so far had proved impossible to kill once it infected its host. The lab in Washington was stumped, and that didn’t sit well with the higher ups, but they had agreed to let the investigation play out quietly, and that meant keeping a low profile and not having 50 agents working the case. The good news was the preliminary estimates showed that it was very unlikely that a Typhoid Mary type carrier could exist. The odds were there might be ten people on Earth that could carry the disease, and feel none of its symptoms. The odds of one of these ten being at Babylon University were extremely long, yet not impossible. The other piece of good news was that the muscle heads in Washington had created an accurate test to identify the disease with almost 100% effectiveness. Don looked at the small backlit screen of his phone. “Big Dogs” could be seen there, and all he needed to do was press a button, which would call the preprogrammed number, and Babylon University would be in a cocoon so tight a fly’s fart couldn’t get through it. But he was looking too far ahead again.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 71 Most likely he would be able to solve the crimes before any drastic action needed to be taken; at least that was the goal at this point. The good thing about the case “being in the system” was the fact that he now had the full scientific prowess of the government at his disposal. He was certain the people at Babylon University would be above his intellectual pay grade, and he knew there would be times when he would need the best minds the USA had to offer crunching his numbers. Those great minds and all that scientific prowess, however, had been unable to give Don any information about how the disease had been transmitted, where it came from, or what might kill it. Due to the highly decayed state of the bodies, it couldn’t be determined if the victims had been injected, or had ingested the disease. Everyone seemed to understand, thankfully, that what they were dealing with was murder, pure and simple. The townies felt that way for two reasons. First, if the disease was airborne, half the state would already be dead, and second, the alternate possibilities were beyond the realm of what they believed to be possible. As Don slipped his phone into his jacket pocket, he saw two people walking up the road toward the ordered chaos. As they got closer, Don could see that one was a young man with olive skin, and the other was an older man with gray hair and a gray goatee. The older man locked eyes with Don as he approached, and he instantly felt a tiny rush of respect. The two men strode right up to Don, and the older man said, “Is the body in there? I’m with school administration,” Frost lied. Cam stood nervously next to Frost, trying to look at anything but Don. “Don’t know. I was just taking a walk, killing some time before I meet my daughter for dinner, and I stumbled upon this,” said Don, motioning around him.

72 | Edward J. McFadden III “Yeah,” said Frost, who seemed to know immediately that Don was lying. “You a cop trying to be funny? I’m not really in the mood. This is a major tragedy.” “Really, who bit the donut?” said Don, barely containing is laughter. “Come on,” said Frost as he headed into the woods. “This should be good,” said Don. Frost spun on his heels and got in Don’s face. Don was really beginning to enjoy this, and he found himself having feelings of respect for Frost. It wasn’t every day that someone messed with Don. In fact, it hadn’t happened since college. “You got something to say?” barked Frost. Cam stood behind Frost, almost shielding himself. Don made a mental note to question this young man, most likely Loud Man’s assistant. “Yeah, I said this should be good, watching you two pretty boys try to find the crime scene. Either of you ever been more than five minutes from a bathroom?” Frost’s face reddened, and he said, “Do you know who the fuck you’re talking to? I built this place. You townies wouldn’t exist without this place, without me.” “Really? You’re Dr. Orienchaft? A pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Don. Then he put his hand to his face and thrummed his fingers against his cheek. “But wait. Aren’t you dead?” “I’m Dr. Frost,” was all Frost could say through his rage. “Oh, yes,” said Don with mocking excitement. “You and I have a meeting today,” continued Don. Then he paused, enjoying the look of confusion on Frost’s and Cam’s faces. “I’m Agent Don Oberbier. I didn’t build this place, and I’ve never discovered any ‘new knowledge’, but I intend to put you under my microscope as soon as I’m done here.” Before Frost could protest, Don pulled his ID free, and flipped back his jacket, revealing his Glock 19. When Frost seemed unfazed, he put his hand on the weapon.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 73 “Yeah, you a big man? Go ahead, take the gun out . . . and I’ll shove it up your ass,” taunted Frost. Point Frost, thought Don, as he pushed his ID into Frost’s face, literally letting it touch his nose. “Go wait in your office. I’ll be along shortly. If you’re not there, you’ll spend the night in jail. Don’t test me; I've thrown people way more important than you in jail. I’m untouchable, and a fight with me you can’t win,” said Don, his voice shaking with anger. Point two, Frost, he thought. Frost had gotten the better of him, and that didn’t happen often. “I want to see what’s going on here. Then we can talk all you want,” said Frost, as he turned and headed toward the woods. Don reached out his hand and stopped him. “Listen, that’s a secure crime scene. I just got off the phone with the university president, a Dr. Dilworth? Sounds like a cartoon.” Don paused, and when neither man laughed, he said, “No one else is going to see the scene except me. Not even President Dilworth. The person who found the body is waiting in there for me, but even the local police are holding back. Why do you think that is?” asked Don, then said, “Besides, you know what I’m going to find, don’t you?” Part of law enforcement was playing hunches, and Don felt Frost was in this mess somehow. Maybe not at the vortex, but in there, and Don enjoyed nothing more than pushing important people’s buttons. “You guys got me?” Both men nodded. Don had a scale in his head that measured and weighed every person he met, from the gas station attendants to the senators. There was one thing that Don’s mental courage could always instantly project, and that was honesty. The palms of his hands began to sweat, and that meant he couldn’t trust Frost, and that didn’t surprise Don at all. When neither man spoke, Don looked each in the eye, and then, addressing the younger man, asked, “And you are?” The young man stepped around Frost to hold out his hand. “Name’s Cameron Lorenz, but everyone calls me Cam.”

74 | Edward J. McFadden III Don shook the young man’s hand just to piss off Frost. “Good for you,” said Don. “What do you do for his excellency here?” Cam didn’t get the chance to answer, because Frost grabbed his wrist and pulled him away. It was almost comical, the way Frost stared at Don with hatred, like he was trying to steal his puppy. He’s just not used to being talked to like that, he thought, as he watched the two men disappear back up the road the way they had come. “See you shortly. Oh, and yes, I do like coffee,” Don called after them, and he was chuckling to himself as he headed into the woods. The ground was uneven, and there were many small knolls and some big boulders. Don could hear the crowd of law enforcement people over the next rise, so he stopped and straightened himself. Like a performer who’s done his show countless times but still gets stage fright, Don still felt that tingling in his stomach each time he tried to intimidate entire groups of people, especially when said group was cops and security. He strode forward, the leaves and pine needles swishing beneath his feet, the afternoon sun peeking through the tree canopy. Then Don reached the crest of the small hill, and the feeling of unease stopped him dead in his tracks.

THIRTEEN

D

on wasn’t a religious man, and despite all he had seen while doing his unusual job, he didn’t believe in the occult or the supernatural, but when he came over that small rise on the Babylon campus, his entire body turned to ice, and he felt something he had never experienced before. It wasn’t quite fear, but something much worse. A sinking dread that tore at his nerves and made his head pound with pain. Frozen, Don stared down the incline before him and saw a group of law enforcement officials standing huddled together at the base of the hill. In the center of the small valley, a circle of yellow tape surrounded a tiny structure of some kind, but Don couldn’t make out exactly what it was or what it was made of from his current vantage point. Despite the chill that had found every corner of his body, sweat dripped down his face and back, and his heart thumped uncontrollably. The low murmur of the group below stopped all at once. Someone had spotted him. For a moment, Don was unable to move, and his mind screamed in frantic frustration, his ears ringing. Then he lurched forward, almost tripping on his own feet as he stumbled down the knoll toward the officers. Can’t let these townies see me shaken, Don said to himself, and this made his mind reel further down the path of insanity and despair. He never got shaken, and what’s worse, he was still shaken. Whatever was in the valley below was evil beyond anything Don had ever encountered. He knew this with a surety

76 | Edward J. McFadden III that he couldn’t explain, and despair wrapped its tentacles around his heart. A tall man with gray hair came forward to greet Don. He wore a brown suit that looked cleanly pressed and a solid purple tie. The man had hawkish brown eyes, and a nose and cheeks filled with broken blood vessels. “Agent Oberbier?” asked the man as he held out his hand. The crowd of campus security and local police fell in behind him. None of the men looked Don in the eye, and several bit at their fingertips, or rubbed at their faces. All of them shifted from one foot to another, their unease easy to see. “Who wants to know?” asked Don. That’s when the stench assailed Don’s nostrils, and his mind jolted backward to Boston City and the high-rise in New York. He wrinkled his nose, instinctively bringing his arm up across his face. He noticed the flies then also, buzzing and darting about as if defending their turf. “Captain Polin. I’m in charge here,” said Polin, then he looked at his feet and said, “Or I was in charge until about two minutes ago.” Polin’s voice cracked, and his gaze drifted toward the center of the small valley. The man was clearly shaken. “Have all these,” said Don with disdain, looking beyond Polin at the cadre of uniformed testosterone. “Have all these boys seen the crime scene?” Don asked. “No. Just me, and Officer Templeton there,” said Polin, as he pointed toward a young female officer who waited uncomfortably behind the men. “And the guy who discovered the body. Strange story.” “Where is he?” asked Don, no longer concerned with the townies. “Right there,” said Polin, pointing toward a janitor who leaned nervously against an old oak tree. The man’s black hair was slicked back, and he wore a blue work uniform. The name

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 77 “Teddy” was printed in red above his right pocket. The man watched Don as he surveyed him, and he pulled his hands from his pockets, then put them back in, then pulled them out again. He wore a tool belt, and a long sword tattoo was carved in black ink along his right arm. “He works in the building yonder,” said Polin, as he pointed to the north, where Don could now see the rim of a roofline through the trees. “He could barely talk when we arrived on scene and he refuses to go any closer to the . . .” Polin’s voice trailed away, and he looked toward the center of the valley below, then back at his feet. Don strode forward, and eyed the group of lawmen who waited on his next word. “Listen up, everyone here. Babylon security, leave the scene. Return to your posts. A briefing will be dispatched to you by the end of your shift.” Here Don paused, looking each of the Babylon security personnel in the eye. These were not your typical rent-a-cops. These were ex-military Special Forces, men who made a great deal of money to give Babylon University its anonymity and privacy. Respect was the only thing that would win them over. “This is a matter of national security at the highest possible threat level. I am going to need each and every one of you to be on the top of your game very soon. Is that understood?” Two of the security guards actually barked out “Yes, sir.” The rest, seeing the local police giving way to Don, fled the scene like rats running from a snake. That made Don feel dreadfully uneasy. Most cops ran toward danger—it was hardwired into their souls—but these guys had cleared out faster than kids on the last day of school. Don’s neck ached, and the pit of his stomach stewed like he had just eaten four dirty-water hot dogs with three-day-old sauerkraut. When the Babylon security had left Don addressed the remaining uniformed officers and Captain Polin. “What? Teddy here just happened to wander into the woods?” asked Don.

78 | Edward J. McFadden III “He said he smelled a nasty odor when he was dumping the cleaning fluids into their collection barrel behind the building. Says the stench was so nasty he could smell it over the bleach and floor cleaner cocktail he’d been using in the men’s room. But I suppose you know that part’s true,” prodded Polin, as he watched Don struggling not to gag, the foul wind blowing in his face. “Plus,” Polin continued, “He says he saw kids . . . students, coming in here a few months ago.” “Coming in here?” asked Don, and made a mental note to put one of his people on tracking down who had come here and why. “Yeah,” said Polin, stepping back and turning sideways to reveal the small structure in the center of the shallow valley below. First things first, thought Don. He went to the man in the blue uniform and said, “Taking a walk, having a cigarette when you smelled the body?” “Nah, I don’t smoke while I’m working, especially around the floor stripper I work with. No, I was working. Why? You with administration?” The man’s right eyelid twitched uncontrollably, opening and closing like he was forever winking at Don. “No. I’m certainly not with administration,” sniffed Don. “What did you find in there?” “What looks like a body, but I can’t be sure. I got the fuck out of there ‘cause I couldn’t take the smell and I had the feeling that . . .” The big man paused and looked at the ground. “You had a feeling what?” pressed Don, stepping forward so he was face to face with Teddy. “Like something was watching me!” yelled Teddy, his gaze shifting to the valley below. “What are you, stupid? You can’t feel it? Like something eating away at your insides. Maggots chewing away your heart! There’s something here . . . right now.” Teddy’s eyes darted about, searching the shadows beneath the trees. When

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 79 Don didn’t speak he said, “What kind of cop are you? If you don’t know what I mean, then . . .” Teddy staggered and almost fell. “Steady now. I know it must have been horrible to see, but was there anything else?” Don tried to master himself as his own nerves jumped, a tingle climbing up his spine. “Else?” said the man. Then he started to laugh, his loud echoing cries reverberating through the forest. “Else? Why don’t you go see for yourself?” The man sat on a large rock, pushing his hair away from his face and staring into the sky. “You got everything on our friend here?” asked Don of Polin, as he pointed at the janitor. “Yep. Been here since he flunked out as a student. Couldn’t handle the exam pressure. Now he cleans their toilets,” said Polin, with a little too much haughtiness for Don’s taste. That was another trait that separated Don from the masses. He didn’t believe his special authority gave him any special rights. In fact, he believed the opposite, and that with his power came immense responsibility. When Don got the slightest feeling that someone was abusing their law enforcement authority, he immediately lost respect for said official. “Oh, and you’re too good to clean toilets?” asked Don, but before Polin could answer, Don pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, hit a button, and then put it away. “I don’t like you,” said Don, getting in Polin’s face. “You don’t like cleaning shit, huh? Well how about this turd, it should keep you busy.” Don handed the police captain a list with multiple information requests, some real, some of the ball-busting variety. “I want everything by morning.” Don always carried a standard ball-busting information request list that he simply tweaked to fit the given situation. While the locals were running down his background information, they would be out of his way. As Don finished speaking, six men in gray jumpsuits came sprinting over the rise with assault rifles held before them. The

80 | Edward J. McFadden III men fanned out around Don, and he said, “Wait here until I’m done.” Then he turned and continued down into the center of the small valley. He heard murmurs as he left the group and plunged deeper into the thin forest, heading toward the corpse which lay in the strange structure below. The ground gave way fast, and from the valley’s floor, Don could see the elevation more clearly. The police stood about half way up the hill, milling around and watching his progress. He always performed best under pressure, and what provided more pressure than a bunch of cops watching your every move? Don felt like everyone watched his every move because he watched everyone around him that closely. His photographic memory recorded everything he saw, from the color of the sweater the check-out girl had worn at the fast food mart we’re he’d gotten coffee yesterday, to the number of glasses on James Sandower's fancy office bar. It was this attention to detail that made Don good at what he did. His integrity aside, without his gift of memory he would be lost. The tiny shack in the center of the valley floor appeared to have walls made of multi-colored cloth, and several frayed pieces of fabric twisted in the gentle breeze. The shack looked to be about six feet high and seven feet wide. The closer Don got to the structure the more his knees ached and his muscles twitched. He felt the urge to give the order to have the entire area bulldozed into the ground; the structure, the trees, the flowers, everything. He stopped walking, realizing there was no reason for his nerves to be jumping and his heart to be pounding through his chest. Then his gaze fell on the small shack that was only forty feet away from him now, and the hand of fear gripped him so intensely that he coughed, almost throwing up his lunch.

FOURTEEN

T

he strange shack sat in the middle of a clearing which was marked by a ring of stones and yellow hazard tape. Don’s eyes soaked everything in, and what he saw gave him no indication as to why he should be feeling like his heart was going to burst from his chest. Then he paused. What was that? he thought, his mind whispering with the breeze. His eyes darted left, and he thought he saw something slither into the shadows. The breeze stopped and Don thought he heard a voice in the distance, calling his name. He turned and looked back up the sloop to find Polin gazing at him. Don needed a drink. He felt the urge to turn and bolt, to leave it all behind—whatever it was. That need to know, to try and understand what lay beyond, was why he continued on. The tiny edifice was constructed of wooden posts and chicken wire, a rectangular box having been crudely formed with the posts and the chicken wire stapled to the frame, creating seethrough walls. In places, old bedspreads and comforters lay draped over the chicken wire, and in some spots the cloth had been pulled through the chicken wire, making it look like balloons hung from the structure’s ceiling. It looked like a children’s fort, but the thickness of the wooden posts and the clean lines of the chicken wire indicated that the structure had been built by an adult, a college student at the very least. From his current angle, Don couldn’t see an entrance, but as he got closer and began circling the clearing, he saw an open area lined in gold fabric. Don tried to step forward, but couldn’t. He

82 | Edward J. McFadden III felt like a fist had just clamped down on him, and his breathing became labored. Something had paralyzed him. He had seen things that would cause a normal man to be tortured every waking moment of his life, seen hundreds of dead, decomposing bodies. He'd seen tumors with legs. Don dropped to his knee and pulled his Glock 19 free of its holster. Screw the locals. I don’t give a shit what they see! Don swung his weapon around, trying to site whatever was making the whispering sound. Then he saw them—blue and gold shards of tile. They lay on the ground just inside the opening, and Don felt the urge to run. He holstered his gun and began making fists with his hands, pulling his legs together, and sucking on his lips. Then he began rubbing his hands together, trying to diffuse the energy of fear that ran through him. All sound seemed to die away, and Don could almost feel the eyes of the men standing on the hill boring into his back. His head swam, not used to being hesitant and afraid. Don looked around him, staring into the woods, looking for some sign that would help him make sense of the paralysis that held him fast. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took a step forward as he peeled back thin foliage. As he entered the structure, Don could see very clearly, and his nerves weren’t jumping as fast. Sunlight streamed through rents in the cloth, and there were large sections of chicken wire not covered at all. The cloth balloons hanging from the ceiling were a variety of sizes. In some places, the fabric had only been pulled a few inches through the hexagons of the chicken wire, but in other places, the cloth hung almost two feet below the chicken wire. Other than water stains and dirt, Don could see no signs of blood or other horrors seeping from them. The decomposed corpse lay in the center of the space, its rancid smell causing Don to gag again. The death-darkened skin clung to the victim’s clothes, which in places had almost melted

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 83 into the skin. The blue jeans had held up well, but the bright red T-shirt had almost melded with the victim’s torso. Long blonde hair fell about the skull covered in leathery skin, white teeth smiling toward the sky. Don’s mouth fell open, despite the stench, as he saw the blue and gold tile that lay atop the body. A golden auroch was painted on a blue tile, and it appeared to Don that it shimmered. Whispers jerked his head around, and he again saw the small pile of broken blue and gold tiles on the ground. With halting steps, Don gathered up the broken tiles, and examined them closely. There were six jagged pieces, an even number of blue and gold. Then he mustered all his remaining will and staggered forward, and pulled the tile from atop the corpse’s chest. The ringing in his ears stopped at once. He could hear the birds singing, and his nerves no longer jumped like he had eaten an entire bottle of caffeine pills. He stared at the tile for some time, the golden auroch looking at him as if asking a question. Don’s mind drifted, and as quickly as the fear had stricken him, it had released him. Don slipped the tile into his pocket, along with the broken shards, and the world suddenly felt much less heavy. Don was himself again, and instinct took over. He circled the body and saw two vertical scrapes in the dirt, one at each end of the body, almost as if a makeshift stretcher had been used to transport the body here. The victim’s arms were crossed, and the body was still somewhat intact, and Don thought perhaps the body had been rolled in a tarp or blanket, to be moved here. Don looked up, eyeing the cloth balloons made of blankets and quilts that hung before him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keys and flipped open a small pocket knife. He went to one of the bigger cloth balloons and slashed at its base. Human hair of all shades and lengths fell to the ground, and Don gasped, his heart pounding in his chest again. Using his foot, he rummaged through the pile of hair, looking for anything

84 | Edward J. McFadden III unusual. Don chuckled to himself. I’m looking for something unusual. Um, maybe like a sack full of human hair. Slowly Don went around and cut open each fabric balloon, even the small ones, and they all contained hair of some kind. Don counted the number of hair balloons: there had been six. Three big ones, two medium sized, and one small. The rational side of Don’s brain kicked in, and he reasoned that human hair was probably pretty easy to get. Hit the dumpster behind a hair salon and you’d have plenty of hair to mess with someone. Most likely, the hair here was from people who were alive and well and had nothing to do with the little odyssey Don found himself in. Then he frowned, a new idea crowding his already overtaxed mind. What if the hair was from the campus salon? Then if he tried to match DNA, he would come up with all Babylon names, assuming they were in one of the national DNA databases. Whoever was killing these people was smart, and smart people built intricate puzzles. The hair was most likely a piece of that puzzle, but how big a piece? That was what made good cops, those who understood the priority of clues: which were big puzzle pieces and which were small, backburner leads, like the stuff he gave the townies. Don continued to survey the scene, but could find nothing else of interest. He reached into his pocket, tapped a button on his phone, and in moments three of his men were scrambling down the hillside toward him with a portable quarantine pod and an emergency stretcher. Don smiled as he could see that his men no longer seemed to be suffering any unease, and Don reached into his jacket pocket and caressed the blue and gold tile. He would get the body to the lab, but he didn’t really expect to find anything different from the first two. The only thing that Don noticed was the body seemed even more decayed, and Don guessed the victim had been dead more than 24 hours, which would make it even harder to analyze.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 85 What was even more disturbing was the timing. Clearly, someone had wanted the body to be found, and had known it would only be a matter of days before someone noticed the rancid smell. The fact that the body could have been discovered days earlier, or days later, didn’t indicate precise planning, and that told Don this one was nothing more than a red herring. But a red herring with a purpose. The tile and broken pieces meant something, sure as rain, but what? The world had seemed to settle down as soon as he touched the golden auroch, and Don couldn’t help but think of Bilbo Baggins and how his ring wanted to be found so very badly. But rings as sentient beings, or ghosts in tiles, didn’t compute in Don’s mind. A chill wind stung Don’s face as he stared into the woods, searching the perimeter as best he could. He took a few steps into the forest toward the building in the distance. Why didn’t they park by that building? Looks closer than the road, Don asked himself. Then he remembered this was Babylon University, and the last thing they wanted was a zillion police lights spinning across campus. No, they want to keep this quiet, he thought, and smiled. That’s what he wanted, too. A few minutes of light walking up a narrow path, and Don stood at the rear of the arts building, its tall glass windows peering outward on the thick forest. The stench of the body was clearly noticeable on the breeze, and Don was certain it could be detected in the center of campus if the wind blew just right. So whoever had moved the body had known it would only be a matter of days before the body was discovered. Then Don had another thought: perhaps what he had found in the woods was an art project of some kind. Don remembered when he had been in school—what seemed like an age ago—the art students would construct some pretty funky sculptures. Maybe the killer had simply found the place and decided it was the perfect place to dispose of a body.

