Vixen

By John J. Lardieri

The dolphins encircled the three people in the water, ducking and diving to keep them afloat in the strong current.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524655174

John J. Lardieri

John J. Lardieri once heard it said that you should write what you want to read. This is his first excursion as an author and he decided to do just that. He works as a network analyst for a major IT firm and writes as a hobby. This is his first published work. His idea for this adventure began in the late eighties as a series of sketches he came up with known as The Dim Time. He lives in a modest house in a small New Jersey town with his wife Phyllis, his step-son James, and a classified number of feline companions, one of whom was the inspiration for Ray-Ray.

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© 2016 John J. Lardieri. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/20/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5518-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5516-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-5517-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016920914

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1   A Pox on both your Houses

Chapter 2   A Day in the life…

Chapter 3   We interrupt this relationship to bring you the end of the world.

Chapter 4   Ray-Ray’s world and welcome to it.

Chapter 5   I smell dead people…

Chapter 6   Route 80 and the first survivors.

Chapter 7   Getting away from it all.

Chapter 8   Another Nightmare on Elm Street.

Chapter 9   The Truck

Chapter 10   Eagle vs. Shark

Chapter 11   Trader Joe’s

Chapter 12   Black Talon

Epilogue

The End of Book One

This book is first and foremost

dedicated to my wife, Phyllis, who inspired me to write it. It is also dedicated to my High School Sci-Fi teacher, Nick Brown, in whose class I first read the novel Earth Abides by George Stewart, the latter having a character named after him.

I hope this never happens.

What, sir, would the people of the earth be without women? They would be scarce, sir, mighty scarce.

—Mark Twain

CHAPTER 1

A POX ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

- Klingon proverb

I t is done Najah, Mujahid Al-Fayyoumi said to his wife as they sat in the small kitchen of their one-bedroom apartment, which was located on Atlantic Avenue in the Boerum Hill section of Brooklyn, New York.

There is no turning back, now, he added a moment later, after taking a drag on his cigarette. It was down to the filter. He put out what was left in the ashtray. Mujahid let out a long sigh. He was resigned.

When will we know? she said, as she took her husband’s hands into hers across the table.

Soon… A week, ten days maybe. It was never tested.

And our departure? she asked.

No hurry, we have some time. Mujahid lifted his wife’s hands to his lips and kissed them, knowing full well what the kiss meant to her.

Ana bahabeek, he said to her softly.

Across from the Atlantic Terminal subway station was the Al Farooq mosque, also known as Masjid al-Farooq, where Mujahid and his co-conspirators worshiped. Many of the people he planned this with had already left the country. The rest of the congregation had to be left in ignorance. Martyrs for Allah.

Neither Mujahid, nor his associates, had any way of knowing that the plan, which was so simple in execution, was about to go terribly wrong. It was doomed from the start for basically two reasons. First, it began with a madman and second, the economy sucked. Not knowing what it is you’re buying from someone who has gone gently and subtly insane is a bitch in itself, caveat emptor at its worst. But, what they thought they had wasn’t what they had bargained for. Their agenda was being usurped. They were the ones being used.

The second part, was also beyond Mujahid and his associate’s control. He wouldn’t find out about the room change until his eight pm shift started. At that point, he and his crew would be there just to clean up after the event. There was no mistake on his part. He was where he was supposed to be and did what he was expected to do. The containers that were shipped to him had arrived undetected. Who would suspect such a simple everyday substance? Only he knew that the regular tanks had been refilled, and as the head night maintenance crew at the Javits Center, he had free reign to all of the needed areas without the prying eyes of a fully populated building. What he had done to put the plan into effect wouldn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, even if he was seen. The attack would be infinitely subtler than slamming hijacked aircraft into buildings, but with a result that would make what the infidels experienced before look like a hangnail. In the end, it came down to a last-minute headcount, a headcount that would cause another swap to be made.

Getting bumped from the room you relied on for weeks, well… There wasn’t even time to change the signage.

The event that changed everything was a multi-business sponsored gathering called REHIRE AMERICA. It was basically a huge job fair planned for the main lobby at the Jacob Javits Center. Businesses were lured in by several White House initiatives, some of which promised tax breaks to companies that hired more employees. The main exposition area was prime real estate and not every event would warrant this type of pricey square footage, but REHIRE AMERICA did, at first. New York was a great place to attract fresh talent. Companies from all over America were scheduled to attend, but the economy had worsened further since many of the companies had signed on. In the end, enough businesses had canceled over the last couple of weeks to cause the event planners at the center to take another look at the venue. It was decided that the REHIRE AMERICA event would be moved to one of the smaller rooms on the second floor. There was a scheduled EFPIA gathering, which had grown considerably larger since booking at the Javits Center, planned for the same day. They originally wanted the large first-floor exposition room, but the sponsors of REHIRE AMERICA had booked it two weeks prior. EFPIA stood for the European Federation of Pharmaceutical Industries and Associations and represented nearly twenty-two hundred European companies committed to researching, developing, and bringing in new medical treatments. Doctors, medical professionals, and related business men and woman from all over the world, including the United States, would be in attendance. Sponsors of the EFPIA group were delighted at the last-minute change in plans. They would get the larger room. What they wouldn’t have been so pleased about is what most of the people attending the conference would be bringing back with them.

