Hybrid (40 page)

“I said that an incomplete purine receptor gene would explain the various presentations. In most people, the virus acts in typical fashion. It invades the cell, inserts its DNA into the host’s DNA, creates millions of new copies of itself, and then destroys the cell. The immune system does the rest. As other cells become infected, they begin to display bits of the virus on their MHC proteins, and the cells are destroyed by immune cells. That’s what causes all the destructive changes and the inflammation. The psychiatric presentation makes sense as well, because the cells most vulnerable to these viruses are located primarily in the limbic system.”

Martin had pushed aside Sabritas’s chart and turned the speakerphone on. “I’ve put you on speaker phone. I want some of my staff to hear this,” he said while sitting in Martha’s chair.

“The limbic system?” A Ph.D. candidate had overheard part of the conversation and had drifted closer to the phone and Adam Sabritas.

“Emotional centers of the brain,” Sabritas answered automatically.

“I know that—” the student answered defensively, but Martin’s glare cut off the rest of his thought.

A crowd had gathered around the speaker. “Go on, Dr. Rucker,” he said.

“I’m guessing that in a few cells the purine receptor gene is repaired and activated. Instead of producing viable viral particles, the cell produces the actual receptors.”

“This sounds a little like Borna Disease,” the graduate student said much too loudly. Every head turned towards him. Even Phil hadn’t heard of Borna Disease. The student’s face flushed with the sudden attention. “It’s a viral infection in sheep and cattle. It causes unusual behaviors in the animals.” He stammered a little. “Years ago people thought that it might cause depression in humans.” A dozen faces stared at him, waiting for the relevance of his interruption. “It’s an RNA virus that replicates in the cell nucleus, but it doesn’t destroy the cell. It causes unusual proteins to be elaborated across the cell membrane.”

Satisfied, people started looking at one another.

“Interesting . . .” Martin said stammering over the grad student’s name.“Yes, it is,” Phil added. “Most of the purine receptors are associated with apoptosis of neuronal cells, but some, instead of initiating programmed cell death, cause the normally inert neurons to either grow or to differentiate. It stands to reason that with the additional receptors, the cells become hypersensitive to their ligands. That’s what causes the reformation of a germinal matrix, and it is this unrestrained and rapid growth at the base of the brain that kills people.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, digesting Phil’s theory. “I have to tell you, I’ve barely heard of purine receptors.” Martin looked around the crowded office. “So now we know how it kills, what do we do about it? Fighting the encephalitic process with the usual anti-inflammatory agents isn’t going to help. How do we stop these cells from dividing?”

“I don’t think we can,” Phil said.

Most of Martin’s staff nodded their heads.

Phil continued, “The key is to start treatment before the combination of inflammation and growth are fully developed.”

“Two people have survived this infection untreated. For the moment, let’s leave them out of this. How did you survive?” Martin asked Phil.

“Discounting the possibility that I shared the same resistance to these viruses Amanda and Reisch had, my survival was based on standard medical management. I was also given the antiviral agent Acyclovir, but that was only after the onset of an altered mental state.”

“So do you think it was the antivirals?” Martin asked.

“Yes, I do. The core of these viruses is still the plain herpes simplex virus. The Ebola component seems to allow the virus to survive within the cell nucleus, away from the usual cellular defenses, and improves its overall transmissibility.

“Once a cell has been infected, it will do one of three things: die, in which case it will release more of the virus; differentiate into a harmless form; or begin to divide. I’m guessing that before any cell is induced into growth, there has to be a minimal concentration of viral particles in the brain. This is where the antivirals can be effective. There’s nothing we can do once a cell starts dividing, but if we keep their numbers low, the immune system should be able to deal with them effectively, and should be able to control the overall infection. The key is that the antivirals have to be given as early as possible, otherwise too many of these stem cells will have been induced into growth.”

“I’m not sure there are enough antivirals to go around,” Martin said.

“Then a lot of people are about to die,” Phil answered.

Lisa was leading the way and Amanda followed. “Is there something wrong, dear?”

“No, nothing wrong, but I have to do something before we leave.” She turned back down the hall and headed for the emergency room. She walked through the double doors as if she belonged. Lisa, not knowing what else to do, followed.

Amanda found Phil almost immediately. His powerful mind filled the cavernous space and Amanda smiled. Phil was much further along than Oliver. She approached the glass and Phil turned towards her.

“Come in,” he said while placing the phone back into the airlock. He reached over and unlocked the door.

A nurse watched as Amanda went through the anteroom and opened the isolation door; she started to scream at Amanda to stop. Lisa turned and faced the woman and reassured her that everything was under control.

“I saw you upstairs,” she started. “You missed quite a show. I will bet that you have some questions about what’s happening to you.” Her skin tingled in response to their close proximity, and she slid the only chair in the room away from Phil. She sat down waiting for him to formulate a question.

“Too many to be answered now.“

Amanda could see that he was struggling to blot out the collective mental energies of two dozen people. “It won’t hurt you, so don’t try and fight it. Organize it and learn to control your mind.”

“I’ve been trying to do that my entire life, with little success. Shouldn’t you, we be out there trying to stop him, them? You did see what I saw in his mind?”