86 | Edward J. McFadden III But why now? The cogs of Don’s brain twisted and turned, his eyes narrowing to a squint. The other victims had been left where they died, Brath and Sandower decomposing to dust in the same place they had fallen. Not this one, however. Jane Doe had been killed elsewhere, wrapped up, and transported to this site, and atop the body was an artifact that made the site feel like the gateway to hell. For some reason, this victim needed to be moved, and Don made a mental note to figure out why, then turned and headed back toward his men. It would not be as easy to ID this body as the first two. Brath had had his wallet on him, as had Sandower, plus Sandower had been in his private office. This poor thing, thought Don, as he watched his men carry the gurney with the quarantine pod on it up the hill. The campus would have to be surveyed, questioned, and the location of each student, faculty member, and staff member would have to be verified. A description would have to be circulated, and perhaps her identity could be found. All that would take time, and time was a luxury he didn’t have. He rose, turned from the shack, and headed back up the incline toward the group of police. His men had left with the corpse, and it was only the townie policemen left when he came upon them. “Weird shit,” said Don, as he arrived before the group. “Move the location of all Babylon University students, faculty and staff to the top of your to-do list—I need to know if someone is missing that meets Jane Doe’s description. The federal government has taken possession of the body, but we'd like your assistance here on campus as we move forward.” Lieutenant Polin nodded, seemingly much more confident than before, and Don said, “I’m going to need backup, help dealing with the locals here on campus while I conduct my investigation.” Don paused for effect, and then said, “We have a killer loose on this campus. That I believe to be fact. This killer is utilizing a weapon of immense power and has the potential to be

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 87 a massive killer. Keep your eyes open, and your mouths shut. All information of any note goes through me. “If I learn of anyone leaking information to the press . . . anything at all . . . you will lose your job and you’ll be weaving baskets in Mexico before your vocal cords stop vibrating. Any questions? Good,” said Don, not giving anyone a chance to speak. “Get going on your list,” he finished, and headed back toward the road. As Don made his way back to his car through the townie vehicles, he thought of Frost. Perhaps he would let the man look at the body after he questioned him, to see how he reacted. Don knew Frost was going to be a tough nut to crack, and that meant he needed a bigger hammer.

FIFTEEN

D

on paused in the lobby of the biology building, staring at the metal door that led down to Frost’s lab. There had been extensive information about Frost and his lair in the case file Washington had thrown together, but he had yet to give it more that a cursory once over. Frost handled real nasties, and Don knew he wasn’t going to be able to surprise him in his lab, as much as he would like to. Instead, Don knew he would be photographed starting the moment he went through that metal door, if he wasn’t already on camera. So he decided on a full frontal attack and rushed forward, almost at a jog. He entered the fire stairs, and skipped steps as he dove deeper into the bowels of Babylon University. When he reached the bottom landing, he saw a door with a light above it and a security camera in a corner. Don reached up and stuffed a paper napkin in the lens of the camera, and then he pulled free his universal access card and placed it in front of the proxy reader. Seconds ticked by; Don waited. Then the light atop the proxy reader turned from red to green, and the magnetic lock released. Don moved swiftly down a long hall, the fluorescent light humming and buzzing overhead. Before he came to the end of the hall, he heard the buzz of an electronic lock, and Cam and Frost came out to greet him. They had been expecting him, and despite Don’s attempt at speed, they had seen him coming a mile away, as he had known they would. “Agent Oberbier, how did you get through that door?” demanded Frost, his cheeks red, eyes blazing. “I know everyone

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 89 who has a code key for that door, and you are certainly not among them.” Don went past Frost and pulled on the handle of the door Frost had just come through. It held fast. Don said, “Open this before I get angry.” Frost looked defiant and made no move to brandish his ID, but like a pressure valve atop a boiler, Cam knew just how much steam to release. He stepped forward and disengaged the magnetic lock. Frost cursed under his breath and said, “We’ll talk in Cam’s office.” But Don didn’t want to let it go, didn’t like the way Frost looked at him, like he was a grad student whose life he was about to destroy. Don respected smart people, he really did, and he fully understood that he wasn’t capable of doing the hard hours of endless work required to be a scientist of any kind. Yet Frost’s aloofness, the disdain for anyone who didn’t understand the difference between the Cambrian and Permian periods, made Don angry, and when he got angry, he got nasty. “I’ll be expecting a tour of the entire lab. All of it. Every closet and secure area. You will turn over a list of all samples on site, all samples on the way, and of all samples that have been present in the lab over the last calendar year. You’ll provide a list of all persons with access currently, and those who have had access in the last calendar year. I’ll want to see your NIH and NSF log books, and all grant correspondence from the last four years.” Don paused, looking hard at Frost. “Fuck with me, and I’ll take control of your lab and have you thrown out on the street. That what you want? Then I’ll blackball you with the NIH and NSF. You won’t be able to get funding to dissect a frog.” “We’ll start,” said Frost, mastering his anger. “We’ll start in Cam’s office. Talk a bit. I need to learn who you think you are, and why you feel you have the right to treat me like some kind of criminal. There are laws against you storming in here like Hitler

90 | Edward J. McFadden III and taking my research. I’ll go on every TV station in the world. Name names. Your name. So don’t try to act like God with me; I'm a heathen and therefore immune.” The two men locked eyes, and it was Cam who broke the stalemate again. “At least I feel safe with you two,” he said, leading the way toward his office at the rear of the graduate wing. They slipped through the empty cubicles, all Frost’s minions having been sent away. The lab was quiet, and that made Frost and Cam feel uneasy. Usually, the graduate wing was a loud roar that reverberated through the entire complex, indicating life. The lab was cold now, like an old house with no children for the first time. “So what are you working on now?” asked Don as he dropped onto Cam’s couch. Frost sat behind Cam’s desk, and Cam turned a guest chair 90 degrees to sit between the two men, facing neither. He felt like the umpire of a tennis match. “I recently discovered a biological pathogen of such strength that we’re worried we won’t be able to find a way to kill it,” said Frost. He shook his head the way he did when he was gladhanding at fundraisers. “You know that's what we do, right? Try to kill them?” “Why do you find them in the first place? If this disease you found was buried in time, why did you have to dig it up?” asked Don, knowing the answer. “To be prepared,” answered Frost with contempt. “And to know, to understand what killed one of the first civilizations on Earth.” “And for whose glory is that? Theirs?” asked Don. “Mine,” said Frost. “Look. I know you think my disease is killing people. Go ahead and take samples. Test your theory, but I tell you this: there is no way samples were taken from this lab. Every nasty is strictly accounted for and kept under camera surveillance in fume hoods in a level four security zone. Four

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 91 eight digit code keys, finger print and retina scans—way more than what the funding agencies require. There is no way even one of my trusted graduate students could have taken a sample, let alone infected someone with it.” “Do you think James Sandower would concur?” asked Don, trying to read the doctor’s face. “An unfortunate incident,” said Frost. “He was a good man, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.” That admission startled Cam, and he coughed, suppressing his surprise. Frost never complimented anyone, especially when it came to his work. Cam had slaved for the man for more than five years and had yet to get a thank you, not even one. Don was watching Cam closely, a thin smile cutting across his pale face. “Yeah, he dies of your disease hours after you meet with him. Hmm, I think that’s what they call a clue,” Don mocked, as he turned his attention back to Frost, but the scientist wasn’t shaken. “Look, I’ll show you all six lab modules; you can see the graduate wing from here. All that’s left is the mechanical room, some storage, and my office and private lab. I will show you all of them.” “Yes, you will,” said Don, as he fingered the phone in his jacket pocket, calling in two of his men. They would take samples from Frost’s lab. “You saw Sandower right before he died, and my guess is that the pathogen in your top secret ultra secure lab is what killed him. You don’t think that puts you knee deep in the poo?” “Yeah, you’re a smart cop. I wanted James Sandower dead. One of the university’s biggest donors. A personal supporter of mine. The man who funds my digs. He’s the guy I wanted out of the way,” snapped Frost. “Besides, he died hours after I saw him, didn’t he? The Black Death of Babylon attacks its host immediately, but it can only survive a few moments airborne. It

92 | Edward J. McFadden III needs to be kept warm, just like all the classic plagues of old. Flees, rats, mosquitoes. They might infect him, but there’s no way I know of that I could have infected him. I wear a bio suit at all times, and the pathogens are under a low pressure fume hood that’s filtered and chemically treated.” “But you did say you can’t kill this one,” pushed Don. “Except to expose it to air. Once in the blood, there is no stopping it. Sample rats got eaten by the disease so fast that we had to slow down the replay of the film to take notes,” said Frost. “Besides, Sandower was an alumnus, one of us.” Cam's mouth dropped open when the word alumnus skidded across his brain, and he spoke without thinking, the words coming from his lips as if he were possessed by a witch. “You should talk to Gwen. Brath and Sandower are both listed in the new alumni directory as deceased. Problem is, the thing went to the printer weeks ago.” Cam stopped short, and saw Gwen’s crying face in his mind’s eye. She would hate him now, surely, and probably never even speak to him again. But she hadn’t killed anyone, and the police would figure out how the directory got modified and clear her name. He had done her a favor. “Are you kidding me,” said Don, a smile painted across his face. “You’re telling me William Brath and James Sandower were listed as deceased in 2006 before they were deceased?” “You need to speak with Gwen,” said his mouth. Pack your shit and get the hell out town before she can find you, said his mind. Two of Don’s men entered Cam’s office, and Frost’s eyes grew wide. Whatever access gizmo they had also read his software and let Don’s men pass through the electronic locks without the buzzer going off. If they could do it, so could someone else. “How the hell did they get in here?” shouted Frost. “Take them to the samples. I trust you know the exact strain I mean,” said Don, dangling his baited hook in front of the scientist’s mouth.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 93 “No, actually you never told me. I assume it’s my chimera of Yersinia pestis that interests you. Everything else I have is readily available at any P3 laboratory or above,” answered Frost, feeling he had bested Don. “You show my guys the samples while Cam takes me to Gwen,” said Don, as he turned to Cam. “No, no I can’t do that. In fact, you can’t tell her I told you about the directory,” panicked Cam. “Too late for that, sport. In case you hadn’t noticed, people are dropping like flies in a cloud of Raid,” antagonized Don, a smile sliding across his face. Cam had noticed, and it made him feel as though his entire world was crumbling around him.

SIXTEEN

D

on gave orders for one of his men to remain with Frost once all of his samples had been confiscated and the lab secured. Don hadn’t felt the need to inform the doctor that he intended to collect every sample he had, then not allow him to leave his lab until they could continue their conversation. Don suspected that Frost was in this mess up to his eyeballs, but he couldn’t help but respect the man for the brashness he had shown while dealing with Don. The government man was so used to people hanging on his every word and being fearful of his very presence. Yet Frost wasn’t intimidated by Don at all. The man had acted as though Don were some local threatening to write him a speeding ticket. Cam and Don made their way from the lab, the final security lock buzzing as Cam flashed his ID card. Don trailed a step behind, and as they headed up the stairs toward the lobby of the biology building, he asked, “How do you put up with that blowhard?” Both men seemed to visibly relax once they had made their way to the surface, sunlight streaming through the large glass windows that made up the building’s modern facade. They felt more at home with the buzzing of people echoing through the lobby and light exposing every crack. Leaving Frost’s lab was escaping the bat cave, and as they exited into the midday sun, Cam covered his eyes, the light sending a sharp pain across his forehead.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 95 “That’s something to see,” said Don, as he and Cam made their way across the quad. “The Ishtar Gate. Yes, there are decorative tiles from the original gate at the base,” said Cam, reciting part of his freshman tour speech. “I need to ask something of you,” said Cam, and Don looked hard at the boy. “You can’t mess with her mind the way you do with Frost. Ask your questions, let her answer. No Gollum questions,” finished Cam, referring to the riddles and trick questions the creature had imposed on Bilbo Baggins. “Kid, I like you. You’re confident, you seem smart. But shut the fuck up. To say you’re poking the tiger would be a huge understatement. You can’t ask shit of me. Nothing,” said Don, daring the young man to speak, and to Don’s surprise, he did. “I gave you this. Me. You owe me. Don’t mess with her, or things will get nasty, and I don’t give a shit if I end up in jail. Plus, I know you need me too much right now to lock me away.” “Need you? Man, those are some stones,” said Don, as a thin smile spread across his face. “I know everything and everyone in this place, top to bottom,” said Cam confidently. “But you could be the killer? Because of your position at the university, you’re one of the top suspects, along with all your graduate student slaves,” Don shot back, and the words stung Cam. How could this federal hack know about his slaves already? He just got here. “Whatever is killing people didn’t come from our lab. I can guarantee that,” said Cam. “Well, golly gee, let’s just shut the whole thing down then,” mocked Don, as he passed through the replica of the Ishtar Gate. The sun glinted off the blue and gold tiles, and Don slowed, and then stopped, throngs of students flowing around him like the cold water of a stream coursing past a stone. Don felt strangely like he had earlier in the day, when he had stood on that hilltop in

96 | Edward J. McFadden III the woods, overlooking the unusual shack where the body had been. His blood felt cold, his head pounded with sharp pain, and anxiety made his hands shake. It was then that Cam noticed that there were three tiles missing from the base of the Ishtar Gate—actual Ishtar Gate artifacts. Cam immediately called security, and he could hear the sound of sirens before he hung up the phone. “Why would someone do this? Why?” he shouted. Don stared at the gray concrete scar that marred the inside of the gate. Where there had been three rows of actual Ishtar Gate tile, there were now only two. One of the rows had been gouged out and three tiles taken. He mentally calculated: he had one full tile with an Auroch on it and two broken base tiles. Don almost spoke, told Cam about what he had in his pocket, but something held him back, that little voice in his head that always advised him on important matters and was rarely wrong. He fingered the glazed tile in his pocket, and his mind began to drift away. Cam was watching him now, as Babylon Security arrived and started putting up caution tape and sealing off the Ishtar Gate. Cam had seen this happen before, when people went through the gate for the first time. There was something awe inspiring about the history of the structure, even in replica form, that literally took one’s breath away. Don started walking; slowly putting one foot in front of the other, until he exited the gate, and a cool breeze and the blue sky lessened his unease like a deep draft of wine after you’ve crossed the desert. “I can’t believe what I’ve seen,” said Cam, dejectedly. “Those tiles were the university’s greatest treasure. I guess in today’s day and age they should have been safeguarded better.” “I wouldn’t sweat it,” said Don. “There’s probably security camera footage.”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 97 “Don’t sweat it! President Dilworth is going to piss himself. I’m not trying to be funny. He will piss himself at the thought of having to inform the alumni and faculty.” “Like I said, don’t sweat it. I think we’ll probably find them,” said Don. To himself he said, Only if I have as much strength as Bilbo Baggins did. He gently rubbed the shards of tile in his pocket. “You were saying before we were interrupted,” said Cam, poking the tiger yet again. Don chuckled, and said, “Like I said, kid, I like you. I won’t mess with your girl, and I’ll tell her you merely brought me to her. I won’t let on who told me. That is, unless you’ve changed your mind and want to be honest with her?” Cam knew whatever decision he made would be bad for him. “Do what you have to do. I want to find the killer, just—” Don interrupted Cam, and said, “Or killers, as in more than one.” That thought brought silence, and as Cam pulled open the glass doors leading into the admin building, he knew this wasn’t going to go well, not well at all. ***** Cam walked past the front desk, Don in tow, and he didn’t even acknowledge Mia. As he approached Gwen’s open door, he saw several people in the office, watching them. It wasn’t every day there was a stranger in their midst. Don stared them all down, enjoying each and every contest. “Gwen,” said Cam, as he entered her office. The young blonde looked up from her computer screen, and her brow furrowed as she saw Don trail into the room behind him. Cam cleaned off both guest chairs, piling proofs and other correspondence on the floor next to her desk. “This is Agent Oberbier. He needs to talk to you about the directory.”

98 | Edward J. McFadden III Gwen’s eyes flashed, and she could feel her face getting red. Cam looked away, and Gwen shifted her venomous stare to Don, who appeared immune. “What about it? The mistakes?” “Yeah, what else? I have three bodies and I find out two of them are prematurely listed as deceased in the alumni directory. You ever think that might be relevant?” said Don, his voice a notch below a yell. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. William Brath was an error, and I’m trying to figure out how that happened,” snapped Gwen, her eyes shifting back to Cam, who still stared at the floor. “And Sandower? What about him?” “An error, yes, but he brought it to my attention and agreed not to tell anyone. Apparently, he lied to me. What else is new?” she mocked, a tear slipping down her creamy white, freckled face. Her mascara began to run, and Don produced a white handkerchief from somewhere within the jacket that appeared to have endless pockets. Don considered for a moment. Should I tell her Cam gave her up? Or is the boy right? I do need him if I want to wrap this whole thing up with a nice bow. Say nothing, let her believe what she wants. “Look,” he said. “No one is trying to screw you. Give me a copy of the directory, your notes, and I’ll call it even for now.” Gwen looked up, and so did Cam. “Okay. The list had nineteen names on it, the list of people listed as 2006 deceased, that is. Sandower was an alumnus, but Brath wasn’t. He shouldn’t have even been listed in the directory. There’s no way I made that mistake.” “So you think someone deliberately changed the directory?” asked Don. Gwen didn’t answer at once, and silence filled the office. Birds chirped outside, and somewhere two people were laughing, the sound billowing through the offices and cubicles. To Cam, it seemed like the temperature fell ten degrees, and he waited for

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 99 Gwen to freak out, start yelling at Don, telling him she wasn’t stupid, she knew everyone would blame her. Did she look stupid? But Gwen’s response surprised him. “I really see no other way it could have happened,” said Gwen, after several long moments. “There are six names that appear in the printed directory that aren’t in my final PDF file. I asked the staff member who deals with the printer to send me her final version of the print PDF. Then I’ll compare my file with hers, and if they’re the same, we’ll know the file was changed after it left campus. If they’re different . . .” Gwen’s voice trailed off because she didn’t know what would happen then. “When is that file coming?” asked Don. “Today.” “Have you ever been in Dr. Frost’s lab, or in Cam’s office?” probed Don. “Today,” she answered again. “I’ve been there many times.” “Okay, so you can give me a list of the six names not listed in your file, but which are in the directory, and you’ll let me know what you find when you’re done with your file comparison,” said Don. It was a statement of fact, not a question. Gwen nodded. “How will I get in touch with you?” Gwen asked eagerly. She wasn’t going to jail, and the agent had said nothing about telling her boss, and now she was assisting in a federal investigation. That will come in handy when and if I need to cover my ass, thought Gwen, and her smile widened. “Just call your boyfriend here. He’s my Robin for the foreseeable future,” answered Don, jerking his thumb toward Cam as he rose from the guest chair. “Stay on campus until you hear from me. Don’t go home tonight. If need be, I’ll have you set up in a dorm room.” Don had no idea where this girl fit in, but she was Cam’s ex-girlfriend, and she had been in the lab, and that made her a suspect.

100 | Edward J. McFadden III “Oh, just one last thing,” said Don, hanging on the doorframe. “Where were you two days ago, Monday the sixth? Cam here says you were off from work?” pushed Don. Gwen’s stomach began to stir, and her neck began to ache. “Just a few days off at home, relaxing, reading, and drinking wine. Nothing special,” said Gwen finally, but there was something in her voice that made Don think she was lying. Don’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the Animals singing, “We gotta get out of this place . . .” “Yeah,” barked Don into his phone, and Gwen and Cam watched the agent bite his lip, then suck on his tongue. When he hung up the phone he looked pale, tired, and thin. “We’ve got number four,” he said, and turned and bolted from Gwen’s office. Cam stood still for a moment, Gwen and he locked eye to eye. Then he looked away and followed after Don.