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Two months before the REHIRE AMERICA and EFPIA events being held in New York, Dr. Vladimir Rochenko was sitting at his desk at the State Center for Virology and Biotechnology, which also went by the name VECTOR, in Koltsovo, near Novosibirsk. His desk was cluttered with papers and files. He was seventy-five years old and exhausted. What little hair he had left was pure white. He had a decision to make tonight; two actually. They would want to know soon whether he would give them what they wanted. He opened the drawer of his desk and took out the bottle of vodka he kept there. He was in one of the underground sections of the compound in an area of the facility that was used mostly as storage and low-level experimentation, so he wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him. He took a drink, then another. There was a picture of his late wife, Irena, on his desk; he picked it up and looked longingly at it. She was killed when those two Chechen bitches blew up the airliners coming out of Moscow’s Domodedovo airport back in 2004. She was among the ninety dead. He took the picture and put it in his briefcase. There were two other pictures on his desk. They were of his two sons, both of whom served in the military. His first son, also named Vladimir, was killed during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. He was only nineteen. His eldest boy, Anatoly, died during 2008 South Ossetia conflict by the American-backed Georgian fourth brigade. He had given his beloved Russia everything he had. The Americans and the Muslims had both ripped from him his very reason for being. All he had left was his work, and that too was slowly being taken away. The biological weapons work he had been involved in over the last fifty years was considerably scaled back. While they still engaged in several secret projects, Dr. Rochenko’s work now dealt with the development and testing of vaccines. Some of the younger minds had been given the more advanced military projects, while he was relegated to testing new flu vaccines. He was considered a cold war relic, something his country didn’t need any more. At the height of his career, Rochenko and his team had developed some of the most lethal biological weapons known to man. Even after the Biological Weapons Convention of 1975, his country continued research and development at a fevered pitch. There was one project that Dr. Rochenko was involved in that he considered being his greatest achievement, another child, so to speak. It was a unique genetic re-splicing of the smallpox virus which affected the alteration of the XX female genome. There were various versions of weaponized smallpox already developed, but not like this. The project was code named VXV. It was short for Vixen-X-Variola. In nature, the disease came in basically two forms: Variola major and Variola minor. The Variola-minor version had less than a one percent fatality rate, while the more common Variola major strain had a mortality rate of thirty to forty percent. It was a brutal equal opportunity killer in its own right, but what Dr. Rochenko and his team had done was to make the new virus misogynistic. They made it a woman hater. It was also promiscuous. Vixen had the ability to merge with other viruses increasing its methods of transmission becoming mostly, a virus within a virus.

VXV wasn’t just to be used as a battlefield or regional weapon, it was a doomsday virus. What population would be left, would have a slim to no chance of bouncing back because ninety percent of the women would be dead. Modifications to the protein coat would also raise the kill ratio from thirty to forty percent, to as high as seventy percent or more in the males. Those who remained would have to deal with sickness, starvation, and man’s good old inhumanity to man. In the end, however, what samples of VXV existed were ordered destroyed. The Soviet war planners at the time considered it impractical for use as a biological agent because, after several mutations with other viruses that it would come into contact with in the natural world, it would do something that rendered it useless as a weapon. It would go airborne, and come back to haunt whoever had released it. Dr. Rochenko had lost several team members finding this out. In any event, the project was canceled before his team could experiment further. Had they been able to go on, they would have discovered the virus’s real potential.

Dr. Rochenko took the remaining picture and put it in his briefcase. He took another swig from the bottle of vodka and put it back in the drawer. Dr. Rochenko let out a long sigh. He had made the first of the two decisions that were before him. Dr. Rochenko would give them what they wanted. The bastards were offering a lot of money, not that he would need it. He got up from his chair and grimaced in pain, giving himself a moment to recover before snapping his briefcase shut. The cancer in his liver had been stage four for quite some time now. The fact that there was no stage five, helped him make the second decision. He would give them more than they bargained for.

To hell with them all.

Dr. Rochenko walked through a maze of corridors until he got to a level four secure area deep within the compound. Despite his lower tier research, he still had all of his high-end security clearances. He walked up to a small refrigerated vault, one of many at the facility used for the storage of experimental vaccines destined for commercial purposes. Dr. Rochenko typed in his access code. These vaults were not under camera scrutiny, because what they contained was considered less of a hazard. The door popped open. He removed a vial from in back. It was something he had placed there long ago before the installation of the newer hi-tech security systems. Despite the orders given to destroy the remaining samples of Vixen, Dr. Rochenko couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t kill what ended up being his last surviving child, his finest work.

His legacy.

Dr. Rochenko put the vial in his pocket and relocked the vault. He signed out of the facility like he had done every day for the last fifty years and left the compound. He made the rendezvous as agreed, handed over the vial, and was given a black briefcase in exchange.

Fools… They should have killed me right then and there. They deserve what they get.

