Hybrid (53 page)

The secretary of health opened up his presidential briefing folder. “We think that this change will occur in about one in four who survived the Colorado Springs virus and in all those who survived the original EDH
1
virus.” He turned several pages. “The population of Colorado Springs is about four hundred thousand. About half developed a clinical infection, so that means roughly fifty thousand.

“In Los Angeles and Seattle just under thirty thousand people were infected with the EDH
1
virus; most will survive and probably change as well.”

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty thousand potential weapons of mass destruction,” the president summed up. The seven men shared a thoughtful and solemn moment. “So how do we control them?”

Nathan Martin was busy typing away at his computer. He had enough information about the Hybrid virus, or EDH
1
, he still hadn’t decided what to call it, to fill a computer hard drive. He could spend an entire career dissecting the nano-sized virus and eventually unlock the answers that had eluded him his entire professional life. Adam Sabritas would ultimately finish the work that he had started. When the young man had become as old as Nathan was, he would probably be awarded the Nobel Prize for the discoveries that would come in time. It was ironic that they had Jaime Avanti’s warped vision of humanity to thank for it. It was also an uncomfortable fact that Nathan didn’t think that Jaime was all that far from the truth.

“You have to be kidding me. Not again!” His secretary shouted loud enough to pull Nathan out of his thoughts. “Oh, General,” a suddenly very different Martha Hays said.

Martin stood, leaned to peek out his door, and found the ever-silent Captain Winston standing next to a large uniformed officer. He listened as General McDaniels thanked his secretary for her work and insight over the past month.

“Is he in?” the general asked politely.

“Of course sir, go right in,” Martha said, obviously forgetting for whom she worked.

McDaniels walked into Martin’s office. “Make yourself at home,” Nathan said, still standing at his desk, which was covered by hundreds of files and articles. “We’ve been hard at it,” he answered McDaniels’s gaze at his desk.

“I was on my way to Chicago and I thought I would stop in and say hello.”

“You do know that there is a more direct route to Chicago.”

“I thought I would give you an opportunity to discharge an obligation.”

They were going to make him wear an isolation suit, and it took the combined efforts of Ron Benedict and his boss, Kyle Stanley, to convince the CDC that Rodney Patton could be released and allowed to travel to Chicago.

Ron had arranged for a plane to pick up the new Colorado Springs police chief from LAX and fly him to O’Hare. He watched as the large man climbed out of the backseat of a small sedan; Patton had lost a lot of weight, but the pilot would still have to adjust the trim of the plane to account for him. “Uh, I don’t mean to be personal, but aren’t you black?” Benedict had meant it as a joke, but Patton wasn’t in a mode to find anything funny. His face and arms were a painful shade of scarlet and patches of the dark man’s face had peeled down to pink skin.

“I was before I went to that damn hospital. They asked me what I was allergic to, I tell them sulfa, and so that’s exactly what they gave me. I start blistering up, so now I have the Hybrid infection, and before I could call them ‘assholes,’ I’m in isolation with three IVs in each arm. I should sue the bastards.” He slowly climbed the stairs, ducked his head, and boarded the plane. Benedict imagined that the Gulfstream tilted to his side as Patton sat in his seat. “I hope you brought food; man cannot live by Jello alone.”

“The president is going to dedicate it personally on Saturday, but I thought we might want to have our own personal ceremony,” Greg stood with Lisa. Amanda and Phil flanked them.

A small plaque had been built at the foot of John Oliver’s grave
. Thanks from a Grateful Nation
had been etched in marble.

“I’m a little uncomfortable with the sentiment,” Francis Coyle said to the group. “I knew and worked with John Oliver for more than four years, and I can tell you he would be embarrassed by all of this.” By order of the president, a road sign outside the gates of the cemetery had been erected that read
National Historic Site.

Before anyone could respond, the small group turned as a trio of cars approached. Three black SUVs pulled up in front of the gathering. A very large and red man climbed out of the first one. He waved as Greg Flynn approached him.

“Rodney, I’m so glad to see you well,” Greg said with obvious sincerity, pumping the giant man’s hand.

“If by well you mean that I look like a stewed tomato, then I’m well,” he smiled and the effect was nothing short of terrifying to those who didn’t know Patton.

More doors opened and the small group had doubled in size. Another large man dressed in full military uniform introduced himself to everyone as William McDaniels. Nathan Martin stood next to him and grew surprised as the general introduced himself using his first name.

“I didn’t know your first name was William,” Martin said. “It’s so ordinary.”

“My brother’s name was William,” Amanda Flynn said addressing McDaniels. She turned and faced the shorter man. “Dr. Martin, it’s been a long time.” Her voice was anything but cordial. “What are you doing here,” she demanded and everyone around them froze.

Martin didn’t answer, but General McDaniels interceded. “He is here to pay his respects.”

Amanda looked up at the large man, held his eyes for a moment, and then turned away.

“Phillip Rucker,” he said first to the general and then to Martin. Nathan had come out of the general’s shadow to shake Phil’s hand.

“Dr. Rucker, I haven’t had a chance to thank you for your help. Everything that you surmised has turned out to be true. We are in the process of serotyping . . .”

Phil politely listened as Martin droned on in his scientific persona. His mind ran through the life and experiences of Nathan Martin and found that he couldn’t completely agree with Amanda. Martin was flawed, prone to acts of selfish irresponsibility, but he was no worse than most people were. After a few minutes, Phil excused himself while Martin was in mid-sentence, and he felt the man’s irritation.
He may not be
the devil that Amanda made him out to be, but he certainly is
boring
, Phil thought.

The group assembled around the plaque, and Father Coyle led them in a prayer. He then spoke about his friend and colleague, and after a few minutes, most everyone had started to tear up, except for Phil.

“I know I’m being selfish,” he said, as he was finishing. “But I just want my friend back.”

Amanda said a few words, and then turned away from the group and faced the marker that said simply: John Oliver. Only Phil could hear her thoughts, and he kept them secret.

Greg followed, and while holding Lisa’s hand, he spoke of a man who had dedicated his life to something greater than himself and enriched the lives of those he touched. He looked up into the warm spring sky and apologized for ever having doubted him, and then thanked the priest for saving his life.

He looked away as Father Coyle gave him a hug, and the two men cried softly. Everyone else looked away, except Phil.

After a discrete interval, Lisa asked if anyone else had anything to say. To everyone’s surprise, Nathan Martin stepped up carrying a case of Guinness beer. He began to hand them out one by one, and when everyone had a bottle, Nathan stood before the grave, opened his bottle, and drained it. “I am a man of my word,” he said wiping the foam from his face. ”But this stuff is nasty.” He looked up to find that no one had joined him in his salute.

Greg and Francis Coyle began to laugh; even Amanda smiled. “What?” Martin asked.

“Oliver hated beer,” Greg said.