SEVENTEEN

“W

here is the Campesi Lecture Center?” asked Don of Cam as he waited for the other man to push through the glass doors of the administration building. “Next to the theatre; it’s right off the quad,” he answered, keeping pace with Don as he took off in his walk-jog. Things were starting to move fast, and Don knew that the time had come to call in the big dogs. But first he would understand the situation—he refused to look like a fool. The big dogs would arrive and lock things down tighter then a prison under a full moon, then expect Don to debrief them on everything under the sun. He would have to get his story straight in his mind, all of it, from the time he arrived at Boston City until now. Each detail would be scrutinized, every decision questioned. Don breathed in deep as he walked, his lack of sleep starting to creep up on him and make him edgy. His feet hurt, he was hungry, and he hadn’t had more than an hour’s sleep in two days. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the sleep from his body. He looked at Cam, who watched him closely. “We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the—” Don answered his phone: “Oberbier.” A pause, then, “You have to be kidding me. You’re one hundred percent certain.” Don rolled his eyes, “Yeah, I know, ninety-nine-point-five percent. Thanks. Now try mixing them together.” There was a long pause as Don shook his head. “That many, huh? I was never good at math. Well, use the DNA sequence and have the computer do the mixing, see what it comes up with when compared to our Black

102 | Edward J. McFadden III Death sample. Yep.” Don frowned as his listened. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Kids playing. Yeah, okay.” Don hung up his phone and looked at Cam. “You were right. Our killer doesn’t appear to have come from your lab.” What Don didn’t tell Cam was that his instincts had proven right yet again. The structure where he had found victim number three was a senior art project, and his men had signed statements from four students admitting to not only building the structure, but to rummaging through the campus hair salon’s garbage for human hair. “You should let Dr. Frost take a look at this one. He’s seen some crazy stuff, and he might be able to help you, give you some information you’re not aware of,” said Cam, passing to the right of the Ishtar Gate and heading down a wide concrete path that led to the lecture hall. The gate was still closed to pedestrian traffic and would remain closed until the missing tiles had been located or some repair plan formulated that everyone could agree on. Don figured the gate would be closed for long time. “Do you trust him? You didn’t know about the Black Death find, did you? He lied to you, threw your trust in the trash,” said Don. “Any idea why?” “I’m just a foot soldier, Agent Oberbier. He doesn’t tell me most things, and what he did tell me about the exploration of the chamber where he found the disease was real hush-hush, top secret, military clearance, and all that. Only reason he even got to go was because of Sandower,” said Cam. He was starting to feel on edge as well. Ever since Don had arrived on campus, he’d felt the extra tension that followed them wherever they went. Don was an imposing figure, despite his old blue suit and lily white face. “And now he’s dead. You must have noticed something. Didn’t he ask for his equipment and tools to be sent to the excavation site?” pushed Don.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 103 “Not really. He has a full complement of gear always at the ready at the Babylon site. Plus, he travels a lot, and there are times I don’t know where he is for weeks on end, especially when school isn’t in session. Hey,” said Cam, stopping dead in his tracks as a new thought edged its way into his brain. “You need to check another lab. The sample you’re after might be in Dr. Rhime’s lab. He’s the one who reconstituted the DNA Dr. Frost found.” “Reconstitute DNA?” said Don. Suddenly, Don felt the same as when he had taken introduction to chemistry in his first year of college. A wizard he was not meant to be, having no aptitude for mixing potions or understanding reactions he could not see. But he respected the science, and that’s what made him feel inferior. “Yeah, Dr. Frost found DNA in a tooth in the undiscovered tomb in Babylon. He said the DNA proves plague killed one of the first civilizations on Earth,” said Cam. “So that’s a big deal?” “Kind of, if you care about the beginning of the world and the meaning of life. According to Frost, this pathogen is extremely strong,” added Cam. “You’re about to see how strong,” said Don, as he pulled open the door to the lecture center. “Take me to the building manager’s office.” Cam led Don to a set of stairs that went up to a small office suite that housed the building’s technology backbone and administrative offices. Three of Don’s men stood by a closed wooden door, and two Babylon University security guards stood with their backs to the wall. One of Don’s people—a skinny woman with long black hair—stepped forward, and said, “Mr. Herbert Gagine, the building manager. His secretary went into his office when she heard him gasping for air. The body’s decomposing fast.”

104 | Edward J. McFadden III Don and Cam followed the woman into the building manager’s office, and what Cam saw there would forever stay etched in his mind. Mr. Gagine’s body looked like it was covered in black maggots, his black and red skin rippling and writhing. Blood thinned by water dripped in thick rivulets down the sides of his body, and Don thought the corpse looked like it had just been covered in acid. Then the skin melted away, and the smell began to creep across the room like a fog. Don gagged, the man’s remaining eye decomposing with a pop! Someone behind Don retched, and he heard liquid lunch hit the floor. Cam stood transfixed, the horror before him burning the synapses of his brain. Light streamed through a window, which Cam opened, letting in some fresh air. No one spoke, the gentle sound of flesh decaying filling everyone’s mind. Finally, Don looked away, blood breaking through the dark black patches all about the corpse. Then the body began to cave in on itself, pockets of muscle and fat disappearing within seconds. Cam turned away and covered his mouth with his hand as one of Don’s men filled the doorway. “We gotta get out this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do. We gotta get—” Don switched his phone to vibrate. Reports were coming in steadily now, on data collected from each crime scene and about the chimera itself. As had been suspected, the new life form was a derivative of Yersinia pestis, Black Plaque, Red Death. They had also learned that if kept warm the virus could sustain itself for long periods of time. Once in water or flesh, the virus grew with amazing speed and strength, destroying its host within a matter of minutes. Don’s gaze shifted back to the decomposing body that had now moved into its covered-in-brown-leather stage. Drips of water and blood seeped into the thin carpet, the man’s designer dress shirt disintegrating into the blood and bone before their very eyes.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 105 And now they had it on film. Don’s video wiz, Jamie, had filmed the gruesome scene they were witnessing, and if the big dogs even thought of questioning Don when he called them in, he would simply show them that video, and they’d come running so fast there’d be a vapor trail from Quantico to Babylon University. Don turned to his agent with the long black hair and asked, “Anything unusual before this started?” “Nothing,” said the thin, pale woman. She wore a dark blue jumpsuit and no jewelry. “His assistant said he went to lunch, came back, and went into his office. Then, about an hour later, she heard him gagging and called in an emergency. By the time we got here, all of seven minutes later, the body was half rotten, blood seeping from everywhere. I cleared the room, and nothing has been touched.” Don nodded, and she left the room. Cam stood off to one side, his head bowed, his arms across his face, covering his nose. The office looked to be ordered chaos. Large, neat piles filled every horizontal surface, and two twenty-inch flat screen LCD computer monitors sat amid stacks of paper, books, and various small, broken artifacts, fossils, and ancient stones. Bookshelves lined one wall, and there was a small video monitor behind the desk that displayed images from the building’s twelve security cameras. There were two guest chairs, both stacked high with unopened packages and mail, and on a peg on the back of the door, two sport coats hung; one was the light gray of summer, the other a dark brown of winter. Don went around the desk to look at the monitors. One showed a program with various scales shown in multiple colors: this was the building’s climate system software. Via electronic sensor points throughout the system, the software monitored and maintained desired airflow and temperature throughout the lecture center, and adjusted automatically based on the number of people in each hall and the duration of the lecture.

106 | Edward J. McFadden III The other screen revealed an unorganized series of icons leading to the Internet, intranet, e-mail, and other work tools. Don saw that a large window displayed Herb’s e-mail. ***** TO: Herb Gagine FROM: Roland Doshin SUBJECT: You’re Screwed I was just reading through the Alumni Directory and I see you’re dead. Shoot, when did that happen? You forget to invite me to the funeral? ***** Another open window displayed the building’s budget on a colorful spreadsheet. There was nothing unusual on the desk: piles of pens and pencils, articles, computer printouts, an empty coffee mug. Don called in the slender, black-haired woman. “Dust and document everything. Ship everything to the lab along with the body. Set up a plan F death release, and notify his family.” Cam said, “You should brief the university president soon. Let him get a warning out or something.” “Warning? Warning about what? That somehow, some way, you might get infected with a super disease that will eat you alive in the matter of minutes?” Don’s rant was over. “No, the big dogs can do that when they get here. I need to speak with Frost,” finished Don, as he headed for the door. “Dr. Frost won’t grieve over this one,” muttered Cam, as he trailed after Don. “Come again?” said Don. “Hmm?” “You said Dr. Frost won’t grieve over this one. What do you mean?” asked Don.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 107 “Dr. Frost and Mr. Gagine used to argue non-stop. That’s why Mr. Gagine got transferred to this building,” answered Cam. “What could they possibly have fought about?” “Herb didn’t take the Doc’s shit. He’d go back at him, shut him down in front of people. Frost doesn’t like looking bad,” finished Cam. But there was more to this, and Don started seeing tiny threads connect the dots. Frost was in his lab; no way he could’ve have been here. Plus, it wasn’t his virus anyway. Don’s head ached as he contemplated what needed to be done. It was time for the big dogs, but first he would get some answers from Frost, or he’d lock him up.

EIGHTEEN

G

wen was still pale as a ghost when Don came charging back through her door. “Is Herbert Gagine listed as deceased?” shouted Don. Gwen didn’t move, her eyes seeing something Don couldn’t see. Cam entered Gwen’s office and went to her, moving behind her desk and kneeling next to her. “Listen, Gwen, this is getting crazy. Was Mr. Gagine on the list?” asked Cam in a gentle tone. Gwen nodded, and the air seemed to rush from the room. Cam stood and looked at Don. The agent’s eyes looked haunted and unsure, and that make Cam nervous. Guys like Agent Oberbier always knew what to do. “Who else? There were six who shouldn’t have been there. Who are they?” When Gwen didn’t answer, Don came around her desk and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Who are the others?” Don shook the blonde gently, until she seemed to come back from wherever she had been mentally hiding. She looked at Cam as if asking a question, then she began to cry, and through the sobs she said, “Brath, Sandower, Dytmer, Te Znerol, Gagine, and Tolbert.” “Dr. Tolbert? Frost’s collaborator? The one who is supposed to speak here Friday?” spouted Cam. “The very one,” answered Gwen, the haze lifting from around her head. Her eyes didn’t look as glazed, and she was starting to move in her chair. “That leaves Dytmer and Te Znerol. Not exactly everyday surnames. Do you know any of them?” asked Don of Cam.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 109 But Cam didn’t hear him. He was staring at Gwen; the deep pools of her eyes pulling him in, making him feel sorry for her. She couldn’t look him in the eye, and that made Cam nervous— there was something she wasn't telling him. Gwen’s supervisor, Peggy Kendal, entered the office, looked around, and said, “Can I help you gentlemen?” “Yes, I’ m sorry. Gwen needs to come with me for a bit,” said Don, showing Peggy his Federal ID. “Department of the Interior?” asked Peggy, her eyes surveying Gwen and Cam. “We have deadlines. Perhaps President Dilworth’s Office could help you?” “I’ll get up there. But right now I need Gwen to come with me.” Don pocketed his ID and left Gwen’s office. “Let’s go, Gwen,” said Cam, looking at Peggy. “She’ll be right back. Trust me.” When the woman started to speak, he added, “Let it go, Peggy.” Peggy Kendal had met all kinds at Babylon University, but she knew Cam’s type well. They came to Babylon from little towns, small high schools, all across the USA. They came looking for something they couldn’t quite define, a feeling that gnawed at them in a way that could lead to no other place. So she knew when it was time to let someone who knew better take control of the situation. “He’s a federal agent,” said Peggy, looking at Cam with contempt. Gwen rose, and they left her office, following Don past the front desk and down the hall to the main staircase—Don didn’t have time to wait for an elevator. In the next fifteen minutes Don wanted to accomplish two things: he needed to confiscate all Frost’s collaborator’s samples, and he needed to finish questioning Frost. When he called in the big dogs, he wouldn’t be able to talk to any of the principals alone, so the information he gathered now would have to last him. Perhaps all the way to the end.

110 | Edward J. McFadden III The end. There were six names listed as deceased prematurely, and four of them were already dead—assuming the girl he had examined a scant two hours prior had been one of those listed. They had found two bodies in the last three hours, and Don was about to pull the wool caps over everybody’s eyes, but he couldn’t let them know that just yet. Once the campus was shut down, the killer would most likely settle in for a long wait. But the list Gwen had read had given Don an idea. An idea based on the fact that smart people were also stubborn. Two of Don’s men were suddenly walking with them, appearing from the shadows like wraiths. Cam jumped when he noticed the two men dressed in gray jumpsuits walking next to, and one step behind, Don. “Cam, this is Agent Duiror and Agent Harris. Take them to Dr. Rhime’s lab so they can confiscate the samples. Once you’re done there, come find me in Frost’s lab,” said Don, looking to Cam for assurance that the young man could handle the task. Cam nodded, peeling off down a path toward the Ancient Studies building. ***** Frost sat in his high-backed chair, staring at a large map of the Middle East when Don pushed into his private space, sitting down before his desk. “You going to tell me what the hell is going on? You don’t have a super bug in your lab. Nothing tested beyond known organisms. You’re lying. What? With your buddy Tolbert coming to campus, you thought you had to try to get center stage somehow? If I find out you were behind this, I’ll see to it that you rot in jail,” spat Don, his eyes never leaving Frost’s. “What could I possibly have to do with this? I’m a researcher, nothing more,” said Frost, his voice so calm it caused a sharp pain to rocket through Don’s neck.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 111 “Brath handled the money around here for a long time. I’d guess you two had your moments. And Sandower, your big benefactor. I’ve been around long enough to know that relationships can go to shit in moments. Then there’s the anagram,” said Don. Frost looked surprised for an instant, then said, “I fail to see your point.” “Really? Te Znerol, Lorenz backward. Cam. What did he do except follow your every goddamned order? And Herb Gagine, the man who wouldn’t take your shit and had the gall to challenge you in front of your graduate students. Sounds like Frost’s little revenge to me,” said Don. “I’m not positive what the ‘Te’ before Znerol means—but it’s probably just a distraction so the anagram isn’t so obvious. Wouldn’t want anyone figuring it out before you were ready.” Frost laughed, he eyes never leaving Don. “Where did Brath die? Boston? I haven’t been to Beantown in ages. He was an ass. You’re very fuckin’ astute, but I would never kill him. I’ve never killed anyone. Sandower . . .” Frost paused, looking at the ceiling. “James was my friend. Did we disagree the last time we spoke? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.” Don made a mental note of the disagreement between Sandower and Frost. “I have spent my entire life pursuing truth. The truth of history, what made this Earth what it was long before you or I were a gleam in our fathers’ eyes. We are a single tick of a clock that has been keeping time for millennia.” Frost paused and looked hard at Don. “Perhaps what is happening was meant to be. Maybe these people should die.” Frost’s voice revealed no sympathy, and in that moment, Don was ninety percent sure the doctor was front and center in the entire mess. “I’m not surprised,” said Don. “God complex is common with you of the superior race.”

112 | Edward J. McFadden III “Not a god complex. Facts. We merely extrapolate facts, not ancient myth, or the Bible, which is no more than the world’s oldest volume of fiction.” Frost was testing Don. If he was a devout Christian, what Frost had just said would have sent him into a rage. Religion was the scientists’ best weapon, and they never failed to use it when they were backed into a corner. They believed everything could be broken down into two possibilities: you either believed in faith, or science. You couldn’t believe in both; they were a conundrum, a paradox. Truth was, Don had heard many arguments and seen many things that made him believe there was a god, and that sometimes that god got pissed, or bored, or—heaven forbid—horny. Did this god believe in the Bible? Was this god a being as humans perceived beings? These were the questions that twisted Don’s noodle, but the more he saw, the more he believed everything wasn’t random. There was order, and that order was controlled by something. “What do you want of me?” asked Frost. “We gotta get out of this place, if—” Don ignored him as he pulled his phone free and answered it. The lab had uncovered something from Sandower's body. While searching the chest cavity, the attending MD had heard a loud plop, and then the clang of metal landing on concrete, like a marble bouncing on the street. A small metal pill had fallen through Sandower's leathery skin, hitting the floor and scaring Dr. Andrews out of his socks. “The device is no bigger than a large pill. It looks like it’s made of titanium, and there are no discernible openings or markings that I can see,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Could it be what killed the victim?” asked Don, and he could feel Frost watching him. Ever cognizant of those around him, Don knew he needed to be careful about what he said around Frost. He also knew he could spread propaganda as well as facts, and that

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 113 this was the perfect opportunity to do so. Yet something held him back, an unease that made him want to trust Frost because of the man’s ability to stand up to him. Don shook his head, ashamed of his moral compass. That moral compass, however, was usually right, and it made Don nervous to know that his instincts were clearly wrong. “Unknown. Alone, no. But let me see if it’s a carrier,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Then Don understood. “This thing could . . .” Release the disease in a controlled, timed way, he finished mentally. There were numerous ways to deliver a device that small, but few who could construct it. Don turned from Frost, the man’s steady gaze beginning to unnerve him. What are the odds that Babylon University has a miniature robotics program? With all the underground work they do, droids must be commonplace, thought Don. Then he said aloud to Frost, “Death’s come a calling. Don’t go far. In fact, stay here. I may want to question your further.” “Am I under arrest?” asked Frost. “Not yet,” said Don. “Then I’m going home. Don’t come without calling first,” said Frost, rising. “You know the way out,” he finished, and left Don alone in his office. It was a display of confidence, a way of telling Don he could search his entire lab unsupervised. Problem was, Don didn’t have time, and there was no way he would let Frost leave campus. The tightly wound ball of twine that as Babylon University was coming undone. Fast.

NINETEEN

W

ord of the two deaths spread across the Babylon campus like wildfire, and as Don sat on a bench overlooking the quad, he relished the quiet of the early morning. Yesterday had been a long, hard day, but students were mostly staying in their dorm rooms without having to be told, and that was a good thing. Fear had a way of crippling people, making them do things they didn’t want to do, and fear had taken hold of Babylon University. Many of the buildings around the quad usually had lights shining through windows as young graduate students burned the midnight oil in an attempt to accomplish the mountain of work given to them by their Ph.D. advisors. Ph.D. candidates weren’t called slaves for nothing. They taught, performed research, and all for a pittance of pay and no recognition. Their lives were all about the future, and two deaths on campus had everyone questioning what their own futures might be. The names Gwen had given Don were being worked by the local police, as well as his people. No one had noticed the easiest, most in-your-face name the killer had planted right before them. Te Znerol. Znerol was Lorenz spelled backward, and Don wondered if Cam had realized this and decided to keep quiet, or if the fake name had been lost on the young man. Yes, the clever little “Te” might be throwing people off, as it was clearly meant to do, but Don was having the entire name checked out. He knew nothing would be found, and he wondered if Frost would tell

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 115 Cam what he had said. Cam was on the killer’s list, and Don would have to try to figure out why. A group of young female students steered clear of Don as they walked by, heading toward the dining hall. Don could hear their muffled conversation as they disappeared around a row of hedges, the clear mountain air and chill of oncoming winter lifting their voices. “She said the bodies were decayed, like something had eaten them alive,” said one of the girls, and the other three sighed. Don thought that was as good a way to explain what the chimera did as any description he had heard: eat people alive. As the new day approached, Don thought about what it would bring. He had been on the move for three days straight; Boston, New York, then Babylon University, and he had seen only a few hours sleep in that time, mostly on airplanes and helicopters as they shuttled him around the northeast. Tonight, however, he would have to find a place to hole up and get some real rest, because tomorrow wasn’t going to get any better than today. Don pulled his phone from his pocket and called up the preprogrammed icon reading “Big Dogs.” He stared at the green backlit screen and thought of the last time he had called them in, when that crazy man who could set people on fire simply by thinking about it had gone on a killing spree at the company where he worked. Someone had insulted him, said the wrong thing, and the next thing anyone knew, there were eight charred bodies. Don’s hand shook as he held the phone, his mind forecasting what the next few days would be like with the big dogs in control. They cared not for people, their feelings, or anything other than containing whatever impending disaster they had been called in to police. That was their job, and sometimes that made them the cruelest of men. The agency they worked for was known as the Black Hand, and the men who worked within its confines were ex-military who had been forced into service for one reason or

116 | Edward J. McFadden III another. These agents were as close to “Men in Black” as is possible: their names appeared on no government payroll, and their whereabouts and authority weren’t clearly defined. They were controlled by the highest powers in government, and in some cases industry, and to call them in meant Don would be subject to hours of interrogation during which he would be forced to justify the risk, and the expense, of calling in America’s most elite force. Despite the fact that Don knew full well he needed their help, he still hesitated. He knew it was time; things were getting out of control, the killer getting too confident, and now that he knew the killer had some fancy device to carry the disease and infect its victims, things had become even more pressing. The metal pill could infect anyone at any time, and there was no way of knowing how many people had already been implanted with the small robot. It hadn’t taken Washington long to determine that the pill was a small robotic device that delivered a dose of the chimera via a microscopic needle. The metal that made up the pill, which they had yet to identify, absorbed heat from the body, keeping the Black Death alive while waiting to be delivered. Who had built it? How many had been constructed? There were still many questions, but Don felt certain he wouldn’t be able to stop whoever was responsible before he or she killed again. Once the big dogs arrived, they would have to scan every person on campus, and hopefully anyone with a device in their body could have it surgically removed before it released its deadly passenger, but Don was beginning to despair. “We gotta get out—” “Yip.” “Don, it’s Harry, at the student union. I’ve been asking around, and apparently that girl you questioned,” there was a pause, and Don could hear Harry going through his notes. “That

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 117 girl, Gwen Stephens, she knew Herb Gagine. There are rumors that they were a couple at one point, and it ended ugly.” “Really? How long ago?” asked Don, pulling free his notebook. Gwen was quickly becoming the center of attention, and Don had a feeling that was where she was most comfortable. He had noticed that she was totally at ease in her designer clothes, and yet to Don something just wasn’t right. The facts seemed to be stacking up against her: she had been off campus when the first murder occurred, was the ex-girlfriend of Cam, who was knowingly or unknowingly in the middle of this entire mess, and now her other ex-boyfriend was dead. “A couple of years ago. He’s married, and when he told Gwen, apparently she freaked out. There’s a student here who works in the administration building, says he saw them fight one day in the lobby.” “Good. Take the kid’s name; we may want to question him later. Then find out everything you can about Gwen Stephens. Hunt her down; find out where she was this past weekend. Also, if you can, talk to some of her friends. Paint me a picture.” “Will do.” “Check with me in an hour,” said Don, and hung up his phone. The words “big dogs” appeared on the backlit screen. He currently had sixteen men and woman prowling the campus, looking for any clue that might lead them to whoever was spreading the disease. The fact that his main lead for the origin of the disease samples had turned out to be trash . . . Don’s predawn conversation with President Dilworth had gone as expected. Don had been polite, trying to explain the situation while leaving out as many facts as he possible, which was easy, because Dilworth didn’t really want to know what was going on. All he wanted was his campus back to normal, and he didn’t challenge Don’s authority, urging him to go anywhere and ask any questions he liked. Don wondered if Dilworth would feel

118 | Edward J. McFadden III the same way when the big dogs got here and he wasn’t allowed to go home, or see his family. Quarantine was coming, and no one on the campus understood what that meant yet, so Don hadn’t seen the point in informing the college president of what was to come. He would find out shortly, along with everyone else. Plus, Don understood that universities are incestuous places, and running through the numbers again in his mind made him even more cautious. There were 264 faculty and 800 some-odd staff at Babylon University, and of that 1064, 624 were married to one another; 312 couples, more than half the workforce at BU, and hence nothing stayed secret for long except the things the administration wanted everyone to know. Post the first day of registration on every flat surface on campus, and half the student body would still look confused and contemptuous when they were blocked out of classes, but if a professor was caught sleeping with a student, everyone within a ten-mile radius would know within hours. Ten-mile radius. That reminded Don that he needed to head into the little town of Prost, where most of the faculty and staff of Babylon University lived. He had been told it was a standard college town, living only to feed off the university: a couple of hotels, restaurants, a Target, and a small airport for the ultra rich to land their private jets and helicopters. There might be clues in that small town, but most likely there weren’t. Don wrote in his notebook: check Frost’s private residence. That would have to wait until tomorrow—if he was even permitted to leave campus. He closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp mountain air. The campus was quiet, much quieter than Don remembered it the night before. No walkers or students playing football on the quad. The large cafeteria, which just yesterday was packed with students and faculty, was now almost deserted. Only five or six tables were filled with students who refused to let some rogue destroy their day.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 119 That’s what Don admired about universities. Even in the face of impending doom, they still tried to steer a steady course. From the president on down, they would fight the idea that there was a madman among them, and that they had most likely grown and nurtured him. Those were the thoughts that would fill the minds of the innocent in the coming days, when they were under quarantine and their lives changed in so many ways. Starting with Gwen. If she didn’t answer his questions perfectly he would have to detain her, push the questions to the next level. Don didn’t think the young woman was capable, either physically or mentally, of committing the crimes he was investigating. Yet instinctually—because he would always be part cop and part lawyer—he knew that Gwen was in this somehow, and not in an innocent bystander kind of way. Don squeezed his phone, hoping it would shatter in his hand, but it didn’t, and he was forced to deal with the reality of the last four days. This time he couldn’t handle it. Don pecked at his phone and called the preprogrammed number, and the words “big dogs” flashed on the display screen. Now I’ve done it, he thought, and braced for the oncoming storm.

