Requiem

By K.M. Bourgeois

Bioterrorism, Germ Warfare

When a military snafu unleashes a deadly bacterium on the world, the human race finds itself close to extinction.

Seven survivors in a small North Dakota town band together to face the future, but rebuilding their lives is put on hold when one of them discovers that his daughters are alive and have been abducted by a nomadic cult. The leader, determined to repopulate the world, leaves a trail of murder as he moves from town to town in search of young girls to spawn his new humanity.

Led by Christian Duke, the new-world vigilantes travel throughout the United States in search of Nomad. With clues left by a questionable cult insider, the group attempts to overcome the cults leader and free the hostages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 28, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462830411

K.M. Bourgeois

Karen Bourgeois has spent most of her time in the Midwest. She was born in Wisconsin and has lived in Kansas and Nebraska. Married to an Air Force NCO, she has worked on a NATO base in Europe, has worked for the Department of Defense, and has traveled extensively abroad. Her many jobs along the way include accountant, teacher, writer, singer, and realtor. Presently, Karen is a computer programmer in Omaha, Nebraska. She and her husband have three children.

Book preview

Prologue

Miriev Molstevic dragged deeply on his cigarette closing his eyes to savor its poisons. His exhale was equally slow, the smoke drifting upward into the cool air with the condensation from his breath. The air felt good, and he welcomed it. He looked forward to the nights when he was allowed to go outside, his reward for another long day in the windowless lab, closed off from humanity and Western eyes.

But tonight the guard went home early, and he would steal an hour of daylight. He wasn’t afraid of the punishment. We wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. And now, as he stared blankly into the twilight sky, he thought of the Cold War, his years at the Ivanovsky Institute, and later as Deputy Director of the biological program Biopreparat. He longed for those days of power and influence, before the collapse of his country. It was the U.S.A. that put him in bread lines. All the years as one of the Soviet Union’s most celebrated bacteriologists wasted. At the precipice of discovery and fame, free enterprise took over, and he found himself in poverty.

It wasn’t that the Soviets didn’t want his research. Rather, they couldn’t afford to pay him. A valuable commodity, he was recruited by a dozen countries. Holding out for the prosperity he’d lost, he turned down offers from eleven of them. Some, like Libya, Sudan, and Pakistan, simply didn’t have the resources to pay him what he wanted. The hated West—the UK, US, France, Germany—with all of their riches, wanted to negotiate an offer. Only one nation spared him insult. The West would regret their arrogance.

His first assignment was to genetically engineer anthrax.

Though his bacterium showed promise, there were problems, and the United States was vaccinating its military. There was no guarantee that his work would pay off.

His second assignment involved the Marburg virus and bubonic plague. The first prototype virus acted very slowly and did not cause catastrophic damage. instead, victims developed headaches, joint pain and blurred vision. Hardly a success story. Not fast acting enough for a weapon, Miriev considered it a failure. He called it ivana-1, named after the grandmother who raised him. The rest of the world would call it Gulf War Syndrome.

Ivana-2 through Ivana-5 shared their ancestor’s long gestation period. Ivana-6 was only briefly tested before the Gulf war, but the preliminary results showed the same tendencies as the others. Miriev didn’t know it, but it did have one redeeming quality. It could be spread by airborne transmission before the infected host showed any symptoms, and the Iraqi leader felt highly of it as a terrorist weapon. Highly enough to have it wisked into special hiding before the imperialist weapons inspectors could find it and destroy it. The same weapons inspectors put Miriev out of work again. This time, forever.

I am a failure. It is time to do the only honorable thing. Miriev put the Russian AK-47 on full automatic, raised it to his temple, and squeezed the trigger. only two rounds of the twenty fired actually entered his skull. They were more than enough. The other 18 flew around in a wide arc as Miriev slumped to the rooftop. Miriev Molstevic had finally managed to kill someone.

The U-2 Dragon Lady flying lazy circles high above Baghdad was looking for air defenses. F-16 Wild Weasels were too. Screaming low across the night sky, the Weasels baited the Iraqis into lighting up radars and rewarded them with a HARM missile for their efforts. The Dragon Lady was using its infrared sensors to look for AAA batteries that were firing by sight, not radar. The Iraqis were learning that radar meant death. It was better to fire blindly and miss, than try to see and die. The Dragon Lady was looking for muzzle flashes. When one was detected on a rooftop, a series of five photographs were taken over a span of two seconds. What was captured was not a AAA battery, but a slow motion slide show of Miriev’s death.