Back at his apartment, Dr. Rochenko got a fire going in his fireplace before relaxing in his comfortable chair; there was a full bottle of vodka at his side. He closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. The warmth of the fire felt good. Pictures of his wife and sons sat on the table next to his chair. He opened up the briefcase that was given him earlier that evening; it had fifty million US dollars in it. Dr. Rochenko took one of the neatly stacked bundles of hundreds and threw it into the fire; He kept doing it until both the briefcase and bottle of vodka were empty. From the drawer in the end table next to the chair in which he sat, he removed a nine-millimeter Makarov pistol and placed it in his lap. The fire was beginning to dim. He felt no need to answer for what he had done, at least not in this world. Dr. Rochenko took both pictures of his wife and sons and held them across his chest. He reached down with his right hand and picked up the pistol that was in his lap. Without hesitation, he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

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Mujahid reported for work the night before the event and instructed his maintenance crew as to their usual duties. He informed them that he would work the cleanup and restock on all of the first-floor bathrooms this evening. Mujahid could have assigned the task to anyone, it wouldn’t have mattered: they would have no idea, but he wanted to be sure. He went to the stock room and loaded up his maintenance cart with the usual bathroom supplies. Mujahid went to one corner of the supply room and moved several boxes. The box he was looking for had been well hidden for the last two weeks. Mujahid would need it now. It was time to deploy the weapon and strike fear into the heart of the infidels. His people would send a message like no other. Mujahid took the box and placed it in the back of his cart. The carton was labeled STERELL Hand Sanitizer. He pushed his cart to the first of ten men and women’s bathrooms located on the first floor. It was after hours, and no one would be using them until morning when they would be freshly cleaned and supplied. Mujahid began work in the first bathroom. He mopped the floor and wiped down the sink counters to a shine. Mujahid then went to work and replaced the toilet paper rolls where needed. He wanted everything perfect for tomorrow’s big event. The last task in this bathroom was to refill the hand sanitizer dispensers. Mujahid opened the plastic cover and removed the container. It was still half full. He removed it, and placed it on top of his cart. He then took the case of hand sanitizer from the bottom of his cart and removed a box cutter from his pocket. Mujahid looked at it for a moment. His people had accomplished much a decade ago with a handful of box cutters. They had killed almost three thousand Americans, and exacerbated an already worsening recession. The carnage that was about to be done with this one would be staggering, maybe beyond their ability to recover for decades. He took the box cutter and sliced open the top of the carton being careful not to cut into the plastic containers. Mujahid removed the first container and examined it before placing it into the dispenser. What looked like perfectly normal hand sanitizer, was actually a biological gel similar in both color and consistency with the standard product. Multiplying, in that all you can eat viral buffet, was Vixen. Mujahid knew that most people would wash their hands when they were done with their business. They wanted to kill any unwanted germs, of course. Only when they went to use these dispensers, they wouldn’t be killing any bacteria. They would be infecting themselves with smallpox.

Allahu Akbar, Mujahid whispered under his breath.

He snapped the cover shut and proceeded to the next bathroom.

When his shift ended at seven am, Mujahid had cleaned all ten first floor bathrooms and replacing forty-eight hand sanitizer stations with what was essentially liquid death. By the end of the day tomorrow, hundreds of American businessmen would be carrying the plague to all corners of the United States. They, in turn, would give it to thousands more that worked for them. Those thousands would bring it to their families and friends. It would leave their economy in shambles. There would finally be justice in numbers for all of the oppression and death the Americans had caused to his people around the world. Jihad would be felt across the Great Satan’s land. It didn’t matter that he became infected as well. Like many of his comrades before him, it was to be a martyrdom operation. Mujahid left the Javits Center secure in knowing everything was in readiness. When the first of the infidels began to clean their hands after using the restrooms, the virus would do the rest. He would be back that night at the start of the next shift, as usual, to perform the routine maintenance and replace the contents of the dispensers with the standard product. No point in leaving any traces. In any event, by the time they figured out what was going on, they would have much bigger things to worry about. What biological medium that remained in the dispensers would be dumped down the storage room sink’s drain, a little something extra for the city’s water supply. On his way home, Mujahid stopped at a kiosk to get a paper. He handed the attendant a dollar and waited for his change. Much like the British giving the Indians blankets infected with smallpox, the dollar bill he gave the man for the paper passed on Vixen. It gave the term filthy lucre a whole new meaning.

Ironically, Mujahid hadn’t come to America in pursuit of jihad. In fact, it was that exact reason he had left Pakistan with his wife in the first place. Mujahid even had two cousins killed when a suicide bomber blew up the Imambarghah Ali Raza mosque in Karachi in the middle of evening prayers, killing fourteen other worshipers and injuring thirty-five more. Sectarian strife or not, it seemed his people were more adept at killing each other than the westerners. He had applied for, and was granted an H-1B visa due to his degree in chemical engineering, after being told by many that the United States was the gateway to a better life. The American Dream, they called it. Mujahid took what money he had and flew to America in the hope such a life existed. In Pakistan, he landed a somewhat rewarding job at the Akbari chemical works, developing and refining industrial chemicals soon after graduating the Aligarh School of Technology. But, the salaries compared to his counterparts in America didn’t begin to compare, and Pakistan was becoming more and more dangerous each year. It wasn’t just the jihadi, but war with neighboring India was a potential nuclear powder keg waiting to be lit as well. At the end, when his wife asked when they would be starting their family, did he decide to pack up and leave.

Upon arriving in America, Mujahid and his wife applied for citizenship so they could take full advantage of what their new country had to offer. After only a short period of time, Mujahid had landed a position as a consultant at the Crawly Chemical works located in New York City. The money was good, as well as the benefits, and it looked as if Najah would now be able to raise his children in relative safety. He even envisioned moving out to the New Jersey suburbs when he had enough money saved. Granted, there was unprecedented decadence as compared to the standards he was used to, but most of it was easily avoidable especially if one kept the news off most of the time.