TWENTY

D

on had insisted that Gwen spend the prior evening in Cam’s dorm room and not leave campus, so she had hidden herself away with a bottle of wine and her memories and regrets. Cam’s roommate had been relocated, and an armed guard had been stationed outside her door. She was basically under house arrest, and she hadn’t seen Cam at all. She wondered where he had slept—most likely the lab, where he spent most nights when Frost was in residence—and once again she was forced to deal with the reality that Cam cared more about Frost and his old stones than he did about her. Cam still kept a picture of her in a plastic frame on his desk, and she could see her smiling face standing in front of the Babylon University replica of the Ishtar Gate, the sun reflecting off the blue gold ceramic tiles. That picture had been taken so long ago Gwen wondered if it really had been her. The picture had been taken the summer they met, the summer she and Cam had been inseparable, and that seemed like a lifetime ago. She longed for the simplicity of those days, the simple love they had shared, and the compassion they had shown one another. It had been an effort to get up, but she had, and when she had arrived for work, Mia told her that the federal agent, Don Oberbier, would be by at 9:20 a.m. to ask her more questions. The stress of the situation could be clearly seen on Gwen’s face. Her makeup, which was normally perfect, looked rushed, and she had applied so much blush that her cheeks were rosy red. Her lipstick was uneven, she wore yesterday’s clothes, which were wrinkled,

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 121 and her confidence appeared to have disappeared with the rising of the sun. This was not the Gwen everyone knew. The file she had gotten from Missy had matched hers, and Gwen couldn’t decide whether that was good news or bad. It was good in that whoever had messed with the directory had done it off campus. Also, it proved that there was no way she could have made the errors. Clearly, the killer or their designee had modified the directory as part of some grand plan. Gwen thought of Frost, and wondered if he had messed with the directory. The thought floated away as Don entered her office with a uniformed police officer. “Good morning, Ms. Stephens. I trust you had a pleasant evening, as much as possible, anyway. This is Officer Rashner,” he said, motioning toward the uniformed officer. “He’ll be sitting in with us today. That okay?” asked Don with his “it doesn’t really matter if it’s okay” voice. The two men took the guest chairs before Gwen and looked at the young woman and said nothing. Don stared across the desk at Gwen, his eyes never leaving hers. This was a common interrogation technique. The less you said, the more your suspect got freaked out. Say nothing, and they’ll usually start talking. As if on cue Gwen said, “I took a look at the file that went to the printer. It’s the same as mine, so someone else screwed up, not me.” She looked down at her desk, and Don and Rashner exchanged glances. “Yeah, about that,” said Don. “You say you compile the directory using the prior year, and any new information that may come to light, but you don’t actively seek updates?” “That’s right,” answered Gwen, her voice trembling. All her normal confidence was gone, her ability to break a situation down, and when needed, use her beauty to influence a given outcome. Without these tools, she was an open book. “Part of the application to graduate is an alumni information sheet. If an

122 | Edward J. McFadden III alumnus moves, changes jobs, etc., it’s up to them to notify us. Of course, we use returned mail and fundraising information to keep the directory as accurate as we can.” “And the deceased?” asked Don. Officer Rashner said nothing as he stared at Gwen. “A family member usually calls, or we see a news item. Most of our alumni are well known in their fields, and the university community usually recognizes a loss of their own, but the system is not without problems. Dr. Kane Rennovich was dead for four years before we found out and listed it in the directory.” “So, you’re saying the list is usually incomplete,” said Don. “Incomplete, yes. We can’t fix what we don’t know about, and calling an alumnus to ask if they’re still alive is a bit . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she lifted her eyes to meet Don’s gaze. “So, why were you in Boston this past weekend?” asked Don, nonchalantly. Gwen’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew she never should have lied. She should have told this man the truth from the beginning, and now he had caught her in a lie. Her mother’s voice clattered into her head: “Tell one lie, then another, it just gets worse. Tell the truth.” Gwen knew that wasn’t possible now, but what choice did she have? Oberbier wasn’t fishing; he clearly knew something, but how? She had rented a car, used a false name at the hotel, and no one knew she had gone away except her landlady Bernadette, who had no idea where she had gone. “Vacation for a day, nothing special,” she said, finally, putting all the authority she could into her voice. “Just for the day? I thought you said you spent the weekend at home relaxing?” said Don, his gaze never leaving hers. “I did stay home and relax. I told you I ran to Boston on Saturday, didn’t I? Why? What does any of this have to do with what’s going on campus?” Gwen was convincing when she was playing stupid. She would curl her lips, squint, and put on a

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 123 dazed look, and her beauty normally got her through, but Don ignored these tools, and saw right through her story. “Just for the day, huh? So you didn’t stay the night? It’s four and a half hours each way,” he pressed. “No,” she lied. “But you were in Boston? On the same day Brath was killed?” Don was ratcheting things up. “I don’t know. When was Brath killed?” she asked, knowing full well that everyone on campus now knew the facts surrounding Brath’s death. “Gwen, I’m a federal agent, not some local sheriff who wants you to date his son,” said Don, his tone so stern Gwen flinched. “People are dead, you had access to labs that had deadly diseases, and you’ve slept with the latest victim.” “Please. Herb slept with many Babylon wayward females. I was hardly the first. And as far as having access to Frost’s lab, I don’t. I’ve been there, but it’s like a prison. I couldn’t sneak out a paper clip without Cam knowing,” she blurted, excited and ashamed that she had mentioned Cam’s name. “Who said anything about Dr. Frost’s lab?” asked Don, locking eyes with Gwen. When she looked away, he said, “Whatever is happening can get much worse, Gwen. The more people die, the more insane this becomes. It’s not too late to end it and find redemption.” “Look. I know how this must seem. Crazy girl settles all family business when she discovers boyfriend’s super bug. Truth is, I have no idea what Cam does, and if they discovered whatever is killing people, I think you should be talking to them. Think on it for a moment, Agent Oberbier. I kill people and put the list in writing in a publication I’m responsible for. So are you saying I put a post-it on my head that says ‘I’m the killer’? You ever think someone wants you wasting your time dealing with a publication

124 | Edward J. McFadden III clerk when you should be figuring out who the next victim is and why some crazy ass wants to kill them?” “So you’ve given it some thought? There’s too much falling your way, Gwen, and unless you give me something, everything currently points directly at you. You lied about being in Boston, and when my people are done, I’ll know where you stayed and what you had for dinner. Then you’ll have to tell me why you went there, and what you did.” “What the fuck do you know,” said Gwen, her frustration boiling over. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes haunted with pain. “Cam is the one you should be talking to. I wouldn’t know a germ from a killer bug. What? You think I work in this dismal bureaucracy because I’m as smart as the assholes who work here?” Gwen bit her lip. Rule one for working at a university: you may never yell, and two, don’t call the lives of research support and administration bureaucracy. The asshole part was pretty much a given for anyone who had gotten past the twelfth grade. “Is that why you’re doing this, Gwen? You hate them because they’re the smart kids, the ones who never accepted you?” said Don, reciting chapter and verse from the government crisis manual. “Oh, fuck you,” said Gwen. “You sure that’s the way you want things to go?” asked Don. “You and I must speak a different language, because I don’t know what you mean,” she said, confidence rising within her. “Let me put it a way you’ll understand. You’ve seen The Matrix? This is a black pill, red pill question. You choose one pill and your life moves in one direction, you choose the other pill and your life goes in another direction.” “It was a red and blue pill,” said Gwen.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 125 “One starts your new life, the other continues the fall of your current life,” said Don. When she didn’t speak, he nodded toward Rashner. Don and Officer Rashner rose, and Rashner said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .” Gwen started crying as Don stepped around the desk and asked her to put her hands behind her back. He planned to make a show of arresting her because he wanted word to get around. He knew Gwen was involved, but he didn’t believe she had killed anyone, yet he trotted her out in handcuffs because he felt she deserved it—and it served his purpose. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the one. Once word got out that Gwen had been arrested, perhaps the real killer would let his guard down, make a mistake that would bring everything down. But even as that thought floated through his mind, he could hear the whomp whomp of approaching helicopters, and knew everything was about to change.

TWENTY-ONE

S

ix dual-rotor Chinook helicopters landed on the ball fields as Don watched from inside the shelter of a dugout. The Chinook was the lineman of the government’s helicopter fleet and did all the heavy lifting. Watching the big dogs make their grand entrance, Don admired the hundred-foot craft, which had a thirteen-ton payload capacity and could travel almost two hundred miles per hour with a range of eight hundred miles. The Chinooks could move a lot of weight around, very fast. Don liked to think he could command an audience, make them hang on his every breath, but in reality he was a comedy act, an opener, and as the small army descended on Babylon University, Don questioned his decision to bring them in yet again. Immediately upon landing, troops began funneling from the fuselages of the Chinooks; supplies were being dumped, and a command center erected on the athletic fields. The scene was surreal, soldiers storming like ants from their bug-like mothers, every motion determined and practiced. These men didn’t make mistakes, and before the rotors of the Chinooks came to a full stop, half the gear had been unloaded and units were fanning out across the campus, entering the surrounding woods, and turning the whole place into an airtight box. Sunlight cut through the clouds casting shadows across the athletic fields, and the mountain breeze was little more than a soft puff of warm air from the south, when Agent Gary and Agent Royal landed in their private Bell 206 Jetranger helicopter amidst the chaos that now served as their command center. Neither man

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 127 waited for the copter’s sleek rotor to stop spinning before jumping from the craft and striding purposefully toward a crowd of military personnel and special agents who awaited their orders. Both men wore black suits, Gary with a blue tie, Royal with a red. If there was a picture in the dictionary for federal agent, Gary and Royal would be displayed there. Don knew neither man well; in fact, he didn’t know if Gary and Royal represented their first names or their last. He simply knew that when he called, they came, no questions asked. That was, until they got to the scene, and then all they did was ask questions. The military force that spread out across Babylon University was a distant cousin of CIA covert operations, and most of their uniformed personnel would take up positions in the woods surrounding the campus and dormitories. Sensor arrays and containment fences, both physical and electronic, would allow the manned patrols to control the perimeter so tightly that a rabbit would have trouble sneaking through it. Nothing would leave campus, and only select persons and supplies would be allowed to enter, and once there, they would not be permitted to leave. There were exceptions, of course, and Don hoped to leave campus to search Frost’s house. Then there was his other plan, and he could only imagine what Gary’s and Royal’s reaction would be when he told them of it. The other contingent of government agents and military staff wore plain clothes so as to fit in better with the host population. While they had no illusion that they wouldn’t be quickly identified as outsiders, part of the quarantine approach was getting insiders to help in the cause. Everyone wanted quarantine to end; that was one of the reasons it was so effective as an investigation tool, though one that could only be used in the most extreme of situations. Don watched the soldiers as they passed like shadows into the woods, disappearing like wraiths on the wind. All the personnel

128 | Edward J. McFadden III would be at his disposal if things went as they usually did. He would still be lead investigator, while the big dogs watched like proud owners, pulling his strings from afar. However, if the shit really hit the fan, they would relieve Don, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Gwen Stephens was being held at the campus police headquarters, awaiting arraignment for the murder of William Brath. While no physical evidence linked her to the crime, the overwhelming circumstantial evidence provided the government with enough to detain her and buy the time Don needed to find proof that would support their allegations. Don, however, was much more concerned with the message he had sent to the faculty, staff, and students of Babylon University. No matter how the food chain ultimately worked out, Don’s goals during the quarantine period were the same: identify, evaluate, and monitor all possible suppliers of the disease known as The Black Death of Babylon. While he was doing that, all faculty, staff, and the few students who lived in apartments in town would be set up in their offices, conference rooms, gyms, and common areas. Cots, air mattresses, and food rations would be provided, along with a series of mental health evaluations that were designed to gain information as well as help the quarantined get through the tough days ahead. Then there was the outside world. All Internet, intranet, phones, and fax had been disabled. Cell phones and all other off campus communication was jammed, and other than carrier pigeon, there was no way for the people quarantined at Babylon University to communicate with the outside world. Everyone at Babylon would identify a next of kin, and said person or persons would be visited by a polite government agent who would explain that their loved one was okay and that there was an ongoing investigation at the university that made communication impossible. Nothing to worry about, and we apologize for the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 129 inconvenience. Then a uniformed marine officer would deliver a letter from the highest of political officials to every quarantined person’s next of kin. Although a squeaky wheel or two might complain to the Justice Department, no real issues would be raised. Don had been through this before, and he understood and anticipated each step along the quarantine path. The people of Prost were also unknowingly included in the massive cover up. They had no idea what was going on up at the university, but whatever it was would kill business. Without the university and its students, faculty, and staff, there was really no need for the town at all, and with everyone holed up at the university, the local economy would come to a standstill. Still, the quarantine didn’t surprise many in Prost, as most of the townies were always expecting some giant cataclysm to engulf the mysterious research laboratories rumored to delve three levels below the surface. Then there were the camps and supplies needed to support 236 troops and 72 federal agents. All these people had been pulled from their regular duties and would live day-to-day until the crisis at Babylon was resolved, or they were called off. Don had spent some of his early days working with a military force similar to the one that now controlled all aspects of the Babylon campus, and he had learned much from the discipline-centered operation. He often found himself falling back on the tricks he had learned all those years ago, like calming a frantic person. Don’s unit had often been brought in to provide containment, not unlike the current force, and there was nothing that taxed the nerves of a human more than being put in a cage. Several scan machines that had the ability to detect metal within the human body were being rushed to campus, and once there, each person would be given a time to report and be scanned, as well as have their blood tested for the disease. The explanation was a routine physical scan to determine a baseline

130 | Edward J. McFadden III health condition so the Feds would have an accurate DNA sample and medical file for every person in quarantine. To some extent, that was the truth, but Don saw no reason to alarm the entire campus by informing them that the real reason they were being scanned was an attempt to discover a ticking time bomb that held the disease and might already be in their bodies. All these things raced through Don’s mind as he waited for Gary and Royal to make their way across the main field. He would know within moments whether his goose was cooked by the way they acted. He hadn’t anguished over calling in the big dogs for nothing. Forty years of service had been known to vanish in a puff of smoke when the big dogs were called in without adequate probable cause. Don had major threat authority, and that allowed him to mobilize huge numbers of troops and federal agents in a very short period of time, but with that great power came great responsibility. Most of the command center was already erected by the time Don’s commanders arrived in the dugout. “Agent Oberbier, how goes it here?” asked Gary. The man’s eyes were so gray they looked fake, and his hawk-like nose and long chin didn’t project pleasure or happiness, but fear and sadness. “Not well. There was a fourth victim yesterday, and I’ve detained one suspect, but I don’t think she’s our killer,” said Don, the normal confidence absent from his voice. These men scared him; not because they were his superiors, but because they were robots. If the higher ups told them to jump off a cliff and plummet to their deaths, they would do it, and despite Don’s loyalty to his country, he would never be that blindly loyal. “We’ll be in the command tents tonight, and tomorrow those who have already left for the day, or were off today, will be allowed to enter campus. By 10 a.m., all the full-timers should be here. Do you expect any resistance tonight or tomorrow?”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 131 “Other than frantic talk and threats from the administration? No,” answered Don. There were no wisecracks, no jokes or dumping on the agency. These were his bosses’ bosses, and despite his crystal clear personnel file, he had broken enough rules over the years to understand that he could be removed at any time, and these agents would destroy his life without a moment’s hesitation. “Good. We’ll go speak with President Dilworth at four o’clock, after everything is in place. I’ll send someone up there now with the quarantine notification to make sure he is waiting for us when we arrive. The sooner that goes out on e-mail and the university uses its emergency text message system, things should be a lot easier,” said Gary. “No doubt most folks have a good idea already,” said Don, referring to the mini-city that had sprung up on the athletic fields. Gary turned to Royal and asked, “Babylon security is contained?” “All on-duty security personnel have been detained, and all off-duty security personnel have been called off. Once things settle down, we’ll integrate them into the lower levels of our investigation. All posts are currently being covered by our personnel,” answered Royal, without so much as one change in the tone of his voice. “Okay then,” said Don, and he stepped out of the dugout and headed toward the newly erected hospitality tent.

TWENTY-TWO

T

he Chinook helicopters sat quiet as Don wandered through the tent village that now covered the athletic fields and surrounding open areas and parking lots. Generators hummed and buzzed, and the sound of music could be heard faintly on the breeze. It was only 2:45 p.m., and they weren’t going to meet President Dilworth until 4 p.m. The short, balding man was watching the activity from his window above the quad, doing his best not to lose his temper. President Dilworth had pitched a fit earlier in the day, but Don had appeased him by explaining that the best thing he could do for his campus was be calm and the let the investigation play out. Yet everyone at Babylon was used to being important, getting what they wanted at all times. Don paused by the entry checkpoint to the tent city and waited for Cam. Babylon students, faculty, and staff were allowed to continue on with their routines as best they could, and other than their meeting with a government agent at some point in the next twenty-four hours, there were no restrictions on anyone’s movements except a nine o’clock curfew. That didn’t keep most from hiding in their offices and dorm rooms, however, and that suited the Feds just fine. At the start of the quarantine, a picture had been leaked and circulated that showed Herb Gagine’s decayed body, and that had been more than enough to scare seventy-five percent of the Babylon population into hiding. Most of the people at Babylon U weren’t very surprised by the quarantine, because they understood what type of research went on in the laboratories. One of the jokes that constantly made the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 133 rounds referred to a mummy coming alive and shooting everyone with a machine gun. Something about coming unraveled. But the idea that someone, most likely one of them, was murdering people was what drove home the fear. They expected that they might be exposed to some exotic disease, but not that they might be murdered on their way to class. That fear burrowed deep within the campus, and took hold in everyone’s minds. What they feared might happen had happened, but not the way they had expected. Since the big dogs had arrived, Don had spent a significant portion of his time debriefing them, while still coordinating the activities of everyone working on the investigation. Don only had a few leads left to work, and one of them involved getting the big dogs to allow him and Cam off campus to search Frost’s house. He was fatigued, and his body was starting to feel the wear-andtear of his constant activity, but he had to press on. “Don,” Cam called across the green temporary fencing that stretched around the military compound. The young scientist was haggard, large black bags beneath both his eyes, and Don thought he looked as if he had been in a fight. Don waved to the guard at the checkpoint, and Cam was given access. “Let’s go get something to eat and talk a bit. I hear people are really on edge. You holding up okay?” asked Don. “Frost is freaking out, as you might imagine, but other than that, everything’s great,” said Cam, as they entered the hospitality tent. There was a small bar to one side, and a cafeteria-type grill and salad bar across the back. Tables and seats were strewn all about, and the grass of the ball field beneath their feet had been trodden to mud. “You know, I could use a beer. You?” “Yeah, badly,” said Cam. “I’m surprised you’d be allowed to have alcohol on a mission like this.”