The Dragon Lady had barely stopped moving before technicians swarmed over her. Under the watchful eye of Air Force security specialists in an armored vehicle, the film canisters were unloaded and sent to the photo lab. The canisters were processed by baby-faced teenagers, and passed off to military intelligence, where they would be scrutinized by highly trained NCOs. Any picture with any tactical and/or strategic merit was forwarded on to the brass.

My God. A guy on the roof of a building blowing his brains out!

Let me see. Holy. . Do we have coordinates on that?

It could be the Ministry of Health, downtown, but I don’t see any AAA emplacements.

Okay. Put the last four frames in the shred heap, and send the first one to DIA. There is still enough of the guy’s face left for the spooks to ID him. He’s probably just some peon longin’ to meet Allah, but you never know.

There were three outbaskets in the Intel lab, each with a different priority and destination. The highest priority, confirmed targets, went immediately to the attack mission planners at the battle staff. The second, possible targets, went almost immediately to the reconnaissance mission planners at the battle staff. The third, possible intelligence value, were sent through intelligence channels, first to the DIA, then to the CIA. It would be a very long time before Miriev Molstevic would be taken off of the CIA’s most wanted list.

PART I

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Chapter 1

Christian Duke

I never thought I’d see the day. Christian looked in the mirror as if for the first time in years. You, my friend, are forty-five. He pushed a fallen lock of hair away from his left eye. He didn’t like birthdays, and the compulsory moments spent in reflection. Thinking of the things that could have been, should have been. Regrets. To him, birthdays were a cruel celebration of aging, relished by children, but better left forgotten later on. Balloons, streamers, lard coated cakes with sugary flowers. Christian hated them all. But he particularly hated the oxymoronic ditty, Happy Birthday.

As he squinted at his image, he let his mind wander to his tenth birthday. No more than eight children. His mother had said to him. They couldn’t afford anything bigger in the way of a party. Staying below the given number would be easy for the boy as Christian had only a few acquaintances and only one good friend, Bernard Johnson. But Bernie’s family was out of town that month, and when it came time to write the invitations, Christian could only come up with three names of children who were friendly toward him, though he wouldn’t call them friends. of those, only one showed up on party day.

My mom made me come. Jacob something-or-other had said. He shoved a present at Christian. Is the pizza ready yet?

That was a third of a century ago. Christian blinked hard, as if he could change the channels in his brain, and find a new, possibly better memory to recount.

Happy Birthday, darling. She said.

He could see her. She was young, flawless and he could almost feel her body, radiating warmth, as she crawled into bed beside him. But she seemed very thin. Did she have the cancer already then? She kissed his neck first, then pulled herself closer, kissing his cheek, his eyelids, and finally his mouth. Christian closed his eyes. He wanted to be there again. To hold her. And she looked pale. Why hadn’t he noticed? She always seemed tired.

Then she was in a casket. He could barely see her through his tears, and he wanted so much to see her.

When Christian looked up again, his eyes were red. His throat ached. He didn’t want to cry. After all this time, he thought his tears had been spent. Instead, he pulled the faucet handle and waited for the water to run cold. He filled his cupped hands and splashed his face until the urge to cry subsided. Once again, his image caught his eye. This time he studied it.

As his eyes darted back and forth from right to left, then right again, he became acutely aware that his sideburns were exactly the same length and width. His jaw was squarish and his left nostril was slightly rounder than the right. He’d never noticed that before.

Christian fingered his brow and a couple of gray hairs. He pushed his cheeks back to his ears to firm up the flaccid flesh. He looked tired, and his eyes burned.

The Visine was a short reach away. He dropped two beads of liquid into each eye, and sighed. Stared. His nose was straight. It was a good nose. His father’s nose. A nose he had passed on to his sons.

He had a small scar on his chin, and remembered the day he got it. He was fairly young when it happened, five or six. His next door neighbor wanted him to play ice hockey, but Christian didn’t own skates. He probably wouldn’t play ice hockey even if he did own a pair. Instead, he was trying to determine which body part would melt ice the fastest. One piece was under his hat, another was held tight in his right hand, and yet a third piece was in his pants.