Mujahid had joined the local mosque, and the fellowship it provided did much to alleviate the longing he felt for his former home. In fact, he was becoming quite comfortable living as one of the Americans. But just like in his mosque back in Islamabad, he began to notice some similarities, especially the way some of the younger members were speaking. Like almost every mosque Mujahid had been to, this one too had its radicals. For many of them, it was just talk, but Mujahid knew that there were always a few who would be willing to act, and sometimes all it took was a few, as thousands on the lower west side of Manhattan had learned back in 2001. He did his best to ignore them when he was approached with such talk, and they quickly turned to another when he met their rhetoric with indifference. But, there were some who kept their eyes on Mujahid. After all, a degree in chemical engineering at some point could be useful to them.

It was a year before Mujahid and wife were naturalized, that Najah became pregnant with their first child. But, during her fourth month, there was a complication and she had to be rushed to the hospital. The diagnosis was confirmed to be placental abruption with stage three difficulties, meaning at some point the umbilical cord had detached from the uterine wall, cutting the child off from her uterus. A delay in obtaining an available surgeon also exacerbated her condition, and unfortunately, the child was lost. Mujahid was devastated, and refused to believe the doctors when they said that if she tried to conceive again, the result might be the same.

Mujahid and Najah did indeed attempt the following year again with the same condition occurring, this time at five months. The doctors were able to deliver what they thought was a viable fetus, but the child, a male, succumbed after only four days. To make matters worse, two months prior Mujahid was let go from his position at Crawly Chemicals with only two week’s severance pay, and tens of thousands of dollars in medical bills. He circulated his resume, but it was producing no results, and his unemployment benefits were just barely covering his rent and other necessities.

Jobless, and with no prospect of ever having children, Mujahid sank into depression. As time went on, he found himself more and more receptive to some of the radial talk circulating among his fellow worshippers. The American dream had been dangled in front of him like a carrot, and then cruelly yanked away. Many of his fellows even blamed the hospital for what had happened to his wife.

One less Muslim in their eyes Mujahid! one of them had said. Do you really think they care about us?

Two weeks before his unemployment checks were to cease, and with the prospects of not getting anything in his chosen field abandoned, Mujahid did manage to land a position over at the Jacob Javits Center as the supervisor of the night time maintenance crew. A fellow worshipper at his mosque had pulled a few strings to get him the head position. Although Mujahid was grateful, he considered the job to be beneath him, as the only chemicals he would be dealing with now would be Windex and Clorox, and for a man of his faith, it also interfered with his daily prayers. The morning prayer, the Isha, was no issue, as was the last prayer of the evening, the Fajr. But, the others occurred during the day when he would need to be asleep. Mujahid had discussed the situation with his Iman, who only said it was permissible for him to wake up for them. The matter settled, Mujahid accepted and reluctantly settled into his new job, not knowing the way for him was being paved by other intentions.

Slowly, carefully, Mujahid was brought into the mosque’s inner circle. He, as well as others, were shown videos about the destruction and strife the so called western values were having across the Islamic world. He was invited to attend special sermons not usually preached to the regular congregation. Little by little, Mujahid began to see his adoptive country in a new light, not as the land of opportunity, but as the enemy, not just to him, but to all of Islam. Mujahid’s fervor began to build much to the delight of the Council Elders. Now instead of just listening, Mujahid was the one whose words were used to inspire the others.

Mujahid’s Imam was pleased. A special envoy was arriving in New York this week from Yemen to visit and preach at some of the local area mosques. Their first of the meetings were to be held at the Al-Farooq. It was decided that the time for Mujahid to prove his passion was upon them. Mujahid was called into a secret meeting with his Imam and several of the visiting envoys.

Atta and his men had the right idea, just not the right scope, one of the envoys explained to Mujahid. We need to bring this country to its knees economically. The dollar is what these infidel’s worship. That’s is what we will take away!

How do you plan on doing that? Mujahid asked.

By striking their industry as a whole! said the Imam. We have obtained a pestilence this country has considered long gone. We have chosen you to strategically release it for us.

The envoy reached into his pocket and produced a small vial.

What is it? Mujahid asked.

Smallpox, said the Envoy.

Why me?

You work at the Javits Center. In two weeks’ time, representatives from every major industry in the country will be meeting there.

Yes, I know this, Mujahid acknowledged. The Rehire America event.

Once released it will have the potential to sicken and kill tens of thousands before they will be able to contain it. By the time, they do, this hell hole of a country will slide into a depression the likes of which the world has never seen. Their corporations and manufacturing bases will be severely compromised. All of the world’s financial markets will suffer greatly.

Mujahid was a chemical engineer, not a biological one, but even he knew that small vial wouldn’t be enough.

Just that to sicken so many?

The envoy smiled and returned the vial to his pocket.

No Mujahid, he said. If you agree, we will tell you more, but only if you agree.

Mujahid was no fool. He knew that he was told too much already.

What do you want me to do? he asked.

It was explained to Mujahid that a small sample of the virus was obtained from a biological weapons lab left over from the former Soviet Union, which was then smuggled to a remote field lab in Buenos Aries. There it was cultivated and processed into a transport medium for shipment. From there it was split into two groups. One of which would go over land, while the other would be carried by a small submarine used by the Mexican cartels to smuggle their narcotics into the United States. It was requested that the narco-sub carry only their cargo, which was described to the narco-operatives as a new type of liquid explosive, thereby increasing the subs chances of not being picked up by the American airborne sensors which were specifically designed to detect cocaine. The addition of regular plastic explosive made the lie seem more plausible. The cartel members were told that explosives were to conduct standard martyrdom, and other operations on American soil. A move which the cartels would turn a blind eye to, especially given the amount they were being paid. Once in Mexico, the border tunnels would provide easy access to their shipments. A sleeper cell, already in America for years, would handle the details of getting the viral medium repackaged as a hand sanitizer, and shipped to Mujahid to incorporate with his regular inventory.