134 | Edward J. McFadden III “Got to give the Army guys their beer or shit comes apart at the seams. Two beers a day are permitted, but with this crew, it needn’t be enforced. These guys are the cream of crop,” said Don, and as the young woman dressed in a food service uniform approached them, Don said, “Two beers and two burgers.” “Right away, sir,” said the pretty young agent. On operations this delicate, no civilian labor was used, and everyone took a turn doing mess duty and cleaning duty, just like in boot camp. “You control all this?” asked Cam, looking around the expansive tent. “I don’t think anyone could take credit for controlling this,” he said. “It’s just one of those things that has so many quality moving parts that it kind of controls itself as a whole.” “But you called them, right? If the disease isn’t here it’ll be your ass,” said Cam, clearly repeating what Frost had said to him. “Yeah, that what Frost said?” asked Don, and the young scientist bowed his head. “Yeah, how do you feel about your mentor right now?” “Don’t know. He’s been keeping a lot of secrets from me recently,” Cam said. “If you didn’t know about the disease, how did he run all the tests he claims to have run on the pathogen? You basically run the actual research lab, don’t you? You would have seen the new samples, no?” Cam’s eyes grew glassy, and his eyebrows furrowed. He hadn’t thought of that before. Where had Frost tested and processed his samples? In Dr. Rhime’s lab? “Have you found anything in the samples from Dr. Rhime’s lab?” asked Cam, the light of hope filling his eyes. “Nothing, and Rhime says all he did was give Frost the appropriate chemicals and offered advice on what process would work best, and what equipment he would need. I assumed until a

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 135 moment ago that he had all said equipment in his lab.” Don now knew he had another lead he needed to pursue, and fast. “Not in his university lab,” said Cam. “Does he have another lab that you know about?” asked Don. “Not that I know of, but I’ve always suspected he did research somewhere else.” “At his house?” prodded Don. “If so, it’s hidden well. I think I’ve seen just about every inch of his house, but I couldn’t say for sure.” “Good, this has been very helpful,” said Don, rising and dismissing Cam. “Go to your dorm and get some rest. When I’m done . . .” “We gotta get out of this place—” “Yes,” said Don as he answered his phone. “Yes, good news. We’ll also run the gamut of tests on our return.” There was a long pause, and Don looked at Cam. “Yes, I understand, but I think you need to make an exception. The kid knows better than me what we’re looking for and he knows Frost’s house—alarm codes and such.” Pause. “Yes, sir, we’ll be very careful.” Don snapped his phone shut and said, “When I’m done dealing with the higher ups, we’ll go on a little field trip to Frost’s house, you can show me around. We just need to be fully checked out when we leave and when we return.” Cam nodded and asked, “Hey, did we really find an alien spacecraft at Roswell?” Don smiled, hoping the boy had nothing to do with Frost’s grand plan, whatever it was. “No idea, kid. Wouldn’t really surprise me, though.” ***** College presidents were a rare breed: eccentric, bullying, arrogant, control freaks is how Don thought of them, and he wasn’t alone. In most of the halls of power, academia was respected for its positive additions to society, yet it didn’t go unnoticed that scientists and their support staff were some of the

136 | Edward J. McFadden III most spoiled people on Earth, and Don needed to keep this in mind while dealing with the Babylon president. President Dilworth was used to being treated like a king, his every wish considered, every possible comfort provided. He was also used to controlling every aspect of life at Babylon University and wasting no time with menial tasks or administrative duties. Dilworth felt he was the rudder by which the entire university steered itself through a modern world less and less interested in the past, and more and more interested with their lack of a future. Under the current quarantine level, Dilworth was nothing more than a conduit through which Don and his superiors could pass messages to the masses. The university television station had already been taken over, and a series of mental help sessions now played in an endless loop. Breaking news would appear there, on cell phones, and in e-mail boxes within minutes of President Dilworth issuing an emergency communication, the first test of the system and chain of command having been the original quarantine announcement that had surprised very few. “So, again, anything I can do to help,” said Dilworth, pacing back and forth in his office, Don seated before him in a guest chair. Royal had accompanied Don to Dilworth’s office, but stood behind Don as if he were a bodyguard. “I think we’re in good shape. New information is coming in on past victims, and we think we have a good idea how it’s been transmitted,” Don paused. “Actually, do you have a miniature robotics program here?” “No. We import all our tech from MIT. Anything custom is usually designed here, but at the moment, we don’t have the infrastructure to make miniature robots,” answered Dilworth. “That's how it’s being done? A small robot that injects the disease at some predestined time?” Don didn’t speak, and Dilworth went on. “How big are we talking about?”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 137 “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Don lied. As always, he needed to be very careful what he told Dilworth. “Really?” President Dilworth looked at him suspiciously, and said, “Great. So we all could already have one of whatever you’re not telling me inside us?” asked Dilworth, his tough exterior cracking for the first time. “No, there’s a pattern we’re missing,” said Don, letting the president’s guess go unaddressed. “If whoever is doing this wanted everyone dead, it would have already happened. No— there are specific beefs on the line here. All the victims so far are connected in some way, I just can’t see how.” Don fell silent, realizing he was giving Dilworth too much. Don was falling into the college president’s greatest trap; his engaging personality. Boring people don’t become college presidents, and as Don revealed things to Dilworth, he had to weigh and consider each piece of information, because he understood how sly this man could be. “Even that doesn’t bode well for me,” said the President. “I make decisions, and that usually involves making one group of people happy, and another group of people unhappy. So chances are I’m the top layer in this psycho’s shrine pyramid.” Don tried not to laugh, and coughed when it became clear he would be unable to contain himself. “Let’s take it a step at a time, no need to get dark just yet.” “Dark just yet?” said Dilworth. “Babylon is in its darkest hour. Like Frost says, we’re now living Poe’s ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’ We’re prisoners all because some nutcase decided to get even because he didn’t get enough bacon on the breakfast line.” “Let’s hope it’s a bit more than that,” said Don. “You always quote Frost?” “He told me you were suspicious of him. You shouldn’t be. I’ve known him a long time, and he never had any screw to grow

138 | Edward J. McFadden III loose,” said Dilworth, defending the man who had helped him gain his position at the university. “We’ll have to save that for another day. I have a lead to run off campus that could prove to be crucial. You OK for the night? Can we lock down ‘til morning?” asked Don. President Dilworth nodded, and a thin smile crept across his face. Clearly appreciating Don’s courtesy, he said, “Until the morning then.”

TWENTY-THREE

F

rost’s house was in a ritzy neighborhood just outside Prost, and the maze-like road that wound through the forest reminded Don of the entrance to Babylon University. The hard blacktop was out of place, the measured arc of the road too uniform for a place that had very little uniformity. Cam drove, and Don paced in his mind, going over all the relevant facts again, looking for angles, sorting out leads, prioritizing them. Getting off campus had been more of a hassle than he had expected. Not only had Don and Cam been checked out for the disease and the accompanying device, but they had also been forced to accept a poking and prodding in all areas, and when the examination was over Don made a mental note to himself to make sure he was outside the quarantine zone before he called in the big dogs next time. Eating eggs and bacon in town is where he should have been when he hit the number, but he was a good soldier, and good shoulders didn’t stress an already stressed system. “When was the last time you were at Frost’s house,” asked Don. “Yesterday. I was in the study with him when you called about meeting with him,” said Cam. “You there much?” asked Don. “Not really, and usually when I’m there we’d sit on the deck, or in the den. Not like we were hanging out in his bedroom.” “But you said you’d seen the entire house?” pushed Don.

140 | Edward J. McFadden III “I house sit from time to time. He has a cat, Lazy, and a few plants, and he doesn’t like to stop the mail. I poked around, couldn’t help myself,” said Cam, genuinely sounding guilty. “Nothing, huh? No ideas were there might be a lab?” “If there’s one there it’s a secret room of some kind. I opened all the doors, even peeked in the closets.” “Weren’t you afraid Frost would notice something and ream your ass?” chided Don. “I would say I was following the same protocol as we do in the lab. A visual inspection is required once every twenty-four hours.” “He’d buy that?” asked Don. “More than that, he’d be proud of me for it . . . he’d know I was full of shit, but he’s weird. Some little shit he freaks about, some big shit he lets float the by’n by,” revealed Cam. “How’s everyone on campus handling this quarantine thing? Any major complainers that you’ve heard of?” asked Don, because if there were, they would be subject to a new level of quarantine. “No. Everyone wants their tech back, of course. Without the internet, the world essentially stops nowadays. Plus, there was a news story a couple of days ago about the find in Italy that has people buzzing and worried.” “What story?” “Construction workers uncovered a mass grave on Lazzaretto Vecchio, a small island off Venice. The island was believed to be the very first lazaret—a quarantine used to contain the Black Death,” said Cam. “I see how that story might be concerning folks now,” said Don. “But I assure you there’ll be no mass graves.” “Here we are,” said Cam, as he pulled into a narrow driveway that led to a circular drive inside the tree break. The house was big for the area, a two-story contemporary with river stone on the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 141 front facade and a tall turret. Cam said, “The foyer turret has a spiral staircase that leads upward to a lounge, then goes on to a third story to become Frost’s private office and library.” “You have the code to the alarm?” asked Don. “I have my own code and I know his,” answered Cam, bringing the government Ford Taurus to a stop behind a small stand of evergreens. “There are security cameras everywhere, and I’m sure they‘re functioning. We use the same security company for the lab; they’re real good.” Don lifted a small black satchel from between his feet and snapped open the two clasps. The device inside looked like a small radio. “What is that?” asked Cam. “You remember the scanner things they used on Star Trek? They could tell if life forms were near, break down and analyze things, and scan terrain.” “Tricorder,” said Cam. “What?” “Tricorder, that’s what the thing you’re talking about is called,” said Cam. “There were actually three types issued to Starfleet personnel.” “Okay, stop. I was starting to think you might be the only normal one around.” Don twisted the power button on the device to the on position and it beeped to life. “This thing is like one of those. It can read the heat signature of living beings, machines, anything that gives off heat. It can also see through walls, detect empty spaces.” “Or secret rooms.” “Yep.” Don looked at the house and spotted two cameras. “I should have brought a tech crew,” he muttered. “Alright, we don’t have time to screw around. Let’s go, screw the cameras.” Don and Cam headed for the front door, where Cam typed in his personal security code, and the magnetic lock released and the front door swung open.

142 | Edward J. McFadden III Don held the scanner before him, reading its small display and listening to its Geiger counter-like beeps. “I’m happy I’m not wearing a red shirt, Mr. Spock,” said Cam. “Now I’m lost,” said Don, lifting and panning the device down a hallway that led to the kitchen and basement stairwell. “The red shirts were the security guys. They were always the ones that got killed. It’s an old joke that when you saw a character with a red shirt, they wouldn’t make it through the episode.” “Alright, let’s head down the basement; the second floor and turret have no places for a hidden lab. It’s most likely underground to hide the heat signature.” “There’s also that garage in back,” said Cam. “That would be next, but somehow I think Frost wouldn’t like the idea of trudging through the January snow out to his lab.” “There might be a tunnel?” said Cam. “You’re right, Robin.” Cam opened the basement door, flicked the light switch, and fluorescent lights in the stairwell and throughout the cellar were illuminated. The basement was filled with boxes stamped with the customs information of various countries. Frost had a good artistic eye, and he often bought paintings and other treasures while abroad, only to sell them for a profit without even opening the shipping crate. In addition to his art inventory, there was an old wooden work bench fitted with an array of tools, and there were several locked storage cabinets throughout the space. Don walked around the basement slowly, holding the scanner in front of him, his eyes fixed on the screen. Then he stopped dead. “Get ready,” said Don, walking straight across the large open basement to a metal cabinet on the far end. A ten-digit keypad was to the right of the door handle, and when Cam typed in Frost’s house security code, the locked cabinet door popped open.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 143 As Don’s scanning device had shown him, there was a large concrete chamber behind the cabinet, and when Don snapped on the illuminated light switch, the expansiveness of the room struck both of them. “Wow,” said Don. “Very James Bond-ian,” said Cam. Four air-controlled fume hoods were on one wall, with sample tables, centrifuges, and autoclaves and shakers lining the other walls. A large work table filled the center of the room, and it was covered with two computers, piles of printouts and reports, and glassware of all shapes and sizes. Don reached in his pocket and hit the support button on his phone. “Within the hour, the samples here will be in the process of being analyzed, and then we'll know if the Black Death chimera has been found.” “So you gonna arrest Frost now?” asked Cam. “There’s no law against having a private research lab,” said Don. “But if these are the pathogens we’re looking for, Frost is going to have a lot of explaining to do,” answered Don. “How do you get something like this built?” asked Cam, walking around the lab, looking for any other clues. He often found movie and book plots to be unbelievable because the secret chambers and compounds depicted were realistically impossible. The US government could tell how big your dick was from space, so surely they’d be able to detect the construction of a huge rocket base in a volcano cone or some such. “This one was easy, actually. When the house was built, there was a two-room basement. He sealed one off, brought in the gear, and he was in business. The hoods probably run through an external HVAC unit that gets serviced along with the main HVAC unit that feeds the house. Concrete block walls, painted and sealed, an extra power panel with back-up power supplies.” Don made it sound so easy.

144 | Edward J. McFadden III “Right here,” said Cam, pointing to a stack of brown boxes that were plugged into power strips. “Sixteen units here, that’s hours of battery power, minus the lights of course.” “What do you make of this?” said Don, pointing toward a small statue that rested in the center of the desk blotter, which was scribbled with notes of various types, personal and work related. There were phone numbers, equations, flight information, and several drawings that looked like a child had done their best to create something strange. “Don’t know. The markings look to be of early Babylon. Must be an artifact he found,” said Cam. “We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the la—” Don flipped open his phone. After several long minutes he hung up and said, “Brath, Gagine, and our Jane Doe didn’t have our magic metal pill inside them.” Don saw no reason to reveal that he knew the name of the third victim was Dytmer via the process of elimination and some disturbing facts. “You sure the metal isn’t some new alloy that doesn’t register on your scanner?” asked Cam. “You might make a good investigator some day, Cam. That is, when you’re done chasing after seven thousand-year-old ghosts.” “Yeah, some detective. I can’t figure any motives here. I realize motives aren’t always sane. Seems like someone is playing a little Ten Little Indians game, but for that game to be fun, each death must be different, so that when you find the note in the bottle at the end, you don’t feel ripped off or stupid,” said Cam. “But we’re not writing fiction here, Cam. Some crazy fool is killing people.” Silence. “Do you think Frost is capable of killing people who have pissed him off?” asked Don. “I think when his daughter died, a big piece of him died. It was like the guy everyone knew passed away and some new,

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 145 bitter, crazy asshole took his place. He hasn’t been the same, and he can hold a grudge with the best of them,” said Cam. “So you’re saying it wouldn’t blow you away if he was the killer?” Cam didn’t answer right away, choosing his words carefully. “No, I wouldn’t be totally blown away.” Don nodded, called his agent in Frost’s lab, and reinforced his orders that Frost was not to leave his lab complex under any circumstances, and that if he escaped, Don would leave a path of destruction so wide no agent on the operation would survive it. They got his point, and when Don hung up he said, “Since the cameras have us here anyway, let’s go find Frost’s wine cellar. I’m sure he’s got something to keep us busy until my boys get here.” Cam laughed, and the two men left the cold lab.

TWENTY-FOUR

T

he second full day of quarantine started with a beautiful sunrise. Don sat amidst the tents that housed sleeping agents and soldiers getting ready for the day’s duties. During the night, four Babylon students had been arrested for trying to sneak through the woods and escape the quarantine. The excuse they gave was they didn’t have any food, despite the fact that there was enough food on campus to sustain everyone for weeks. As it turned out, all four students were released and confined to their dorm rooms, but none of them appeared to have anything to do with the current crisis. Don was waiting to hear from the lab. If any of Frost’s samples matched the Black Death chimera, he could arrest Frost with little or no fanfare, and hopefully that would bring an end to the investigation. He had a meeting with the big dogs at 0900, and they would expect him to lay out all the current facts, the day’s plan, and any new conclusions or theories he had come up with or discovered since they had met last evening. Pressure was being applied from the outside world, but there were no protestors or news vans parked outside the Babylon campus. That would change as the quarantine went on and parents, spouses, and children got more frustrated and confused. He hadn’t confronted Frost, and he pondered the appropriate time to do so. Cam was under strict orders not to divulge what they had found to anyone, especially Frost, and Don trusted the young man. Cam reminded him of himself at that age, all piss and vinegar, an asshole know-it-all who didn’t really know much. One

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 147 of his favorite sayings was the one about youth being wasted on the young, because he believed it to be true. But Cam was a different kind of young person, and Don had no doubts that Cam could be a fine agent. The Animals sang and Don answered it. It was the local PD rep on campus informing Don that Gwen Stephens was being released from the campus holding room at noon for lack of evidence. Don told the officer that Gwen was still a top suspect and since Babylon was under quarantine anyway, he would have two military personnel pick her up and transport her back to her office in case he needed to question her further. There had been no new evidence to support her arrest. In fact, there had been evidence to support her innocence, but Don still felt she held a piece in this game and had some role yet to play. He would allow her to be released, and then he would see what she did. Then there was the issue of Dr. Tolbert, who was due on campus in less than 48 hours to give a speech. The fact that he was on the death list only fueled the professor’s will to come to campus. “I refuse to let some rogue influence me. No different than terrorism,” he said to Don over the phone, and even as the man spoke, Don’s plan came together in his mind. If Tolbert agreed to be bait, then perhaps they could catch the killer in a web of deceit. But that was for the big dogs to decide. Don knew full well that the killer would see his trap, but that was okay. Don was throwing down the gauntlet, challenging the killer to come take his prize. This tactic not only worked—it was responsible for the resolution of many cases. Never underestimate the arrogance of a psychopath. If Don’s instincts were right, Frost would make a move on Tolbert knowing full well it was a trap. Don finished his coffee and hoped the Tolbert situation would become irrelevant. When the samples from Frost’s home lab were identified as the chimera, all the games would be over. Don headed for the admin building, where he would have his morning

148 | Edward J. McFadden III briefing with President Dilworth and a status report from security, then on to the big dogs to decide the next course of action. Don hoped the results of the tests on Frost’s samples were ready by then—that would make the decisions they needed to make much easier. The mountain breeze had died away, and Don felt the early heat of a fall day in upstate New York. How long would it be before these ultra-intelligent people started balking, refusing to do what they were told? Locking up the entire campus would solve nothing, and the more confusion created by the small occupation, the longer and harder things were going to be. Don laughed, reminding himself that logic didn’t mean anything when things went bad. Don had seen loving family members turn on each other like rabid dogs to save their pitiful lives, to hold on to whatever small power or happiness they had. That’s what made Don’s job so hard—people. Humans were by nature vindictive, competitive, and combative. These instincts had shaped the way civilization had formed since the beginning of time. But with Don’s pessimism, he kept a healthy stock of optimism. While he was much less apt to reveal his optimism, he felt that it was equally important as pessimism. Pessimism was important because it fought back apathy. “Question everything,” his father would say. “Even the things you are sure to be true, because very often those certainties you hold dear can be shattered.” As Don made his way across the quad and through the glass doors of the admin building, he didn’t see another person. The Babylon campus had been teeming with life when he had arrived, and now it was a ghost town, many of its inhabitants hiding in their rooms like scared children. They had been informed that the virus didn’t live in the air and couldn’t be transmitted by breathing the air or sitting on a dirty toilet seat, but that didn’t

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 149 stop the human mind from concocting scenarios that had people worrying about the water that came out of their bathroom faucets. When Don arrived at President Dilworth’s office, he was surprised to see Agent Gary and Agent Royal waiting patiently in the guest chairs outside Dilworth’s office. There was no greeting, no good morning, no how the hell are you. The two men simply rose as Don walked past them and fell in behind him as he addressed the young woman sitting at a desk outside Dilworth’s office. “Is President Dilworth ready for his daily briefing?” asked Don. The girl looked worried, and she bit her lip, her eyes squinting. “I’m afraid he’s in the middle of . . .” Don cut her off. “Tell him the morning briefing team was here and that there was nothing to report and that I’ll be in touch later,” said Don, moving away from the reception desk. “Sure thing, Agent Oberbier.” The door to the president’s conference room stood open, and Don asked, “Sherry, can we use the conference room for a few minutes?” She looked over her shoulder at the closed door that opened on the president’s suite and said, “Sure.” Don, Gary, and Royal sat around the president’s conference table, the large flat screen TV mounted on one wall staring at them like a large black cyclops eye. A credenza rested against one wall; a tray of crystal glasses and two thermoses containing coffee and cold water rested atop the smooth surface. The painting above the credenza showed two knights in full armor locked in battle, and Don recognized it as a famous painting, but didn’t recall its name. On the other side of the room, there were four pedestals containing student-created busts of Babylon University’s last four presidents, including Dilworth.

150 | Edward J. McFadden III Gary spoke first, his urgency revealed in the speediness of his speech. “I need to know where we are,” he said, and Don could tell he was getting impatient. “There are children of some very important people at this school.” Don rubbed his forehead and stared at the ground. “Do you know Senator Chelsing’s daughter was one of the four we arrested last night?” Don laughed, “No, I didn’t recognize the name.” “I’m glad you think it’s funny but we—” “We gotta get out of this . . .” Don held up his hand as he reached for his phone. “Oberbier,” said Don, knowing it was the lab from the caller ID, but putting on the professionalism show for the bosses. Don watched Gary and Royal, as he listened to the agent at the other end of the line time seemed to stand still. “You’re ninety-nine-point-five percent sure,” said Don after several long moments, rolling his eyes at Gary and Royal. “Great, that’s just great.” Don broke the connection and slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Bad news?” asked Royal. “You could say that,” answered Don. “Then do . . . say it,” said Gary, his temper clear. Don remembered that these were people whose buttons you didn’t press. Their buttons were covered with those metal protective bands to keep from getting pushed, and anyone who went out of their way to press them anyway got crushed to dust. “My big report just got blown to hell,” said Don, wiping his face with his hands. “Okay, talk. We don’t have time for the wounded dove shit,” said Gary, his keen eyes boring into Don, the deep gray pupils unnerving. “I was all set to tell you how I found a secret laboratory at Dr. Frost’s private residence and that the samples I found there matched the Black Death chimera,” blurted Don, his frustration knocking him off his game. He knew he couldn’t discuss the real

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 151 detail of the case with these men—he couldn’t discuss anything with these men. They represented a Black Hand so large that Don respected its power. “But they don’t,” said Royal. “I’ve known this for two hours.” Suddenly he was pissed, his rage building in him from a lack of sleep, food, and relaxation. “If you know everything already, why do we bother with these stupid-ass meetings? I could be running leads, trying to—” “We gotta get . . .” Don pulled his phone from his pocket again and answered it. “Yes!” he snapped. Silence. Gary and Royal watched Don, who rose and paced back and forth across the conference room. “Be right there,” said Don. “What?” asked Gary. “What? An unexpected number five,” answered Don.