Hey Duke! The neighbor had yelled. Try one in your mouth! That’ll melt it. Here ya go!, and the neighbor kid threw a large brick of ice at Christian. Christian’s chin took the hit. Blood gushed for nearly an hour before his mother stopped it.

Christian simply wasn’t like other kids. His interests were in discovery and exploration, nature and ecosystems, rocks and fossils. His interests were many and varied, but they all had one common thread, science.

In fifth grade, he was seriously into chemistry, until an explosion in his father’s shed cost him a broken arm, nineteen stitches and his chemistry kit. By seventh grade, his interests had turned to the universe. He plotted star systems and comets, and became the middle school authority in interstellar vacuums and black holes. By tenth grade, Christian was interested in other kinds of heavenly bodies, girls. But when Mr. Farcus caught him giving his daughter a thorough examination, that phase was abruptly ended. During high school, Christian became deeply concerned with environmental issues and devoted most of his time to researching fossil fuels, hydroelectric, solar, and wind generated power.

Christian worked hard and invented a number of devices to better utilize domestic resources. Universities such as Stanford, MIT, Brown, and Princeton took notice and offered him full scholarships. Christian chose The University of California at Berkeley, where he finished his baccalaureate degree in three years and stayed as graduate student and lab assistant to Dr. Alvin Bruce, a pioneer in the field of alternate energy.

Strangely enough, it was through Dr. Bruce that Christian found a real life, one that included something other than science. On one hot summer night after an important discovery, Dr. Bruce insisted they leave their sack dinners behind and celebrate at a little diner just off campus known for its greasy hamburgers and flat soft drinks.

As they sat in a corner booth and shared stories they’d heard of the place, Christian became distracted by a waitress across the room. He and Dr. Bruce sat ten minutes before being approached by the young coed. She moved quickly, making it difficult for Christian to read her catsup smeared nametag. When she finally stood still, he could make out the ‘E’ and the ‘beth’, and was glad that he didn’t have to ask her what her name was. Her hair, pulled tightly behind her head in a bun, accentuated the beauty of her features, and her apron, wrapped twice around her waist, suggested a delicate young woman. Christian was awe struck. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, then that was what he was feeling, and before he could order ice water, he knew he was in love.

Christian stared. Her large eyes and tiny nose reminded him of a stray fawn that he had nursed back to health as a young boy. He longed to know Elizabeth, to talk to her, to care for her and when she finally returned to his table, he stammered, unable to make his feeble utterances form words. He felt like a child.

Did you want fries with that?

Um … yes. O.K … And Miss … I’d like … he continued to stare, suddenly losing his courage. Never mind.

Don’t be shy. She encouraged.

To ask you out.

She stopped writing and looked into his deep eyes. They were nearly black, like her grandfather’s. He looked vulnerable, almost sad, a look that took her by surprise. From the time he walked in, she had him pegged a graduate snob, like the others who ate there and treated the waitresses like dirt. I thought you were going to order a shake.

No, I … well.

I would like to go out with you. She wrote her name and phone number on a napkin. I usually get home by midnight. She smiled at Dr. Bruce. Hello, Doctor.

Hello, Elizabeth. He answered.

To Christian, she was not only the brightest star in the sky, she was the only star. Their first date was awkward. Christian was unsure of the protocol. He held her hand, opened the door for her, and kissed her goodnight on the cheek. He was a perfect gentleman and to Elizabeth, a refreshing change from the guys she usually dated.

Christian was completely taken by her gentleness, her lovely eyes, and her tiny frame. She was perfect, and he loved everything about her. She was a dancer, and her gift, luck as she called it, got her an audition with the Boston ballet on the other side of the universe.

But fate was on his side, and within the month, she was in love with him too. His devotion to his work, his intellect and his sincerity to make the world a better place caught her off guard. He swept her off her feet and promised her the moon. She never made her ballet audition. She gave up everything to be with him. He was a good person, doing the right thing with his research. As a devoted scientist, Christian would change the world, then come home to dinner. She believed that, so she married him.

After they married, Christian’s work overwhelmed him, consuming more and more of his time. Though he tried to share his time with his wife, his research wouldn’t allow it. Through it all, Elizabeth never complained, and despite their time limitations, she became pregnant within a year. They named their first son Brian and soon they were blessed again, with Richard.

Christian’s life seemed to be headed in the right direction. He was a man of vision, happily married to a wonderful and supportive wife and, at 25, the father of two. He had everything. Grants poured in. He became a published essayist and his theories became an exciting piece of discussion within the elite scientific world.