At the Javits Center, the package was accepted without incident, just being another item on Mujahid’s requisition list. He simply took the case and stored it along with all the other cleaning products. Once the shipment was acknowledged Mujahid was on his own. The rest would be up to him.

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On the evening after the REHIRE AMERICA event, Mujahid returned to work and realized almost immediately that something had gone horribly wrong. As he walked into the lobby a makeshift sign had been erected on an artist’s easel which said:

THE REHIRE AMERICA EVENT

HAS BEEN MOVED TO THE

SECOND FLOOR.

Vendors can still sign in at the main desk.

SORRY FOR ANY INCOVIENCE

Jacob Javits Management.

A chill ran up his spine as he walked up to the sign and picked it up from the easel.

What does this mean? he said out loud.

Mujahid looked around. Various vendors were wheeling out the contents of their tables and kiosks. Many were coming down from the second-floor elevators hauling cases. Medical professionals were milling about engaged in last minute conversations. One man, in particular, noticed Mujahid in his state of confusion. He was pulling a case full of office equipment he had just broken down, and was hauling back to his truck.

Hi, he said. I’m Steve. I work for…

What… Who?

The approaching man had startled Mujahid.

Are you ok? Steve asked. It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.

Yes… I am fine.

Mujahid just handed Steve the sign and quickly rushed off. The sign was infected and now so was Steve, who placed it back on the easel and continued on his way.

Mujahid stopped in the middle of the main exhibition hall and looked around at some of the tables and kiosks that were still in the process of being taken down. He didn’t see any American business representatives, most of the people here were wearing white medical clothing. There was a large banner hung on one of the walls which read:

Welcome Members of the European Medical Federation.

Mujahid walked up to one of the tables and picked up a pamphlet. It was from a pharmaceutical firm in England which was pioneering new chemotherapy drugs.

Oh no. It can’t be! Mujahid exclaimed.

Anything wrong there, mate? one of the English doctors asked.

Mujahid didn’t answer, he dropped the pamphlet and ran off to the nearest bathroom, once inside he tore the cover off of the hand sanitizer dispenser.

It was practically empty.

This can’t be, he muttered to himself.

Just then one of Mujahid’s cleaning crew members came in with a cleaning cart. Her name was Maria Espinosa. She was a retired postal worker who was supplementing her pension by working nights at the center.

Oh, there you are Mujahid, she smiled. You didn’t post the duty roster yet, so I…

Maria, he said cutting her off. Why are these people here?

What are you talking about? Maria asked a bit puzzled.

The American job fair… It was supposed to be here!

Didn’t you see the sign?

Yes, I saw it! he said trying to contain his panic. But why?

Maria shrugged her shoulders. I think Manny said something about them not needing all that room… Mujahid are you ok?

Mujahid was not ok, and it was showing. The wrong people had been infected.

My stomach is upset, he explained. I am going to go home sick… Please… Please continue with your duties…

Ok, she said. I’ll let Manny know…

Mujahid quickly left the bathroom. Maria saw that the cover was already off of the STERELL dispenser so she started with that. She would be dead a week later, but not before taking a flight to LA to see her younger sister, and infecting a flight attendant named Barbara, who had given her a pillow to make her more comfortable.

Mujahid was at a loss of what to do. He couldn’t go back to his Iman with news of what had happened. He still had family in Pakistan, and those who planned this may take retribution on them. Then again, management at the Center wasn’t accustomed to informing cleaning crew members of such changes.

Maybe they would understand, Mujahid thought.

As Mujahid entered the lobby on his way out, he saw the sign which was still sitting on its easel. Mujahid grabbed it as he walked out and tossed it into a trash container.

Then again, maybe they won’t.

Mujahid looked back at the Javits Center knowing that he would never return. He briefly put his hands to his head before he turned and walked away.

Ibn Shattamuta! he exclaimed.

The phrase he uttered in his native tongue as he headed toward the subway had a western translation, Mujahid had heard it many times.

Son-of-a-bitch, he repeated in English.

He had no idea what the result of tonight was going to be. The only thing that he knew for certain was that he wanted to go home to his wife.

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CHAPTER 2

A DAY IN THE LIFE…

Nothing happens by chance, my friend… No such thing as luck. A meaning behind every little thing and such a meaning behind this. Part for you, part for me, may not see it all real clear right now, but we will, before long.

—Richard Bach

I f necessity is indeed the mother of invention, then Russ Barnett had two mommies. Some people say that certain abilities are hardwired into your DNA, and some say people simply develop an aptitude for a thing as they go along. In any case, Russ took to machines the way a farmer takes to dirt. Russ’ first phase with all things mechanical was to take them apart, much to his father’s dismay. As early as two years old Russ would try to take apart almost every toy he was given. Once when he was three, he managed to pull the back off his grandmother’s old style Motorola TV set and remove every single vacuum tube while everyone was in the kitchen. His grandmother ended up having to call a repairman to come in and put it back together. (Little did they know Russ would have been able to do it.) The repairman commented that it was a miracle the boy wasn’t electrocuted as he probed around inside the set, as many an idle capacitor still kept their electrical charge, even after the set was turned off. Russ’ grandmother promptly handed his father the hundred and fifty-dollar repair bill. As a child, when Russ did put something together, he seldom needed to look at the directions. He would often take several car model kits, and use them to complete a vehicle of his own creation.