TWENTY-FIVE

D

on was surprised to see Gary and Royal trailing behind him as he made his way around the Ishtar Gate. The biology building loomed in the distance, and Don longed to make the arrest that would end the case. There had been a death in Frost’s lab, and unless it was the best story Don had ever heard, Frost was losing some of his rights. “Unlikely fifth?” questioned Gary, as he caught up to Don, keeping pace with him. “William Brath, on the list. No idea how he was infected with the pathogen. James Sandower, infected with the pathogen via an ultra high-tech mini-device that was discovered accidentally during autopsy. Number three was a Jane Doe until I discovered the doctored alumni directory. I was able to get the name Dytmer, and Terri Dytmer was identified. Still getting information on her, but method of infection is unknown. Four was Herbert Gagine, on the list, which I discovered a little too late.” Don paused, looking to the overcast sky, dark clouds blowing across the mountaintops. “Method of infection unknown. Those are the dead.” Don stopped and turned to face Gary and Royal. “Among the living are Dr. Tolbert, who is scheduled to come here and speak in less than twenty-four hours. He has agreed to come and speak—is quit adamant about it, actually—and he is willing to be bait for our little game of catch the killer.” Gary showed no emotion, but Royal let a thin smile crease his face.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 153 “I like it,” said Royal. “He’ll know it’s a trap, but most criminals return to the scene of the crime. Perhaps our guy likes the challenge.” That was the way Don had seen it as well, but he didn’t let on, and after a sort silence, he said, “The sixth name is baffling everyone, most likely a decoy of some kind,” lied Don. He would tell the higher ups about the anagram when he was good and ready. The first person he would tell would be Cam, because he had earned that much respect at least. Without his knowledge of Babylon, Don would have been a few steps further behind than he was now, and his relationship with Gwen made him even more valuable. It was the young man’s character, however, that made Don like him. “You sure this Tolbert can handle what he might be put through? That his life would be in danger, and that he might be killed? Or worse, contract the disease?” asked Royal. Don didn’t answer. “How is the suspect tied to all these victims?” asked Gary. “She’s not. In fact, she has been released due to lack of evidence. And before you ask, I asked the locals to make a show of her release so word would get around,” said Don. “I’ve tied her to Gagine, possibly Brath, but you could tie half the campus to Brath. No motive on Dytmer or Tolbert that we know of.” “Anyone else?” asked Royal. “Frost, the guy who has the chimera pathogen somewhere, but I have been unable to locate it. He saw James Sandower hours before he was infected. He and Brath had many epic battles known by many on campus, same with Gagine. So far no tie to Dytmer, but I still know very little about her other than her basics.” “And Tolbert?” asked Gary.

154 | Edward J. McFadden III “Old adversaries who masquerade as colleagues,” said Don. “Funny thing is, Frost will be the first person Tolbert is likely to go see when he arrives on campus.” “We’ll stop that,” said Royal. “I don’t know. Tolbert can blow the whole operation at any time, so I’m trying to be accommodating. I’ll be present if possible. At worst, our people will be there,” said Don. “Let me think on it,” said Gary, as he opened the front door of the biology building for Don. Don’s agents controlled Frost’s lab and had been keeping him there for two days. The scientist was angry beyond his ability to express, and when Don passed Cam—who waited outside the main door for him—he said, “Don’t push him too hard today. He’s close to snapping. I think it would be a good idea to use your tricorder.” “Way ahead of you,” said Don, gesturing toward his black satchel. “What do I have here, Cam?” Apparently, Cam had also been in the lab complex when the alleged murder had occurred. Either the young man was always in the wrong place at the wrong time, or Don’s character assessment software had malfunctioned. “Don’t know,” answered Cam with a shrug. “He was in the high security lab when all the alarms sounded. He claims there’s a dead body in there with him. Your guys got pretty mad after they called you, so I think something’s fishy.” The boy’s instincts were uncanny, and Don wondered what he would be like after he learned a thing or two. Security locks buzzed as they made their way through the lab, Don’s eyes scanning the place like he had never been there before, searching for new clues. Things sure as hell did smell fishy, more fishy than an outgoing Cape Cod Bay tide. “Where are the rest of the lost boys?” asked Don. Then waved his hand. “Forget that, I remember. They’re all in their rooms.” Don came to a stop outside the maximum security lab where two

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 155 of his agents waited. Beyond that air-locked, sealed door was where Frost had tried to kill some of the strongest pathogens known to man. Before Don could begin questioning Cam and his agents, Frost pushed through the large door, surprising them all. He wore a white lab coat and was yelling, “I knew that would get you down here, you shit. You think you can lock me up, make me a prisoner in my own lab? I know my rights and—” “Are you kidding me!” yelled Don. “You telling me no one is dead?” Frost laughed and said, “Who said anyone was dead. I never said anyone was dead. I said you were going to be dead when I got my hands on you. Your guys are such drama queens. Accuse me of living for death and that’s the only thing that gets you freaks excited.” Don stood brisling with anger, his mind racing. The man had gotten him, bested him in a way Don rarely got bested. He could lock Frost up for what he had done, but Don didn’t think that would help the investigation much, so he decided to go the other way. “Look, everyone has been in lockdown mode. You can leave the lab with one of my people, go anywhere on campus you want.” “With a guard? Am I under arrest?” asked Frost, meeting Don's gaze. “For your protection,” said Don. “Not necessary.” “I insist. You’re important to the investigation,” said Don, and Frost harrumphed, stomping past Don and almost running into Cam as he stood listening behind the half-closed door. “You with him now, are you?” said Frost, and if his eyes could shoot fire, Cam would have been burned to cinders.

156 | Edward J. McFadden III “Don’t be crazy. What do you want me to do?” asked Cam, but Frost stalked off, leaving Cam and Don alone outside the top security laboratory. “You guys ever have a fight? Any reason Frost might not trust you?” asked Don, staring at Cam as he leaned against the wall, watching Frost disappear down the hall through the small observation window in the door. “Not really. Nothing he could know about, anyway,” said Cam. “You sure?” asked Don, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Might be important.” Don looked away. “Te Znerol— Znerol is Lorenz spelled backward. The Te is just to throw everyone off.” Cam’s eyes grew glassy, and Don could see his mind churning through all the possibilities, none of them good. “Why would he want to kill me? I’ve done everything the fucker has asked,” mumbled Cam, his voice breaking like burning firewood. “You said before ‘what he knew about’ . . . what might he not know about?” asked Don, trying to steady the young man. “There was this girl he was seeing, Terri, and when I met her I kind of, well, I did something I shouldn’t have done,” said Cam, but he didn’t sound too convincing. “You and Gwen weren’t married, Cam. You slept with the Doc’s girl?” pushed Don. “It was after they broke up, and she graduated and left campus. There’s no way he could know,” said Cam. “That it?” “Applied to work in a few other labs, but again, nothing he should really know about or care about.” “Don’t know,” said Don, seeing a motive form in his mind. “He trusts you in his house, and to run his lab, and if he got wind of you trying to leave Babylon U, he would have felt betrayed, I

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 157 think. Even if you never really considered it. The fact that you hadn’t talked to him would make it worse.” “So he’ll kill me for that? That’s your case?” said Cam. “If he is killing people, who’s to say what’s motivating him? Maybe he snapped, and he’s killing people who he feels slighted him. Everyone on that list fits that description now that you’ve told me about Terri.” “What?” asked Cam, concerned. “Terri was victim number 3, the girl we found in that weird student project,” said Don. He was sharing more than he should with Cam, but he needed to work things trough, and Cam was in this up to his eyes anyway. “No,” said Cam. He looked distraught. He’s starting to come apart, thought Don. Why did you bring him in? “She was . . .” He didn’t seem to know what to say. “Frost reminded her of her father,” said Cam between partial sobs. “Classic Freudian bullshit.” “Nothing you can do now but help me stop the crazy bastard who’s doing all this. If it’s Frost, I’ll see to it that your new graduate mentor is of higher character,” said Don. “You believe Frost’s the killer? I can’t see it. I know he’s angry, but he couldn’t hurt a fly,” said Cam. “Which Frost? The one before his daughter died, or the one after?” asked Don, knowing this would shut the boy down. A long silence followed before Cam said, “So it’s me and Tolbert, and that would make six little Indians all in a row . . .” Cam’s voice trailed off. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Yeah, report to the med tent ASAP and get scanned again. I want to make sure you still don’t have one of those metal things in you. If you’re clean, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Tolbert after he was cleared: keep the eyes on the back of your head open.”

TWENTY-SIX

D

r. Allen Tolbert wasn’t what Don had expected. The man was no more than fifty, with black hair that was graying at the edges. He was not the old wrinkled figure Don had drawn on his mental chalkboard of generalities. A professor of biology and anatomy, Tolbert was more of a “doctor” than a PhD. He had been a field surgeon in the army at age twenty four—not a record, but close—and he had been around the world more times than he could remember. He wore jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt with a brown sport coat—no patches on the sleeves. He strode directly up to Don and said, “Agent Oberbier, pleasure to meet you.” No hesitation whatsoever, and that impressed Don. “So you going to let me help you catch this crazy shit? Or are you going to be a bureaucrat?” “The first one,” said Don. Tolbert extended his hand, and Don shook it. “You mind if I walk with you? Ask you a few questions? I hope it wasn’t much of a hassle getting through the quarantine checkup.” Tolbert said, “I’ve never been checked out like that before, but it will be worth it if we can get this guy.” Then he paused for a moment as he turned, observing Cam as the young man pulled Tolbert’s bags from a Babylon security vehicle. Tolbert knelt, picked up his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. Once the pack was safely secured, he said to Don, “Oh, and sure, walk with me. My talk isn’t until 4 p.m., and it’s only what . . .” he looked at his watch, an old army field unit with a tattered band. “It’s two

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 159 o’clock now, and I have to meet Frost at 3:30—so I have some time. I really need to see the president also.” “How about some coffee, on me, then I’ll escort you personally to President Dilworth?” asked Don, but of course he wasn’t really asking, he was politely telling. “Good by me,” said Tolbert, and Don headed into his tent village. Once in the small hospitality tent, Don and Tolbert sat down and ordered, a mug of coffee for Don, a glass of tea for Tolbert. In some ways, that said everything about the upcoming conversation. “So I’ll jump right in,” said Don. “Any ideas why you’d be on the killer’s alumni directory list?” “Yeah, Frost told me about that. You figure out how that was pulled off?” asked Tolbert, answering a question with a question. Don sighed. He hated questioning people who used the same tricks as he did; it unnerved him. He had been taught that in situations where the suspect was a lawyer, or someone skilled at unraveling questions, to be persistent and not to back down. “Frost. How could he have told you? He didn’t know when we started the quarantine,” said Don. “Ah, but he did. Heard it from one of his slaves, and he passed it on,” said Tolbert. Feeling he had scored a point, Tolbert was now ready to answer Don’s question. “Anyway, there are many people who hate me, Agent Oberbier. Students who didn’t get their Ph.D.’s because of me. Three ex-wives, ex-colleagues, a mountain of university administrators, and I could go on. Not unlike Frost, I’m not exactly popular.” “But Harvard keeps you around because you have four grants totaling more than twenty million dollars. Right?” asked Don. “It’s more like twenty-three-point-seven-five million, but yes, when you bring in that kind of cash, you can do whatever you want.” “How long have you known Frost?” asked Don, reaching.

160 | Edward J. McFadden III “Since dirt was invented. We worked as graduate students in the same lab at Yale, and we’ve been . . .” Tolbert hesitated, appearing to choose his next word carefully, “colleagues . . . we’ve been colleagues since then.” “Not friends?” pushed Don. “No, not as I define the word. We are friends in that you keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We are competitors more than we are friends.” “But don’t you publish together all the time?” “When it suits our purposes, yes,” said Tolbert. “Have you thought about what I proposed?” asked Don. “I see no choice,” said Tolbert. “I am going to speak anyway. I don’t see how you having your men shadow me is going to change anything I do here,” he said, drinking his tea. Then he reached back, pulled a water bottle from its pocket on the side of his backpack, and took a long drink. “I trust I’ll be protected while on stage?” “I believe your biggest risk is being in close proximity to people, who could poke, jab, prick, whatever . . . also, what you eat. Nothing to eat here on out.” Tolbert nodded. “Anything else?” “Actually, yes,” said Don. “Would you mind being scanned again? One of the victims had a small metal device in his body that we believe delivered the Black Death chimera.” “Again, doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.” “Yeah,” said Don, and the two men finished their drinks in silence. ***** Don accompanied Tolbert to President Dilworth’s office, but that was as eventful as church on a Saturday afternoon. Then Don held back, let Tolbert go see Frost in his faculty office on the third floor of the biology building with one of his agents watching their every move. Whatever Frost meant to tell Tolbert, he would never

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 161 speak freely in front of Don. Probably not in front on any of his men, either. The report of their discussion had been basic: Tolbert’s talk, verification and discussion of some last minute data. They hadn’t discussed Don, or anything else of relevance that Don could discern. The two men had known each other for years, and if they wished to communicate without Don or his people knowing what they were really saying, there was nothing Don could do about it. Frost would get a formal acknowledgement from Tolbert at the start of the speech, and the paper Tolbert would be referencing in his talk carried Frost’s name as well as his own. This meant a lot to both men, and thus they tolerated each other’s idiosyncrasies. Had they not pooled their data and finds, the conclusions they had drawn would have taken years longer to develop. Both men were growing bored with the details of the data when a merger had been suggested by Cam, a primary benefactor of the deal. Instead of having to crunch reams of data, what they already had done was combined with Tolbert’s work, giving them enough to publish. In an unusual display of delegation, Don seated himself in the student union ballroom and waited for Tolbert to enter the hall. All reports from his team had been normal, and so far there had been nothing out of the ordinary. He had several agents in the room, and they attempted to blend in as best they could, but he still had a cinder block in the pit of his stomach. He could almost feel the whole situation going bad before his very eyes, but he could do nothing. His various hunches hadn’t provided him with anything more than jumpy nerves, and without any proof, he had to let Frost attend the talk. Don scanned the room, appraising every face, watching for any sign of something unusual, but there was nothing. People were filing in, and many of them glanced around with the same uneasiness Don felt. Everyone knew their presence at the speech

162 | Edward J. McFadden III was an act of defiance aimed at the killer. They all were almost daring whoever wielded the Black Death chimera to strike down a fifth victim, give them the show they came to see. Don rubbed his hands together, and a sharp pain ran down his back. The killer had no doubt planned everything around Tolbert’s talk. It had been on the books months in advance, and Tolbert would only be on campus for a short period of time. The killer would have known that up front, yet he still chose to tell the world—using the alumni directory as a megaphone—that he planned to take out the world-renowned professor. Don could see Frost several tables over, his eyes focused on the podium. Two of Don’s men stood in the shadows behind him. Then the lights dimmed, and a voice came over the PA system: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.” Pause. “Please welcome National Science Academy member Dr. Allen Tolbert.” The crowd rose, clapping as Tolbert made his way onto the stage. His backpack was still slung over his shoulder and his face looked tired, his eye sockets dark. The crowd stirred as Tolbert took his place behind the lectern. He looked uneasy, the gravity of his situation striking him with stage fright. He looked out over the crowd, wondering if the person who wanted him dead was out there. He smiled at President Dilworth, who sat in front of the stage. Then Tolbert’s eyes found Frost’s, and the two men looked hard at one another as the fidgeting of the crowd died away. Don’s gaze shifted between Frost and Tolbert, and it looked as though there was a line of fire drawn between the two men’s eyes. Don could feel the uneasiness in the room. The hall was only half full, all of the invited off-campus guests having been denied access to the campus, a list that included the governor of New York and various other important people. Even the people who helped support Tolbert’s research, and who were eager to learn of his new discoveries, hadn’t been allowed to come on campus.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 163 They would have to read about Tolbert’s speech on the internet and in the journals like everyone else. Tolbert and Frost knew how to command an audience, and they always announced new discoveries via talks. This often left the scientific world wondering what they were up to for months on end, which was exactly what they wanted. Tolbert—usually a solid speaker—constantly wiped at his brow with a handkerchief, he eyes darting about room, scanning his audience. He stepped to the podium and dropped his backpack beside him. He adjusted the microphone and said, “Good afternoon, thank you for coming.” He reached down and pulled his notes from his backpack, wiping the sweat from his brow again as he did so. “Today I’ll be chronicling the history of cancer, tracking it back as far as ancient Babylon.” He looked around, the crowd and bright lights pulling more sweat from his body. Tolbert reached down again, pulled his water bottle from the side of his backpack, and lifted it to his lips. In that instant, the pieces of the cosmic puzzle came together, and Don screamed, startling the spectators around him. “No!” he yelled, as he ran forward, weaving in and out of the tables like he was on an obstacle course. But it was too late. Tolbert staggered back, grabbing his neck and coughing violently. Then, with a squeal that was more terror than pain, he fell forward onto the lectern, and then crumpled to the ground. Shrieks and yells ensued, and everyone started yelling and running for the exits at once. Don stood, watching Tolbert’s body decay before his eyes.

TWENTY-SEVEN

S

everal faculty and staff formed a loose circle around what was left of Dr. Tolbert, and they covered their noses with their hands, shirt sleeves, anything they could use to block the smell. When Don reached them, he ordered everyone to stay back, touch nothing. Then he pulled a paper napkin from his pocket and gently lifted Tolbert’s water bottle, closed the sport top, and placed it upright on the lectern. That’s when Don thought of Frost. Looking around the small auditorium, he could see Frost leaving through the rear entrance, a couple of people still in front of him. There were four and five people trying to squeeze through a doorway that had been designed for two, and this slowed the throng’s exit. Don’s men looked to him for instructions and Don decided to let the hall empty. Frost was a hundred feet from where Don stood, but with the crowd between them, there would be no time to stop Frost without causing even more panic. Stop him for what? Don pulled his phone free. “Hank. Apprehend Frost. Hold him until I can speak with him.” Don clicked off and slid the phone into his pocket. Large dark patches were sprouting all over Tolbert’s face, hands, and neck: everywhere there was exposed skin. The man no longer yelled, his insides having already been destroyed, the evidence of which was already seeping in tiny rivulets onto the stage. The man’s eyes were moving, like maggots feasted within, and large rents began popping and sputtering open all over the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 165 dead scientist. His eye sockets caved in, eyes gone. His belly began falling in on itself, and the color of his body was now changing from blood red to black, and the Black Death wasn’t done. The skin on Tolbert’s face began to melt, and that sent several of the remaining spectators running, puking and dry-heaving as they went. Then the stench came on in earnest, the smell hitting Don like a wall, and he staggered back, bringing his arm up before his nose. He coughed, then gagged, and almost lost his lunch. Cam appeared next to Don, and he stared down at the decaying body with horror, but couldn’t look away. Like a car wreck, Cam’s eyes were drawn to the fast-forward decomposition. “You know where Frost went?” asked Don, barely able to keep from gagging again. “No,” said Cam absently. He was in a daze, finally succumbing to the events that had rocked his world over the last few days. He looked lost, not the strong scientist-to-be any longer, but a frightened young man who saw his world deteriorating before his eyes. Don shook him by the shoulders. “Listen up! Not the time to check out on me. I need your help.” Cam nodded, shaking the cobwebs from his head. “Yes, anything. Whatever you need.” “Go back to your dorm room and . . .” said Don and stopped, his mind churning. “Scratch that. Go to the tent village. I’ll leave word so you can go to my tent. Go there and stay there. Don’t leave for any reason. I'll call you after we wrap up here. Can you do that?” “I thought you needed my help. Can’t I do something?” “You’ll be helping me very much if I don’t have to worry about a sixth victim right now,” said Don, his gaze shifting to the blackened husk of a human corpse that had recently been Dr. Tolbert. The decomposition had slowed, since most of the doctor’s

166 | Edward J. McFadden III insides and skin had already turned to dust, but it was still a gruesome sight to see. “Get going,” Don said to Cam. “I’ll send an agent with you as a bodyguard.” Cam started to protest, and Don said, “No way I’m letting him get you. One of my men will be your shadow. No questions.” Cam nodded. “Good, now go.” As Don watched Cam leave, he saw three of his men enter the hall wearing blue decontamination suits. When they arrived at the stage and began to inflate the portable quarantine station, Don said, “Wait just a minute.” Blood thinned by water leeched from the body, creating a small pool all about the fallen scientist. Eyes and ears gone, skin nothing more that black leather, Don looked at the decaying body with remorse. This one was his fault. Letting Tolbert go see Frost right before the lecture had been a mistake. He must have switched Tolbert’s water bottle, thought Don. The stuff flourishes in water. But what proof do I have that Frost put it in the water bottle? Frost was the only one who could connect all the dots. Where Gwen and the others might fit in, he didn’t know; there were still pieces missing. If Frost could prove he was somewhere else when Brath was killed, that would be problematic. No metal delivery device had been found in Brath, and unless there was a method of infection unknown to him, someone would have had to infect him. A thought sent a chill down Don’s spine: what if Frost and Gwen were working together? Don was interrupted by President Dilworth calling his name. Dilworth approached Don, then stopped in his tracks as he got close to the body. The man’s face was so pale that Don could see blue blood vessels pulsing beneath his skin. His eyes were wild, and his hands shook as he stood watching Don’s men secure the body. “How did you let this happen? We’ve been patient, and accommodated your every wish. We haven’t seen our families,

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 167 and this is the best you can do? You knew this man was a target and yet you let him die without so much as a whimper!” Dilworth was raising his voice now, and all the agents in the room had stopped their work to look at the small man. To everyone’s surprise, Don didn’t go back at the man. In fact, Don looked calm, his face showing no sign that what Dilworth had said bothered him. Then, to everyone’s surprise Don said, “This one’s on me, you got that right.” Silence feel, and Dilworth’s gaze shifted from what was left of Tolbert to Don. His lips quivered as his mind raced, looking for the next angle of attack, but he couldn’t find one. Don had shut him down. “Now, as to the rest, that can’t be helped. You think I like being here? Dealing with your whiny bullshit every day? I’m trying to save lives, maybe your life, and all you do is try to piss on me?” Don was angry now, and it was clear the president was going to get several days of frustration thrown back in his face. “If I had a million years . . .” started Don, then his grimace disappeared, and Don reined in his anger. “I’m sorry," he said finally, and someone gasped. Don had just apologized. “I’m just as frustrated as you are.” This seemed to appease Dilworth, and the man said, “Yes. I’m sorry also. I’m sure you have many other things to do than listen to me rant about things neither of us can control.” The two men stood in silence for a few moments before Don said, “Listen. I think things are coming to a head, and all this will be over soon. Go back to your office and sit tight for just a little bit longer. I’ll be up to see you.” “You know who did this?” he asked. For a moment, Don considered telling him about Frost, and that—barring some unforeseen event in the next few hours—Don intended to arrest the president’s longtime friend and charge him with Tolbert’s murder. Don decided against it for two reasons:

168 | Edward J. McFadden III First, Dilworth would probably run and tell Frost. Second, even as he worked the case in his head, he realized he still had very little physical evidence to support his case. The fact that someone changed Tolbert’s water bottle appeared to be fact. But saying Frost had done it was pure conjecture at this point. Don finally said, “Just a few new ideas, nothing in stone yet.” “Very well then,” said Dilworth. “You have a few more hours, and then I need to take matters into my own hands. The quarantine has gone on long enough.” Don nodded. He had no energy left to fight with this man, and knew his threat was in vain anyway. There was nothing the president could do. Dilworth spun on his heel and headed for the closest exit, never looking back. For the first time since he had met him, Don had respect for the Poe-ish president. In all their dealings, the short fat man had been complacent, and he had let Don do whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to do it. That was nothing unusual, as Don was used to intimidating people and having his every wish become a command. The fact that Dilworth was supposed to be a leader and have full control over the campus . . . well, Don guessed what had happened the last few days had caused the president to rethink his skill set and decide to let the professionals do what they did best. Don closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths and trying to calm himself, and opened them again when he heard the sound of the quarantine container sealing. One of Don’s agents had arrived with a gurney, and they placed the portable quarantine atop it and began wheeling it away. Another agent placed Tolbert’s water bottle in a specimen container and sealed it. Within, Don expected they would find the Black Death chimera. Then Don remembered the report Washington had given him on the chimera, how it survived, and in some cases even grew, in water. Had there been a water bottle on Gagine’s desk? Had that been how the building manager had been killed? He made a mental note to

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 169 check it out, if it even mattered after the events of the next few hours. Don pondered the idea that Tolbert’s talk was the beginning of the end, the crescendo that Frost had been planning for. If he could stop that last murder, catch Frost in the act, or at least get enough evidence to lock him up, perhaps he would feel better about how things had gone at Babylon U, because at the moment, he wasn’t feeling too great about his lack of progress. He had played cat and mouse, and the mouse had won. The setting sun cast rays of pale light through the skylights above, and shadows danced across the empty seats. Trash and personal effects could still be seen on seats, empty glasses lay on the floor, and an occasional abandoned jacket or handbag could be seen. Don closed his eyes again, hoping that when he opened them, he would find that the last few days had been nothing more than a dream.