Time went by, and Christian promised that he would take time off. Weeks, months, then years sped by. All the while, Elizabeth stood proud and supportive. The boys grew tall and strong. Then came the cancer. For all his research, Christian knew nothing about it. No one did. He put his research on hold and spent every waking moment caring for his ailing wife. She died two weeks before her thirty-fifth birthday.

Christian’s work suddenly held little meaning. Time dragged by. His vision faded, his only reason for continuing was to raise his children, his and Elizabeth’s.

And now he was forty-five. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed out loud, and found the laugh lines by his eyes a cruel injustice. He never remarried. His housekeeper, Eva, was all the help he needed.

Half-heartedly, he returned to science to finish what he had begun years before. His boys had grown into responsible young men. They didn’t need him at every turn. It was time to refocus. Elizabeth would have insisted on it.

So Christian dragged himself forward, every day feeling a little more optimistic. And today, despite the setback of turning forty-five, he would go into town.

Christian’s destination was always one of three places. The Phillips 66 station on the edge of town was the place he frequented most, purchasing gasoline for one or more of the generators in his home, and occasionally refilling his propane tank for the summer cookouts he loved so much. The second place, known as The Cupboard by most, was a small grocery store, a cozy establishment much preferred over the large chain store five miles closer to his home. He enjoyed its personal touches, especially the welcoming bell that hung over the door, the same bell that had hung over the door as long as he could remember. The third place was the hardware store, just three doors down from his grocer. It was his destination today. He found Patrick Sharpe stocking boxes of nails.

Hot one today. Patrick didn’t smile, but went about his business.

Sure is. Christian answered as he walked purposefully to the display in the rear of the store where he found a large shovel. It’s about time we got the heat they’ve been promising all summer.

Can do without it. Patrick lifted the last box of nails to the shelf and climbed down from his step ladder. What else today, Christian?

A 5/16 spade bit for concrete and twenty pounds of cement, four cinder blocks, a trowel, another pane of glass, like the last one, and some chicken wire, a thousand feet.

The owner looked up over his glasses. What are you building now? A chicken farm with windows?

Christian leaned on the shovel. A jungle.

Patrick Sharpe didn’t think he heard correctly. A jungle you say? Is that so?

Yes. Christian shifted his weight and pushed his glasses higher on his nose, hoping that Patrick wouldn’t expect an explanation.

Patrick merely laughed, a forced chuckle that was almost cynical. Jungle, eh? I’ll believe that when I see it.

Then I’ll expect to see you next spring when the roof comes off. Christian had been constructing the greenhouse over the last three years. His vision for the rain forest had turned many heads years ago. Some laughed at his notion that the North Dakota land could support the growth he suggested. Others just shrugged with a whimsical rise of the brow. If Christian thought it could be done, then maybe it was possible. He worked the soil first, comparing nutrients and soil content with that of samples brought back from South America during one of his sojourns from Berkeley all those years ago.

The vegetation had arrived in May and seemed to thrive in his controlled environment. He maintained a constant temperature of 85 degrees and kept the humidity constant with seven humidifiers and a cleverly diverted stream and waterfall.

Eventually, his most optimistic contemporaries shrugged off the idea, but he persisted in developing the plan. He took measurements and made predictions, until he was well rehearsed in every argument that could or would come up. With all his computations, he couldn’t understand how his rain forest could fail.

How are those boys of yours? Patrick asked him.

Very good. Brian will be graduating in January and Richard helps me out around the house.

Brian … wants to be an architect. Is that right? Patrick was writing up an order.

That’s right. He designs all my projects. Christian told him. And how is that lovely wife of yours?

Patrick chuckled. Shirley? She’s gone and changed jobs again. This time she’s doing bookkeeping part-time for the CPA on Market Street. Things are slow right now, but come tax season when they need her the most, she’ll be ready to quit and find something more interesting.

Christian nodded. Patrick’s wife had done everything from teaching to manufacturing. She was as qualified in computer instruction as she was in welding. How are the kids?

Twins are fine. Seniors this year. Jason wants to quit football and get a job. Lisa wants to quit her job and get into volleyball. Neither wants to go to college, though. I can’t talk any sense into them. They argue that I did all right and I didn’t go to college. Patrick looked up finally, handing Christian a piece of paper. They have a point, now don’t they?