“That and more, Phil. Do you think you’re ready?”

“No, but I don’t think we have any other options.” He stared at her with a steady gaze, and she could feel the fear in his mind, but also that he controlled it extraordinarily well. He was a master in managing fear; almost his entire life had been an exercise in controlling it.

“I can see how you survived. Fear and terror are his favorite weapons, but they are old hat to you.”

“I’m not comfortable having my personal thoughts out on display,” he admonished her.

“You better get used to it, and not just your thoughts, but your memories, your wants and needs, all of it is now open to anyone who can read. In time, you will be able to shield some of it, but from here on out, your life is going to be very different, Phil.”

“I won’t know how to survive,” he said. The blueprint to his survival had just been thrown out the window.

“Do you know what I need you to do?”

“The same thing you sent the priest to do. Only I can’t leave here; I’ll infect everyone I come in contact with.”

“He will take care of that,” Amanda said, referring to the very tardy Ron Benedict who was chatting politely with Lisa. “It won’t be comfortable, but at least you won’t be stuck in here. I need to go, and I hope we will get a chance to talk again. You’re a very interesting man, Phillip Rucker.”

Joseph Rider tried to finish his morning newspaper, but the violently bucking subway car and the foul-smelling drunk next to him made it difficult. The train shot out of the tunnel and into the bright March sunlight so suddenly that Joseph had to look away for a moment. The sky was the impossibly vivid blue seen only in early spring, and he focused on it as the buildings of downtown Los Angeles raced by the window. He closed his eyes and tried to absorb its energy and beauty.

“Are you done with that?” the drunk asked and stuck a dirty finger into the sports pages. Rider passed over the entire newspaper without a word. He was certain that by tomorrow it would be among the millions of pieces of garbage that littered the City of Angels. It didn’t really matter. America had much greater problems. People were dying by the thousands in Colorado, and then, just to make the world a more dangerous place, the Iranians had foolishly attacked an American aircraft carrier. The president’s savage and immediate response had already sparked anger throughout the Arab world, even though the Iranians weren’t Arabs. People were going to die by the tens of thousands over there, maybe even more. The newspaper that was now serving as a blanket and a sunshade for the citizen next to him had casually mentioned that because of the recent crisis, units of the Strategic Air Command were being reactivated. As assistant director of public safety, Joseph knew what units those would be. More than thirty years ago, Ronald Reagan had advanced the premise that a biological attack would be the equivalent of a nuclear attack. Across the western United States, soldiers were unwrapping and assembling special munitions.

The train stopped, and Joseph got off. People pushed at him from all sides, but he continued his relaxed pace towards the Federal Building. Even though he was an employee of the County of Los Angeles, a shortage in office space had forced him to move into the gleaming new tower two years ago. As he spent most of his time conferring with federal officials, it actually worked out better for him.

He rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor, chatting casually with some other county refugees, and made it to his desk before eight. He was an hour early, as usual, and only a couple of other early birds dotted the Public Safety Center. As an assistant director, he rated his own small office and window. He dropped his briefcase on his desk and started his morning routine. Computer on, coffee maker on, answering machine checked for messages, and mail collected and sorted.

Finished, he sat down and turned towards his window. His official responsibilities didn’t start for another half hour, so he thought he might tend to some unofficial responsibilities. He pulled his laptop out of its case and opened it. The small but powerful computer began to boot itself up automatically, and after a minute, a small electronic beep asked for his password. He typed in the five-letter word and his browser came up. He checked the Web site, and to his surprise found an invitation to a child’s birthday party. The signal had come early, which didn’t surprise him. Events were moving quickly and in a somewhat unexpected direction. Five years ago, he had been selected largely because of an ability to act independently, and now he prayed that he would not fail. The small blue vial lay dormant, wrapped in its special paper, under the foundation of his rented house; he would slip away from work at noon and start the process that would slowly bring it back to life. It would take thirty hours to fully reconstitute, and then it would have to be dispersed within twenty-four hours. The virus needed a host.

He stared down at the commuters three hundred feet below him. They scurried about like ants, living their small, godless lives. He had been told that he needed to infect at least two hundred people to achieve a proper dispersal pattern, but he thought he could do many more than that before he himself was overwhelmed by the effects of the virus. He would be able to pass the virus to more than a hundred just by riding the subway; the rest he would find in the quintessential American institution: the mall. He had found a large upscale mall only three blocks from a mosque, and it would be there that death would find him.

For three years, he had not prayed publicly. When he had first arrived in Los Angeles, he had tried to carry on all the Muslim traditions and prayers, but quickly found that his thoughts colored his actions, so he forced himself to stop. He had to be anonymous, the typical American: baseball, barbecues, and beer.

He looked out to sea and tried to find the exact spot where the blue of the ocean touched the blue of the sky. He had never seen the ocean until he came to Southern California. It reminded him of the mountains in his native Afghanistan. The wind, the isolation, the freedom, and nature’s total disregard about whether you lived or died; things he had felt as a child in the White Mountains of eastern Afghanistan, and again as an adult in a small sailboat not ten miles from here.