TWENTY-EIGHT

C

am stared though the bottom of his glass as he drained his second beer. His nerves were shot, and the thought of Frost as a killer kept replaying in his head like a broken record that refused to give up the ghost. What would he do? He didn’t have the energy and drive to start again, and as Frost said, if he went down, all his graduate students would go down. Yet Cam trusted Don, and he believed the government man would do his best to help Cam when things went south, but he was uncomfortable relying on that. All his adult life he had tried to pull his own weight, make his own decisions. If he failed, it was his fault, but this current situation was beyond even his most pessimistic of evaluations and was certainly out of his hands—for better or worse. Then there was Gwen, the first women he could honestly say he had loved, and he had let Frost break them up. She had taken it hard, and when Cam had tried to reach out to her over the last few weeks, he had met with her patented coldness, the likes of which could turn the Caribbean into a deep freeze. What Cam also liked to think about was the heat. He had been with three women before Gwen. Rose, his high school sweetheart, who now had two kids and was married to a computer technician in northern California. Rose had been on the fast track to a settled-down home life that Cam had feared so much he had walked away from their three-year relationship. He often wondered if he had done the right thing, and thought about what it might be like living a normal, peaceful life with Rose. Then there was Darlene and

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 171 Wendy, two girls he had met and dated briefly at Babylon U. None of the three had come close to the love making he and Gwen had shared. As if on cue, Cam’s cell phone buzzed, and he looked at the phone quizzically, then remembered his phone still worked on campus phone to phone direct. “Yes,” said Cam. He peered through the doorway of Don’s tent as he answered the phone, watching his bodyguard talking with an attractive female soldier who had emerged from the tent across from Don’s. “It’s Gwen. Where are you?” The sound of her voice choked him up, and for a minute he couldn’t speak. She used to do that to him all the time, call him or show up right after he was talking about her, or thinking of her. He considered hanging up the phone, pretending he hadn’t heard the caller, static filling the line and all that. Instead, he surprised himself and said, “How are you?” “Okay, I guess. They let me out. Finally figured out I have nothing to do with this whole thing, but I’m still stuck here on campus, quarantined like everyone else so they can watch us like rats.” Cam chuckled. “Well, it all should be over soon. You hear what happened at Dr. Tolbert’s speech?” “Yeah. Nothing stops the grapevine,” she said, and there was a long pause. Then she added, “I’m scared, Cam. I mean really scared. I know we’re not together anymore, but . . .” Her voice trailed away. “Where are you?” asked Cam. “In my office, basically hiding from the world. Why? Will you come? Please, Cam, I need you,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, and turning sultry. Despite all the chaos, the death, the uncertain future, Cam was still assured of one thing: he was male. He felt himself get slightly aroused as he listened to Gwen’s voice and pictured her naked

172 | Edward J. McFadden III body in his mind’s eye. Perhaps they were salvageable, especially with Frost going down. Maybe they could remake what they had so deliberately torn down, build the life they had often talked about as they lay sweat-soaked in Cam’s dorm room. “I don’t think that’s . . .” Gwen kicked up the ante. “Please, I need to talk to you. Tell you things that I need to get off my chest. And . . . I’m still attracted to you. Did you know that?” That last piece of information made Cam stand, the fights of the past few weeks a distant memory. “On my way,” he said, and closed his phone. Cam peered out of the tent again, and now his bodyguard, Danny, was in a full blown conversation with the attractive young soldier. Both their hands moved, and they focused on each other as they spoke, laughing and joking like they knew each other well. Cam slipped through the door of Don’s tent, made a sharp right turn, and disappeared between Don’s tent and the one next to his. Carefully, being as quiet as he could, he traversed the tent village until he reached a main thoroughfare, and then he simply walked confidently out of the tent village with a wave to the guard. Don had told him to stay put, and the last thing Agent Oberbier needed at the moment was another thing to worry about, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. ***** Gwen was freshening her makeup when Cam’s silhouette filled her doorway. The office was quiet; most of her fellow administrators hiding out in a secure dormitory normally used for visiting sports teams. The hallway lights were off, and shadows filled every corner, but Gwen could still see the longing in Cam’s eyes. Sexually, she was far his superior, and she often had felt as though she was teaching him things when they were together, and though Cam would never admit it, she had been. He entered

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 173 her office and seated himself before her desk, not saying a word. In that moment, as he looked on her, their entire relationship came rushing back in a flood. Cam had decided that there had been more good times than bad, and wondered if what he had done, at Frost’s recommendation—no, insistence—had been the right thing to do. He missed her, and he hadn’t realized that until that moment, watching her fix her makeup behind her desk. “You look well, considering,” she said, rising from behind her desk and sitting in the guest chair beside him, letting the slit in her skirt fall open, revealing her legs. “You also,” he said, unable to not notice the top two buttons of her white blouse were undone, revealing cleavage that Cam wanted to dive into. “Did the police treat you well?” he asked, trying to make conversation. Gwen uncrossed and crossed her legs, doing her best to give Cam a Sharon Stone look. This made Cam feel uncomfortable. He had no intention of sleeping with her, not now, and not here. Babylon University was coming apart at the seams, and the last thing he needed was to get caught screwing a prime suspect in a murder investigation on her desk. Plus, part of his discomfort stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t buying her act. Over the last two months, Gwen had called him every derogatory name in the book, saying he wasn’t a man, but a boy. A boy who lived by Frost’s rules, not his own. Those criticisms had stung Cam, because he knew in his heart of hearts that Gwen was right. He had let Frost break them apart, and for no good reason other than Frost wanted Cam’s sole and undivided attention. Now, in the shadows of the deepening evening, Cam saw through Gwen’s manipulation. He was no dog, and he wouldn't come running just to sniff a butt. He had come to her because he feared for her, wanted to help her, and possibly still loved her.

174 | Edward J. McFadden III Yes, he had been moved by attraction, but her attempt to seduce him with no apparent explanation as to why she had changed her ways raised a red flag so high that Cam couldn’t ignore it. Yet he hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t be there, knowing he should get up and leave the way he had come. The little voice inside his head that usually warned him of impending danger was screaming “Get Out! Get Out!” but Cam couldn’t. He knew Gwen had an ulterior motive for bringing him here, and as much as he wanted to believe it was because she was horny, he knew she had another purpose. “Listen, I appreciate you trying, but what is it you need to tell me?” said Cam, looking out the window, away from her shapely legs and full breasts. She turned to ice in an instant. Gathering her skirt, she rose with a flourish, pushing past Cam, and sat behind her desk. She was furious; that was clear from her red cheeks and ice cube eyes. She wasn’t used to getting rejected, and certainly not by the likes of an emotional child like Cam. She was used to flashing a smile, maybe a wink, and showing a little cleavage to get just about anything she wanted. She had done this since she was a young girl, ever since she had learned that her tits could evoke more of a response than anything she could possibly say. Men were shallow beings, period. When she spoke, there was no inflection in her voice, no emotion. “Well, I see your little pecker isn’t up to the task, not that it ever was,” she said, the words leaving her mouth like flames from a flamethrower. She meant to hurt him, bring him down a peg or two from the white tower she believed he lived in. “Never heard any complaints before,” said Cam, noticeably embarrassed. “Oh, yes, the high school virgin, and the two students whose grades you controlled. Yeah, you’re a real man of the world, just like your buddy, Frost.”

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 175 “He’s not my buddy,” said Cam. “He thinks he is,” said Gwen, smiling her “I know something you don’t know” smile. “Frost? What do you know of Frost? You’ve hardly spoken two words to him,” said Cam, now angry. “Oh, but I have,” she said. “We have had many talks about you, about how he was going to get you back for me.” Cam was stunned. If she was telling the truth, he knew he and Frost were done. Regardless of how things turned out, if Frost had been manipulating Gwen, he would be way over the line. Cam rose to leave, and as he did so, he said, “We’re done. I come here to be nice, to try to help you, and you act like a total ass.” She looked lost now, confused, almost as if things were not going according to the script she had written. “Cam, don’t be that way.” Her eyes focused on something Cam couldn’t see, and her dazed expression unnerved him. When she continued, he felt a zap of pain run down his spine. “It was for you that I gave up my life, killed a man I didn’t know for a reason I didn’t understand.” “I can’t even look at you,” muttered Cam, and Gwen came forward, trying to take his hand in hers, but he pulled away. “Love untested is not true love,” said Gwen, her eyes locked on Cam’s. Emotion tore at her features, her pretty mouth twisted, her eyes wide with rage. “This is our test.”

TWENTY-NINE

C

am’s mouth feel open a crack, his mind a jumble of conflicting emotions that twisted his heart and made him consider irrational possibilities. Problem was, none of the possibilities were good, and he struggled to find the silver lining in a very dark cloud. “What the hell are you talking about?” he spat, all pretense of politeness and caring gone. Cam had always known that Gwen was damaged; she had an alcoholic, abusive father and a weak mother who watched the mistreatment and did nothing—but in that moment he came to understand just how damaged she was. He had seen it before, of course—no one had the ability to acknowledge the main weaknesses of their loved ones, because that would require an honest appraisal of one’s self. “Brath,” she said, her lost look returning. “He said if I did what he wanted, he would make you come back to me. Tell you he had been wrong and make you patch things up.” “So you murdered someone? You had to know that would get you locked up, and that I would never see you again, let alone be with you,” he said. “Tell me everything, quickly.” Then Cam pulled his cell phone from a pocket and called Don. No answer. “Figures.” He turned his attention back to Gwen. It wasn’t the ideal time for Don to go incommunicado. Her blue eyes watched his every move, and Cam feared that the delicate threads of sanity that held together Gwen’s fragile world might be minutes away from snapping. So he decided to

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 177 get her talking, keep her mind from whatever task Frost had given her. “Am I to be victim number six? And are you to be my killer?” The words hung out there for a few minutes, neither of them speaking. Then, in a monotone that reflected exactly how Cam felt, she began to tell him of Frost’s plot. “He said that Brath deserved what he was getting and more, and that I was only delivering a message long in coming,” said Gwen, her voice flat. “He? Frost?” confirmed Cam. “Yes. Just a little prick in a crowd—I didn’t even know what I was injecting him with at the time,” she said, as if she were discussing lunch options. “That all changed,” she said. “What about the rest?” asked Cam, and as he spoke, he slowly eased toward her bookcase, putting as much space between them as possible. “Terri Dytmer was the one who started it all. He loved her,” said Gwen, her eyes soft and serene. “Then she died somehow, like his daughter, and that changed him in ways you can’t possibly understand.” “So, that’s it then? Kill the people who pissed him off to get some kind of sick revenge? And you, what the hell did you think you would accomplish?” Cam’s voice was scornful, his anger clear. He still couldn’t conceive that Gwen would be involved in this, would actually be a killer. The way she described what she had done, making it sound so easy, so very normal, made Cam’s skin crawl, and his mind ached with the thought that he had come to her office to rekindle their relationship. “You were never to know!” she yelled, and Cam jumped. “That was my condition from the beginning.” “What beginning?” asked Cam, trying to keep her talking. “I confronted the slimy piece of ball wax,” she said, smiling wickedly. “Asked him why he took you away from me. We

178 | Edward J. McFadden III struggled, then . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she was again staring at something on the horizon that Cam couldn’t see. “Then?” “He raped me. At least, I think he did,” said Gwen, a tear slipping down her face. “You think? Did he or didn’t he?” Cam was furious now, the web of deceit capturing him so fully that he felt like his heart would burst through his chest. “It’s fuzzy,” she said, stepping around the desk to put her hand on his shoulder. “What about your questions?” She slipped one arm around him and rubbed his crotch. “All I ever wanted was you back. For us to be together again.” Cam pulled away, lost his balance, and tumbled into her bookshelf, sending several volumes falling to the floor. The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe sat atop the pile, its blue leather cover with gold foil lettering almost challenging Cam. His mind reeled as he rose and backed away from her, the coincidence of the situation causing him to question everything that he believed to be true. He had just seen the same book in Frost’s library, yet that seemed ages ago. Through the window, Cam could see the pale moon glaring at him. Don was out there somewhere, most likely dealing with Frost, and here he was getting bested by his ex-girlfriend, who also doubled as a murderer. “What about the directory? Why would you do that? Then lie to me?” he asked, confused. “You were lying to me?” “No,” answered Gwen. She seemed to be coming back to herself, her eyes less glassy, her stare less distant. “I don’t know who messed with the directory. Must have been Frost, since he was the only one who knew the six.” “Of which I am one,” said Cam. This time he would say nothing, let the silence stretch into infinity. After only a few short moments, Gwen said, “’Cause you tried to leave. He knew, like he knows everything. Then you sniffed

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 179 around Terri, and that put you on his permanent shit list.” Cam tried to protest, but she cut him off. “But no, that wasn’t really it, was it? He was jealous of you, thought you had more upstairs than he did, and you let him know it a few times.” Outside Cam could hear sirens wailing in the night. “Where did he get the thing that killed Sandower?” he asked. The mention of Sandower's name seemed to anger her. “I knew nothing about him. Nothing.” “You trying to tell me you didn’t know who the six were?” asked Cam. “Not that you would believe me, but no. Not until the other day, when he told me to bring you here.” A chill ran up Cam’s spine as he considered the idea that Frost wanted him right where he was. He was number six, and had delivered himself to Satan’s doorstep. But even as those thoughts trailed through Cam’s panic-stricken head, he began to form a plan, and the first step in that plan was to get the hell away from Gwen, and out of her office. Cam inched toward the door, his eyes never leaving hers. “You know the weirdest thing he made me do?” she blurted, sensing him heading for the door. “Gwen, I really—” “He made me collect hair from the trash outside the salon in the union. Made me go on certain days,” she said, falling into a haze again. “And you didn’t think that was a little strange? Collecting hair?” What Cam didn’t vocalize was how the hair had become an effective red herring that had fully baffled the authorities. Though the shack had been identified as an art project constructed by several graduate students, the hair samples from the structure where Terri Dytmer was found matched a bunch of people on campus, ranging from a senior administrator to lowly undergraduates. However, the graduate students knew nothing

180 | Edward J. McFadden III about the hair balloons, so local authorities, and the data miners in Washington, had spent hours trying to correlate and match each hair sample, and in the end it turned out to be nothing more than what Don had originally guessed it to be: hair from a beauty parlor. “He promised me you, Cam, and I wanted us more than anything. I still do.” She stepped forward, cutting off his retreat. Cam decided to play it cool, not rattle her. He still didn’t know what she was capable of, all his past experience lost in the reality that he didn’t know Gwen at all. Despite all their talk, their plans, their love, she was crazy, and needed help. Cam grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Tell me where he keeps the virus.” She was unresponsive, and he threw his arms around her, squeezing her tight. “Where? You can still help, and maybe they’ll give you a break for that,” he said. Her cheeks went red, her eyes becoming shards of ice. “They? They don’t give a fuck about me, and I don’t give a fuck about them!” “You know I have to turn you in?” asked Cam, releasing her and stepping back. “Frost will spill everything when he’s caught. It’s over. You’re over. We’re over.” Cam stepped toward the door, and she rushed him, slamming him into the bookcase and burying him under another pile of books. Gwen produced a knife and held it before her, its blade glinting in the moonlight streaming in through the window. Nothing more than a small carving knife from the building’s kitchen, Cam didn’t doubt that in her current state she would gut him like a pig. Lights flashed outside the building, emergency vehicles charging into the quad past the Ishtar Gate. “What are you going to do with that?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Make it a nice six little Indians all in a row,” she said, and thrust her arm forward, jabbing the knife toward Cam’s chest.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 181 But Cam was faster. Rolling to his left—his head just clearing the edge of one of the guest chairs—he grabbed Gwen’s shirt and pulled her toward him, adding to her forward motion and letting her slam face first into the wall. Silence filled the room, the campus and its troubles nothing more than a memory. Gwen lay still, her lifeless body lying at an odd angle against the wall. Cam thought of his brother then, and of the day their childish wrestling had deprived his brother of the ability to walk for almost two months. They had been engaged in normal roughhousing, his brother outweighing him by twenty pounds and consistently kicking his ass—but Cam never forgot the way his brother had looked, crumpled like a piece of trash, twisted in a way human skeletons weren’t supposed to be stretched. Cam lay gasping for air, his mind spinning, thoughts of his brother and Gwen twisting together so completely he was unable to separate the two. Then he saw the pool of blood, and blackness crept in around the edges of his vision, and his eyes saw no more.