Russ’ father Jack Barnett, the oldest of three brothers, owned a Ford dealership the next town over, and Russ would often hang out there watching the mechanic’s as they did their work, even helping at times. Russ’ father only knew how to sell cars, not fix them, and as far as fixing things around the house, his father didn’t know one end of a hammer from another. It got to the point where Russ’ mother began to depend on her young son to get things done around the house more than her husband. Russ’ father didn’t seem to appreciate his son’s efforts at times. Jack Barnett considered any home repair to be in his prevue, even though he ended up botching whatever it was half the time. Russ’ father had come back with a new toaster once, only to find that Russ had fixed the old one, causing his father to angrily throw away the repaired unit for the one he had just paid good money for. One winter, when Russ was nine, the furnace had stalled during an unusually cold day. Russ had gone into the basement while his father was on the phone with the heating company, and cleared out a clogged oil feed line, only to find out his efforts voided the maintenance contract his father had signed with them, when the repairman did arrive. Russ’ mother was very proud of him despite her husband’s grumbling. Russ could fix just about anything, that is until his mom’s cancer came along.

That, Russ discovered, couldn’t be fixed.

His father had hoped Russ would join the dealership as a mechanic, but all hope on that score ended once Russ discovered computers; they became his new obsession. His father had always blamed Russ’ rejection on his relatively quick re-marriage to Diane. Russ however, did do some work at the dealership during his summers off, and on college breaks. But, it became another point of contention between them once again, after Russ graduated from The University of Pennsylvania with an MBA in Network Engineering. His father had even threatened to cut off Russ’ tuition in an attempt to try and force him into the business, but that didn’t sit well with either Russ or his step-mother, who was making every effort to seek to connect with him. So, his father ended up backing off.

It was a Monday morning on what was shaping up to be a warm spring day. Russ got out of his car and opened the back door to get his computer bag. After a long cold winter, new life was finally in the air. Spring was always Russ’ favorite time of the year. His birthday was in March, and he had just turned thirty. Russ loved it when everything started to turn green again, and everything once again seemed possible. New life, another start, that’s what he was beginning to crave again.

Russ slung his bag over his shoulder and headed toward the entrance of where he worked. He was a network analyst for a major food corporation in East Hartford, New Jersey and was anticipating a busy day. Hopefully, his co-worker Steve would be there to help him. Steve traveled and worked from home a lot, so he wasn’t always in the office.

As he approached the entrance, he saw a young woman pacing back and forth near a storm grate. She was in her mid to late twenties, he surmised, and the woman’s body language seemed to indicate that something was wrong. Russ was about seventy-five feet away and closing in. He lately shied away from people and their problems, but something told him that this was worth investigating. As he approached, he could see that the woman was clearly upset and crying about something. Russ had worked here for ten years and didn’t recognize her. There were always people coming in and out from all over the United States, and the world for that matter, so seeing someone he didn’t recognize was no big deal. He was almost there.

She was about five foot four and had red hair, which was put up into two short ponytails. Her eyes were hazel. No raving beauty, but not quite so mousey either. She was conservatively dressed in a gray skirt and white top with a gray jacket to match. She had a black cloth bag over her shoulder and was holding her cell phone like she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She reminded Russ of some Canadian actress whose name he couldn’t recall at the moment.

Cute.

Excuse me miss. Are you alright? Russ asked.

Nooo… My keys! They tumbled out of my bag when I went to get my cell phone, and they fell in the drain! What am I going to do? My boss is expecting me to deliver her presentation for our board meeting over at the Coleridge Hilton, and now I won’t be able to make it. I just started with the company, and now I’ll probably get fired. God, what am I going to do?

You’ll need to get your keys, Russ said peering over the edge of the grate.

Ya think? the woman said with no small amount of sarcasm. I went to the security desk, and they got one of the building engineers to come out, but he said there was nothing he could do… What am I going to do?

She began to sob.

Maybe I can help? Russ offered.

How? I need my keys! she said as she stared down the grate, gesturing at it with her hand. How are you going to get them out of there?

Engineers… What do they know? said Russ dismissively.

Russ unslung his bag and knelt down on one knee. He opened the flap and began to dig inside. In IT, your computer bag was your friend. It just didn’t hold your laptop. You sometimes had to live out of it, and Russ’ was a finely-honed instrument. In addition to his computer, he had some basic tools: three Slim-Jims and a bottle of Snapple, sewing kit, nail clippers, and oh yeah, dental floss. That would come in handy now.

The first thing Russ pulled out was a Mini-Mag light. He took it, turned it on, and shined it down the grate. He could see that there were a couple of inches of murky water down there, but he could also see a glint of metal.

Target acquired, he said.

Ok… but how are you going to get them?

Oh, ye of little faith, Russ said and began digging in his bag again.

This time, he produced the plastic container of dental floss and placed it next to the grate.

The women looked at him incredulously. What in the world is he going to do with that?

Then, he took out something that looked like a pen. But, instead of a point, it had a magnetic pickup, the type of tool that was used to pick up screws and other small metal objects dropped in hard to reach places. The woman was silent as Russ took the dental floss, unraveled a few feet, and tied it to the pocket clip attached to the wand. Then he lowered it down into the grate, feeding it more line from the floss container as it went lower.