I suppose they do. He looked at the paper. What’s this?

I don’t generally keep a thousand feet of chicken wire laying around. It’ll be in Thursday.

I’ll take whatever you have. I’ll send Richard for the rest.

Fine. Do you want to pay now or put it on your tab? Patrick asked, merely out of habit. He knew that Christian would want to put it on his account.

The usual. Christian loaded the supplies on his pickup truck and drove to the rear of the store where he would find the chicken wire. Across the large lot and the alley, he could see Patrick’s house. Shirley Sharpe was sitting on the back yard glider, wearing a thin robe-like garment, reading a book and sipping a tall cola. She waved at Christian as he tossed the bulky fencing into the pickup. He waved back as he began the twenty-mile drive to his house on Lake Sakakawea.

Richard? Christian called.

I’m in here. The younger of his two sons was mildly retarded, having experienced a trauma during birth.

Christian followed Richard’s voice to the living room. How are you doing?

Good.

Good. Christian smiled. Is Mrs. Howard around?

She’s doing laundry.

Did she mention what she’s making for dinner? I feel like a cookout.

T-bones and baked potatoes.

After Elizabeth died, Mrs. Howard took over everything, the cooking, cleaning, laundry and raising the boys. She was more of a grandmother than merely a housekeeper, patient and energetic. To Christian she was a godsend.

There you are. Mrs. Howard pointed a finger at Christian accusingly. We need a new dryer. This time that thing ate six socks! Honestly!

I’ll see if I can figure out where they went. Christian promised.

My son-in-law should come and fix it. He can fix anything. Anything! That’s why the Army wanted him so bad. I just wish they didn’t live so far away.

Do you want me to start the grill, Mrs. Howard? Richard asked.

You’re a sweet boy. Have a snack to tide you over. It’s too early to start dinner. She strutted into the master bedroom where she usually folded clothes on the bed and watched the afternoon soap operas.

Mrs. Howard seems sad, dad. Richard noted.

She misses her daughter. Mary Ann hasn’t called or written in months. I hope they’re okay in D.C. Christian carried the shovel through the house and into the attached greenhouse where he retrieved the wheelbarrow, and used it to haul the remaining items from his truck. In two days, he would be in California attending the energy conference. He had hoped to get the canopy secured and the footings for the north wall set while the weather was hot enough to remove the greenhouse roof. If only the chicken wire had been in.

Chapter 2

The Energy Conference

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Doctor Alvin Bruce. The young professor, Alison McCrary, applauded in solo as the old professor approached the lectern.

Thank you, Alison. The professor arranged his papers and shifted his weight. He began reading his notes, growing in speed and urgency for several minutes before finally looking up. As I look into the faces of my esteemed audience, it occurs to me that this conference was divinely planned for precisely the right time. As many of you are well aware, there are dire circumstances looming again in the Middle East.

Christian slipped into the auditorium and found a vacant seat on the aisle of the last row. He wondered how much of the presentation he had missed. The airline was on time, but the car rental agency had lost his reservation and he’d waited an hour for another car. He glanced at his watch.

The unrest stems once again from the … greed of a certain government to control the greatest oil field on the planet and to do so with complete waterway access. The problem is the same as it was in 1990. We have an unstable dictator willing to annihilate his neighbors for the sole benefit of himself and himself alone. Excuse me.

The professor pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and swabbed his brow. He looked into the crowd, some two hundred scholars, professors and politicians, trying to find a familiar face, or at the very least, someone who knew the level of crisis of which he spoke.

Time is of the essence. Here on the Berkeley campus, we’ve been working for the past twenty years on alternate fuels. So far, we’ve run into various political roadblocks and I’m quite sorry to say, environmental issues. We find ourselves once again at the mercy of one nation. He paused again and removed his jacket. To Alison, now seated in the front row, he directed his next question. Is it just me, or is it hot in here?

Alison shot out of her chair and pranced to the thermostat. Reading it, she shook her head then proceeded to turn it down a peg.

Thank you, Alison. A new approach we’ve been studying includes …

The professor’s oration continued for nearly an hour. During that time, there were two interruptions on cellular phones within the audience, and one pager call. For the most part, the audience was attentive and alert.

Christian had panned the audience once or twice. A Senator from Massachusetts was on hand and taking notes. The Governor of Utah