THIRTY

D

on supervised the securing of the murder scene, he and his men going through their routine with a few university administrators watching intently. Despite the fact that Don and his crew had experienced the Black Death before, they still looked dazed, almost as if they didn’t believe what they were seeing. Don stormed through the old metal doors of the student activity center and headed to Frost’s lab in the biology building. Stars twinkled overhead, and Don found that he was sweating, drops of perspiration dripping down his back. His heart was racing, and pain throbbed in his head. Frost always seemed two steps ahead, always ready for whatever Don threw at him—even quarantine. Alone for the first time in hours, Don took a moment to breathe the fresh mountain air and clear his head. Turning left, he took a narrow path that led through a small grove of trees behind the administration building. From there, he would cut around the Ishtar Gate to the biology building. Lights shone from several windows in the admin building, and Don could see a faint glow in the president’s office. His team was spread thin all over campus, the quarantine personnel overloaded with keeping everyone contained and calm. Folks were starting to get restless, and with no apparent progress on the investigation, some people were beginning to think about how to take matters into their own hands. Four groups of students had been detained overnight, their escape attempts thwarted by

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 183 the quarantine forces stationed in the woods. Babylon was closed, yet Don still felt something was missing, like he had overlooked some important detail. There was something right in front of his face: he knew it, but he couldn’t see it. As he approached the Ishtar Gate, he could see the blue and gold tiles in the moonlight, and the familiar tingle he had experienced earlier ran through his body. Yellow caution tape was draped across both ends of the gate, and there were signs that redirected the pedestrian traffic. Don reached in his pocket and caressed the shards of broken tile as he eyed the scarred portion of the Ishtar Gate where they had been gouged out. Don felt dread seep over him like sewage, and he thought of the structure in the woods where he had found Terri Dytmer and the tiles. He stared aimlessly at the Ishtar Gate as he walked, his blood cold, his thoughts a mess of conflicting ideas. Then he froze, an image of a great lion grabbing his full attention. The golden beast was laid over blue tile, a decorative border with tiny white tile stars marking the lion’s boundary. Did I see light in those eyes? Don sat on a bench, his mind spinning. He heard something, music? Don heard the faint sound of bells echoing through the gate. A cloud passed across the moon, and the night grew dark, blackness killing the shadows and plunging the gate into darkness. The bells seemed to get louder, and Don saw a thin sliver of light appear on the far wall. Like an opening to heaven, a door filled with light shone in the darkness. Don thought he was dying. Somehow, someone had infected him with the virus, and he was experiencing the peacefulness of death. He felt like he had fallen through a frozen lake, the cold water engulfing him, and the bells rang in his head, the sliver of light becoming a full rectangle. He shook his head, and paused for just an instant as he tried to shed his fear. Then Don’s training kicked in, and he stood up, taking in a deep breath as he steadied

184 | Edward J. McFadden III himself. But it was too late. Don was struck from behind, the pop of a stick connecting with the back of his head echoing through the Ishtar Gate. Don heard his father’s voice ask, “What happened? A little girl pound your potato with a pipe?” Don fell, lights out. ***** Don lay on the cold stone floor within the Ishtar Gate, his head pounding in rhythm with his heart. He looked up and saw Frost silhouetted in a doorway that led into one the gates two main support columns. Frost punched Don, dazing him further, then he reached down and lifted Don’s phone from its spot inside his jacket, and slipped it into his. He also relieved Don of his Glock 19. “Come with me, Don, its over. Let me give you the note in the bottle.” Don looked confused, the unease growing in his stomach like a rising tide of bile. “Note,” stammered Don, as he rubbed his eyes, and tried to shake the cobwebs from his bleeding head. Under normal circumstances, Don would have taken Frost down, pressed the doctor’s face against the cold concrete, and certainly would have never let him take his phone and weapon. Don was lost, unable to think straight, and blood seeped down his face and his head ached. “You know, Ten Little Indians? At the end, someone finds a bottle floating on the water with the confession of the killer, explaining how everything happened,” said Frost, clearly pleased with himself. “Trouble is,” said Don, struggling to stand. “I already know what happened.” “You think,” said Frost, as he pulled Don forward, through the illuminated door that led into the Ishtar Gate. When Don was safely inside, Frost punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, spittle dripping from his lips. Frost looked about him, making sure no one had seen them, and closed the door. With the

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 185 millions of joints between all the tiles that made up the replica of the gate, the door blended into the passage wall and was hidden from even the keenest of observers. “I didn’t know there was an interior to the gate,” said Don, as he struggled to get to his feet. His breathes came in ragged gasps, and he leaned against the wall for support. “Most don’t. This place is known to me, and former President Kane. That’s it, and no one knows about the entrance tunnel but me.” “You have a lab here?” asked Don. “Indeed, and yes, this is where I keep the chimera,” said Frost. They were making their way down a short hallway at the end of which was a door. Frost brandished his security card, and the magnetic lock popped open. “Here,” said Frost, as he hit a light switch, and the lab was bathed in fluorescent light. The room was small and narrow. Along one wall there was a shaker, centrifuge, and small glass washer, with a sample table in the center which had a large fume hood above it. The other wall was filled with metal cabinets and a steel door. “That door leads to a tunnel that goes to the basement of biology. Not my lab, but close. It was once part of a secret tunnel that the founding president used to use to get from his office to his private home, which used to stand where the current student center is.” Within the brick walls, Don was becoming himself again, the pain in his head was fading, yet his heart still pounded, his neck aching with dull pain. How had he put himself in this situation? How had Frost gotten the best of him? “So, how did you manage to kill Brath and still be in place to implant Sandower with your little robot? Or did you plant it way ahead of time?” Don had his confidence back, his swagger, and as soon as he got a few answers, Frost was going to meet his fist.

186 | Edward J. McFadden III “I didn’t kill Brath. Not directly anyway,” he said, and Don’s eyebrows furrowed. “Cut the shit! Did you kill him or not?” “Not.” “Then who did?” asked Don, not expecting to get an answer. “President Dilworth,” said Frost, a wide smile creeping across his face. “Don’t fuck around! You’re going away for a long time, a very long time,” said Don, but his threat was in vain and Frost knew it. “Really? For what exactly?” “How about for bringing the chimera into the United States without going through the proper protocol? How about for fraudulently modifying the Babylon Alumni Directory? How about for the murders of James Sandower, Dr. William Tolbert, Herbert Gagine, and your lover, Terri Dytmer,” yelled Don, his voice echoing in the small lab. Frost laughed. “And what proof do you have? Anything?” “The chimera, first off,” said Don, motioning toward the fume hood that contained sample trays. Frost smiled, and that shook Don’s confidence. Clearly, Frost didn’t think Don would be alive much longer, or he wouldn’t have given away the location of the chimera. No, he means to kill me. Infect me with the Black Death right here, thought Don, as he looked frantically around the small lab. Most likely I’m already in his trap. “Yes, but there is only one sample left and I’ll take it with me when I leave, so no one will ever really know anything,” said Frost, putting the sample table between himself and Don. Don decided he needed to buy some time, keep Frost talking while he came up with a plan. “We’ll find out where you got the little robot, and then we’ll have you for Sandower. You were the last one with Tolbert and Sandower, your lover…you are the only thread that binds this group of poor souls. You. All six on your list, the list you provided via the alumni directory. Very tricky

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 187 work that was. That girl Gwen is ready to blow, I had her arrested.” Slowly, Don shifted his weight back and forth from his left foot to his right, making a small arc around the sample table toward the far door. Don watched the room now, not Frost. He was surrounded by things he didn’t understand, and knew there was a killer among them somewhere. Frost had planned Don’s death out as surely as his grandmother set the schedule for Christmas Day. “Gwen is far from a delicate flower, Agent Oberbier. She would do anything to get Cam back, even kill,” said Frost. “The two of you, then. It’s done. What more do you mean to accomplish?” “To get away with it all, of course.” Frost leaned forward and lifted a small black box from atop the sample table. “This has a small dart in it, like you would use to tranquilize a bunny. When it breaks your skin, you are dead, so stop moving toward the door. You are never leaving this room.” Frost laughed. “You are about to become a permanent research specimen.” Now Don focused on Frost, his eyes locked on the box. If he was fast… “I did give the robot to Sandower, and Gagine, which I’m surprised you didn’t know. Perhaps the device dislodged prior to the autopsy? The devices had two hour fuses, control beyond that was hampered by their size.” Don listened now, waiting to move when the dart left its tube. “Terri, well, she was an accident.” Frost’s face twisted at the memory of his fallen lover. “Once she was gone…” “You decided to go on a killing spree, and she was the first victim?” Anxiety filled Don, the walls of the small room closing in on him. He would never be able to avoid the dart, so he had to think of something else. A large glass flask sat on the sample table.

188 | Edward J. McFadden III If he grabbed it, he could use it as a weapon, or maybe deflect the dart with it. Don reached forward, grabbed the neck of the large flask, and held it up like a fat glass baseball bat. Frost’s eyes widened, then the ends of his lips curled, and he leveled the dart box at Don.

THIRTY-ONE

“A

n accident? Like Gagine and Tolbert were accidents?” yelled Don, hoping his outburst would shake Frost. It did no such thing. “No, not like Tolbert and Gagine at all,” said Frost, wistfully, his mind searching back to the night Terri had died in his arms. “Those shits got what they deserved. I got the last word. With Terri it was…” “I know you were screwing her, but how did she die?” Don held the large glass flask, and he was prepared to throw it at Frost if he saw the slightest opportunity, but care was needed, because there was no room for error. “I know the school roof caved in on your little girl, but what happened to Terri?” Frost flinched, his hands shaking, teeth grinding. “Mention my daughter again. Please, and you won’t get your answers before you die,” said Frost, the derision in his voice harsh and clear. Don knew that was an unhealed wound, and thus made it the focal point of his attack. Don couldn’t conceive what it would be like to lose a child. His young nephew, Jimmy, was seven, and the boy was so innocent, so alive. He couldn’t even think about what his brother would do if the boy died. Probably use it as an excuse to give up, and who would blame him? The two men stood like statues, the pace of the last few days revealed in their tired faces. Frost had black bags under his eyes, and enough stubble on his face to obscure his goatee. Don's suit was a wrinkled mess, his white shirt dirty and torn in two spots. Neither man spoke for several long moments, and when Frost

190 | Edward J. McFadden III finally did, he sounded like a funeral dirge. “We were at my house. We were supposed to go out, but she announced she wanted to stay in.” “So you popped a Viagra and called for takeout?” chided Don, his keen eyes never leaving the black box in Frost’s right hand. If what Frost said was true, the dart in that box would infect its victim with Black Death. Yet Don continued to antagonize Frost, push him to make his move before he was ready, because when you did that, you made mistakes. “She said she wanted to have special sex, then she had something important to tell me,” Frost looked sad now, lost. “She said it was over, that she had met someone else her age, that she wanted to pursue that relationship and she hoped I would respect that.” “Cam?” asked Don. Frost nodded. “She ran from my bedroom. I stopped her at the top of the steps, but she….” “Yeah, I’ve seen the movie. She falls down the stairs and you know you’ll be implicated, so you store her away until the time is right, then infect her with the chimera as a test victim,” said Don. Frost looked surprised, then said, “Not too far from the truth. I was nowhere near her when she went down. She was running from me in those spiked heals I like, and she went down hard. I couldn’t have helped her even if I had wanted to.” “But you didn’t want to,” said Don. “No.” “And Tolbert? He say he wanted to break up too?” spat Don, his anger rising. “The water bottle I replaced his with was heated with a special wrapper that not only allowed the chimera to live, but to thrive,” said Frost. He was getting bored, that was clear to Don, and it would only be a matter of moments before the dart streaked from its thin tube and took Don down.

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 191 “And the device you used to kill Sandower? Who made it? Did they know what you planned to use it for?” To Don, that seemed to be the last piece of the puzzle, and he would have to track down the inventor of the mini robot to see if he or she had been in on the plot. “Funny,” answered Frost. “Sandower arranged to have three of the devices manufactured by a private company in California, don’t know which one. They were told the devices were to be tested as a possible way of injecting drugs into large animals, and the application in humans could be useful, but was several years in the future.” “So you killed Sandower with the weapon he had created? Very Alfred Hitchcock of you,” said Don, still buying time. “So that’s it, from first to last, and you will be pleased to know that I’m done, through, and you can now depart to the next world,” said Frost. There are days that fly by so fast you have to take pictures to remember them, and then there are moments that move so slowly that each tick of the cosmic clock feels like an eternity. As the word “world” slid off Frost’s tongue, Don hurled the flask at the dart box, rushing forward and grabbing a sample tray off the work table. He threw it at Frost’s head, and the man was caught off guard and pressed the button on the black box, firing the dart. Fortunately for Don, he was still falling forward, and his momentum carried him onto Frost, the dart streaking by his left ear with a hiss. With a tiny tink the dart logged in the side of the centrifuge. Frost scrambled from underneath Don and dove for the dart. Still dazed, Don grabbed him around the waist, dragging him back to the ground, and as he did so, he felt for his gun and phone. Frost twisted around, banging his head on the sample table leg. The walls seemed to be closing in around them, and Don was having trouble breathing. Frost broke free and dove toward

192 | Edward J. McFadden III the dart again, but Don pulled on his jacket, and his Glock 19 fell to the floor. Releasing Frost, he picked the weapon up. By the time he had it trained on Frost, the scientist was holding the dart between his forefinger and thumb, aiming it at Don's chest. “Forgot about the gun, silly me. But gunshot wounds heal, the bite from this little bee does not.” The two men stood there, Don pointing his gun at Frost, and Frost pointing his dart at Don like he were a dart board in a pub. They stood frozen there for several minutes, and then Don asked his final question. “If I am to be number six, has Cam been spared?” Frost seemed to consider this in earnest, his brow furrowing as he rubbed his chin. “Don’t know. The number comes from the date of my daughter’s death; six has no other special meaning for me. If Cam dies, so be it, the magic number will be seven.” “And who will kill him?” “Most likely Gwen. If she did as I told her, the two of them are having their little talk right now. That will either end with Cam being with us, or he’ll be dead. Either way, Gwen and I are out of it.” Don fired, the report of his Glock 19 reverberating in the small brick room. The right side of Frost’s head tore away, and his body crumpled to the floor, a spray of glistening blood splattering on the wall. The dart, falling free of Frost’s dead hand, landed in his leg and stuck there like a pin in a pin cushion. Then the red patches began to come, all about Frost’s face and neck, and then the horrid stench of the Black Death. Don kept the gun pointed at Frost as he moved forward and delicately removed his phone from the dead man’s front shirt pocket. Frost’s skin became leather, his eyes empty black sockets. He stood there a long time, his mind racing, thoughts of how very close he had come to dying filling every corner of his being. Then

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 193 he shook it off, and tapped his phone. “Meet me at the Ishtar Gate. It’s over. It’s all over.” Don snapped his phone shut and headed for the door. The stench of death was becoming overpowering and he covered his nose as he searched through the metal cabinets. When Don found what he was looking for, a faint smile creased his lips. A small metal containment case used to transport live samples was nestled among the chemicals and glassware. Pulling it free, he went to the sample table and retrieved the only sample he could see, what Frost had told him was the last sample of the Black Death of Babylon. Once secured in the metal box, he snapped the clasps shut and made his way toward the door. As he turned the doorknob he paused, turning back to look on Frost’s decaying body. The chimera was eating the scientist, and blood thinned by water dripped onto the floor around the body, forming a small puddle. The lab, not unlike the crypt where Frost had discovered the chimera DNA, would become Frost’s final legacy. A hidden troll hole in the center of campus, yet so far away it might as well have been on another planet. So it was appropriate that it should end here, in a lost room, feet away from artifacts that had come from the Babylon site. Don didn’t want to consider the fact that those small blue dragonencrusted tiles held some power, some significance that transcended humans and their pettiness. Frost’s soul, should he have one, should be comfortable locked away here, interred within the Ishtar Gate. Don exited the small lab, locking the door as he left. Once at the end of the short hall, he inched open the secret door, and he could hear sirens piercing the night air. Then he saw emergency lights surging past the administration building, and he thought of Cam. He stepped through the secret door, letting it close silently behind him. Babylon’s secret would stay secret, and Frost’s tomb would be unmarked.

194 | Edward J. McFadden III Lifting his phone, Don rang Cam and got no answer. After trying again, Don sprinted past emergency vehicles as they came skidding to halt in front of the Ishtar Gate. Don didn’t pause, not even to give a brief explanation. He ran toward the administration building, hoping beyond hope that he would make it in time.

THIRTY-TWO

D

on watched the Chinook helicopters lift into the sky, the large rotors ripping leaves from trees and scattering the trash left behind by the quarantine team. With the helicopters went the big dogs, and Don hoped he wouldn’t see them again for a long time. With Gray and Royal went the remains of the victims, as well as the sample of Black Death, and everything else that would document the sordid mess that had almost claimed his life, as well as Cam’s. Babylon University was slowly returning to normal, and Don could see students walking across the campus enjoying the early fall day. Laughs and chatter carried on the air, and while he knew it would take a while for everyone to forget the last few days’ events, forget they would. People had an amazing ability to forget things that shouldn’t be forgotten, an internal self preservation tool that never failed to kick in once the danger had passed. Don hoped this time would be different, and they would remember so it would help them understand that what they did by digging up the past sometimes had unforeseen consequences. The Black Death had turned out to be an anomaly of immense power, but it had been people, and their greed and hatred, that had made it a true weapon. Clouds whispered overhead, and Don breathed in deep, holding the breath as long as he could. The crisp air filled him with energy, and hope, and he realized that he had been lucky on this one. Making his way across the athletic fields, Don went to see Cam, who was in a private room in the university Student Health

196 | Edward J. McFadden III Center, an infirmary that serviced faculty and students. The university had wanted to transport Cam to a nearby hospital, but Cam hadn’t wanted that, and Don fought to have the university obey his wishes. He wasn’t that injured, after all, no more than bump on the head. It had been Gwen who suffered the fatal wound during their struggle in her office, the knife she had produced impaling her in the chest as the two ex-lovers had tangled. Don had found Cam out cold, his head lying in the puddle of blood formed by Gwen’s fallen body. As best as they could figure out, the sight of Gwen dying had caused Cam to faint, and he had knocked his head on her desk as he fell. As Don passed under the Ishtar Gate, he paused, remembering the story he had told the big dogs. He had never found Frost, and the campus had been searched from top to bottom, yet the secret chamber within the Ishtar Gate remained hidden. Don wasn’t completely sure why he had allowed the chamber to remain hidden, and years later he would proclaim that it just felt like the right thing to do. Don had returned the tiles he had found with Terri Dymer’s body, and they had been put back in their rightful place on the Ishtar Gate. Frost had opened a Pandora’s box, but Don had left his sealed, like he had many times before. Someday, when everyone who now called Babylon home had withered to dust, someone would accidentally discover the lab, whether during renovations or some such, and it would be a surprise to all that the great Dr. Frost’s body would be found therein, entombed with the equipment he had used to perpetuate the Black Death. Some would say Don took a risk by letting the big dogs think Frost still roamed free, but even they seemed to know that Don had disposed of the man, and they seemed content with the knowledge that things had been handled. With the issue resolved,

THE BLACK DEATH OF BABYLON | 197 they didn’t want to dig too deeply, because one never knew what would be found. And so life marched on, President Dilworth and other top administrators doing damage control with alumni and parents, but most had already moved on to their next challenge, and within weeks, the entire event would fade from their minds. But the really smart ones would remember that an instant is all it takes for chaos to strike—but an instant is easier to forget than a lifetime, and luckily for them, their anomaly had been like a stoplight along the long road of life; quickly passed, and rarely remembered. Don made his way around the biology building and saw the glass facade of the Student Health Center. Entering the building, his senses were immediately assaulted by the smells associated with an ultra-sterile environment, and his nose crinkled. With a wave, he passed by a security guard and made his way to Cam’s room. “How you doing, cowboy?” said Don. He lifted Cam’s hand, and the young man squeezed it and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Head still hurts, but I’ve had hangovers that were worse.” Don sighed and sat down. Cam could tell by the look on Don’s face that this would be their last meeting, and that Don would be leaving, and he would never see him again. The two men sat in silence, the humming of the infirmary and the sounds of chirping birds filling the room. “You going to tell your people what went down?” Don sighed again. “First, I made a few calls, and a guy I know will be coming up here in a few weeks to go through Frost’s lab, pack it up, and so on. He’ll need your help, and he’s prepared to sign off on your PhD. That is, if you’re done with all your course work.” Cam laughed. “I’ve been done for three years. I’ve just been waiting for Frost to free me.”

198 | Edward J. McFadden III “Consider yourself freed,” said Don, and he paused, silence filling the room. Then he said, “As to the rest, I think you figured most of it out like I did. Gwen did Brath. She pricked him in Boston while she was off. Frost did the rest, including Dytmer, who he claimed was an accident, and I believed him.” “So that’s it? It all just gets forgotten?” asked Cam. “That’s what everyone wants, and that’s what I think is best for all, so yeah, we just forget it ever happened,” said Don. “Especially you,” he added. “Unless you think you have the backbone for this kind of work?” Cam propped himself up on his elbows. “What? Work for the Black Hand like you? Never be in one spot for more than a few days? Have no life? No family?” The questions poured from Cam, not because he was trying to convince himself he didn’t want to lead that kind of life, but because he had instantly made up his mind that was exactly the kind of life he wanted. “Time,” said Don. “Patience.” “You’re Yoda now?” mocked Cam. “Yeah,” said Don. “But the Yoda from the prequels.” As Don made his way toward the door Cam smiled, hearing his ringtone: “We gotta get out of this place If it’s the last thing we ever do.”

EPILOGUE

T

he building is nondescript, nothing more than a large brick warehouse resting within the guarded confines of Quantico. Most government employees who work on the base pass the building regularly and have no idea what the building is, or who works there. There are no visible doors, no windows, and if all the people who worked on the base were questioned, none would ever recall seeing a person enter or leave the structure. Within the structure’s cold concrete walls, a man in a white lab coat—who wears no name tag and does not know the name of the soldier accompanying him—walks down a long narrow hallway carrying a metal sample case. The two men do not speak, for they know that microphones and cameras record and monitor their every move, and that if they spoke, even a hello or farewell, there would be serious consequences. The hallway ends abruptly and the soldier, who looks like a cross between Ray Romano and Ed O’Neal, takes a card from his pocket, flashes it before a security lock, and then places his other hand on a scanning device. There is a beep and the soldier says, “42319006.” There is a pause, then the door lock releases, and only the man in the white lab coat enters. The man in the lab coat doesn’t know what he carries, nor does he know that ninety-nine percent of the time he is carrying an empty sample case. He walks through an open room devoid of anything but mind-sucking rays of fluorescent light. He comes to another door, and there is no code needed, no security key.

200 | Edward J. McFadden III Instead, the man in the white lab coat steps forward, looking into what appears to be a small peephole. The man holds his head still as his retina is scanned and matched with a sample taken when he started his shift. Moving through the door, the man repeats this process three times before entering a large, open room filled with rows of shelves. Here the man stops and looks down at the sample case he is holding. The number 190671 is printed on a sticker atop the case. The man turns left, heading down a row of shelves that contain various storage containers, all of which look exactly like the one the man in the white lab coat carries. After several minutes, the man comes to the series of numbers he has been looking for. When he finds 190671, he pulls the sample container from the shelf, replacing it with the container he brought with him. Then the man in the white lab coat heads back the way he came. He knows not what he has hidden, nor does he know that ninety-nine percent of what he does is subterfuge. But in that building, hidden within so many layers of security there are no possible means by which it could be freed, the Black Death of Babylon waits to be dug up again.

About the Author

Edward J. McFadden III juggles a full-time career as a university administrator and teacher, with his writing aspirations. The Black Death of Babylon is his first published novel. His steampunk fantasy novelette, Starwisps, was recently published in the anthology Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, and he has stories forthcoming in the print edition Abandoned Towers Magazine, and the anthology Apocalypse 13. He is the author/editor of six published books: Jigsaw Nation, Deconstructing Tolkien: A Fundamental Analysis of The Lord of the Rings (to be re-released in eBook format Fall 2012), Time Capsule, The Second Coming, Thoughts of Christmas, and The Best of Pirate Writings. He has had more than 50 short stories published in places like Hear Them Roar, CrimeSpree Magazine, Terminal Fright, Cyber-Psycho’s AOD, The And, and The Arizona Literary Review. Over the last seven years he has written six novels, all of which are at various stages of rewriting and submission for publication. He lives on Long Island with his wife Dawn, their daughter Samantha, and their mutt Oli. See EdwardMcfadden.com for all things Ed.