When I was younger I used to love to fish, he said to no one in particular. The wand hit bottom, and he dragged the line around a bit in the general area where he saw the gleam of metal.

CLINK!

I think we got a bite! Russ said as he looked up at her briefly.

No way! she said as she knelt down next to him placing her cell phone back in her bag. She wiped her eyes with her hand and began staring intently down the grate as Russ slowly began to pull up the line with her keys in tow.

You got them! she exclaimed in disbelief.

Almost…

The top of the wand came up through the grate, and Russ grabbed it with his left hand releasing his grip on the floss. With his right, he scooped the keys up by the ring and pulled them both from the grate. They both rose in unison, and Russ separated the keys from the magnetic wand. He turned to her and held them at face level.

She was beaming, and at the moment, speechless.

Hang on a sec…

Russ pulled a red bandana from his back pants pocket and dried the keys before handing them back to her. The woman accepted them with both hands cupped like Russ had just given her a baby bird. She then gripped them tightly in her right hand and gave Russ a hug. She stepped back, greatly relieved.

I can’t believe what you did… That was ingenious!

"Just doin what I can with what I got. That’s a Burtism."

"A whatism?" she asked a bit puzzled.

"A Burtism… Oh never mind. My name is Russ. Russ Barnett."

Hannah Bennett, she said extending her hand. Russ shook it. I really appreciate what you did. My group will be back on site about eleven thirty after my boss finishes her presentation. I like to at least buy you lunch.

Ok, but I have expensive tastes. Only the finest Diet Coke will do. With that, Russ re-slung his bag back on his shoulder. He turned and headed toward the entrance.

Wait! How will I find you?

Russ turned his head. Just ask for Russ from Network. They’ll know where to find me.

Thanks. I will.

Russ raised his hand and smiled, he didn’t see her leave as he continued toward the door. He scanned his ID card and entered the building.

Maybe it’s time to get back in the game; it’s been almost three years.

He stopped by the hand sanitizer near the entrance, hit the dispense button and worked the lotion into both hands. After last year’s H1N1 scare, the facilities department had deployed them all over the building. Who knew what bugs were lurking down in that water?

Morning Tom, Russ said as he passed the security desk flashing his ID card. He really didn’t need to show his badge; after five years, all the guards knew him. It was second nature.

Hey, Russ, Tom, the security guard, replied from behind the half glass security enclosure.

Russ’ cube was located in the back of the first-floor southeast wing by the buildings three main computer rooms. He liked it back there. Lots of privacy. That was good because Sharon, the PBX administrator, had a mouth that could make a Marine Corp drill sergeant blush.

He stopped by Sharon’s cube which was adjacent to his. Hey, Shar… Is Steve in today? Russ asked.

No, she said staring intently at her screen before turning to him. I talked to him about twenty minutes ago, he said he wasn’t feeling well so he’s working from home. He thinks it’s the flu. Plus, he mentioned something about his back hurting him.

Alright, I’ll see if I can get him on communicator. With that, Russ went into his cube, set his bag down on his spare chair, and pulled out his laptop, snapping it into the docking station under his screen. He turned it on and let it boot up while he went to the cafeteria to get a glass of ice for his Snapple.

Fuck! Sharon exclaimed suddenly a few moments after he got back.

What’s wrong? Russ said as he sipped his from his cold glass of ice tea.

That fucking modem is hung up again. Can you reset it for me? That thing is such a piece of shit!

Ok, I’ll get it, said Russ. With Steve out Russ had the only key to the Tel-Com room. I’ll be right back.

He went to the Telecom Room, which housed the building’s primary AT&T phone circuits and PBX servers, to reset the modem. When he was sure it was back up, he decided to make a detour to the security desk and talk to Tom.

Hey, Tom.

Russell what’s up?

Did some woman about yo high, said Russ gesturing with his right hand. With red hair stop by here about thirty minutes ago? She lost her keys…

"Yeah. She was pretty upset. I got one of the building engineers to walk out with her to see if he could help, but it was pretty hopeless. When he came back, she wasn’t with him. He must have left her to fend for herself.

Yeah, I saw her on my way in. I fished her keys out of the grate… Who is she?

You did!?… How?

Russ explained his fishing technique.

Wait till I see Ed again, I am going to bust his balls big time, Tom chuckled. She was with a whole group that came in this morning, some outside advertising agency. They’re meeting offsite with the company’s marketing team. Hang on I’ll check.

Tom picked up the security sign in book and flipped it back one page. He took his reading glasses out of his pocket and put them on.

Let’s see… Yeah, here she is. Hannah Bennett… Her company is Graf-Stevens.

Thanks. She may ask for me when they get back. Give me a holler.

She was kinda nice looking Russ… Gonna make a move? Tom said with a sly smile.

No… Just lunch, maybe. We’ll see.

Probably never see her again, Russ thought as he headed back to his cube.

Thanks, I’m back in, Sharon said as Russ returned to his seat

Russ reviewed his e-mails and sent out several replies. When he was done, he brought up Microsoft Office Communicator to see if he could get a hold of Steve. He started a session and began typing:

KZ7Z2N: Steve ya there?

A response came back about 10 minutes later.

ZD4C12: Yeah I’m here.

KZ7Z2N: Sharon says you’re under the weather, how ya doin?

ZD4C12: God I feel like crap, plus my back is killing me.

KZ7Z2N: Sorry to hear, I need to know where to send those power supplies.

ZD4C12: I will e-mail you the list. I would come in today, but I am really out of it. I think Sandra is

getting the same thing.

KZ7Z2N: No prob… Rest up I will take care of it. How did the trade show go over at Javits?

ZD4C12: What a pain in the ass! They made us switch rooms at the last minute after we had already setup.

About half the companies canceled, nobody’s hiring, so we got bumped to one of the smaller second floor exhibition halls.

KZ7Z2N: Not much of a job fair without jobs. When do you think you will be back?

ZD4C12: Don’t know. I really feel like I want to puke, plus I’m breaking out or something. I hope this isn’t Measles. I am going to the doctors at three-thirty.

KZ7Z2N: Measles? Is that even still around? Alright. Keep me posted.

ZD4C12: Will do.

Russ terminated the chat session. If Steve had anything else to say, he could re-establish the session. About five minutes later, Russ got the e-mail from Steve he was waiting for. Russ would get those PDU’s shipped out. Then, on to more pressing business… He had just gotten a trouble ticket. There was some faulty LAN wiring on the third floor.

The morning went pretty quickly. Russ Fed Ex’d out the ten CISCO 4605 power supplies Steve had on his list. After he had dropped them off at the mailroom, he stopped back at his cube, grabbed his FLUKE diagnostic meter and some other tools, and headed up to the third floor to see what the issue was with the LAN wiring. Turned out that a data jack in an office cubicle needed to be re-terminated. He took it apart, re-punched it, and got the client’s computer back on the network.

It was about eleven forty-five when Russ got back to his cube. No messages on his phone. He clicked on Internet Explorer and brought up Google.

He typed in Graf-Stevens.

The company had a website, but there was not much on it. They were a small hungry firm based out of Chicago. Russ wondered if they had the talent to compete with some of the bigger Manhattan businesses the company usually dealt with. The woman he helped out was probably from Chicago as well. Not much potential in a long-distance relationship.

Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?

It was eleven fifty, but no call. For some strange reason, this woman intrigued him. There was an innocence about Hannah and yet, a strength as well. Russ looked again at the time stamp in the right-hand corner of his computer screen. High noon and no call.

He called to Sharon. Shar.

What up? she replied. Russ could hear her rapidly typing.

What do you think of long distance relationships?

They suck, she said flatly. Not into fucking over the phone.

Russ chuckled. This was a corporate environment.

How does she still have a job?

Just wondering, I’m going to lunch.

Russ got up out of his chair. As he did, the phone rang. He sat back down. Glancing at the caller ID, he could see it was the security desk.

Ok, here we go.

He picked it up on the third ring.

Network. Russ here, he said with a formal tone.

"Tom, at the desk. A woman here to see you." Russ picked up on the inflection.

Be right there, he said and hung up.

It was a thirty-second walk to the security desk. It seemed like an instant. Why did Russ feel so nervous? What did he think was about going to happen? This was the first-time Russ had any female meeting other than a relative since…

It’s just lunch.

He spotted her first and made eye contact. Hello there.

Don’t look away until she does, Russ thought. It was an old dating trick.

Hi, she said and extended her hand.

Russ took it. He didn’t shake, just held it briefly before returning it to her. He smelled her perfume; it was a cross between peach and apricot.

Shall we go?

Yes. I’m starved. How is the food here?

I’m still standing, Russ smiled.

She smiled back and then averted her eyes momentarily.

Tom, Russ said turning briefly toward him.

Yeah, Russ.

Russ pulled the magnetic wand he used earlier out of his cargo pants pocket and placed it on the security desk through the glass opening.

Tell Ed he needs one of these. Russ didn’t see her smile; he didn’t need too. But, he could pretty much make one out it in the reflection of the security glass. Ed wasn’t going to easily live this one down.

Tom picked it up and laughed. Don’t worry, I will.

Russ gestured toward the cafeteria, and the two began to walk. She followed, her black bag in tow.

So how did the presentation go?

Not as good as we hoped, she said, slightly disappointed. We’re competing against an established firm and were hoping to get a shot at some of your smaller product lines. They’re still talking it over.

They arrived at the cafeteria and stopped momentarily so Russ could show her the menu posted at the entrance.

Good thing it’s Monday, Russ said. On Tuesday, they serve turkey, but it’s so bad we call it Turkey-Al Queda. I usually just hit the salad bar.

That elicited a smile from her. Sounds good to me.

As they entered, Russ grabbed two brown trays from the rack and handed her one. The salad bar was located in the middle of the cafeteria; it was self-serve with a wide selection. They put together their salads, then walked over to the drink area. Russ stopped by the soda fountain, grabbed a glass, filled it with ice, and placed it under the Diet Coke tap. Hannah selected a Crystal Light ice tea from the refrigerated case next to it. Good to her word, she paid using her American Express Corporate card. As they left the cashier, Russ suggested that they eat outside on the patio. It was the first day you knew spring had arrived. The day you waited for…

As they sat and began to eat, Russ quickly took the initiative and got in the first set of questions. Turns out, she did live in Chicago where she shared a small apartment with a roommate in Glenview. She had flown into Newark on Sunday with her manager and five other employees from her firm. She was only with the company three months, but had shown enough promise to be included on this business trip. She grew up in Moline and both her parents worked for the John Deere tractor company, and did some farming on the side. She graduated from Governor’s University, a public college with a degree in marketing and graphic design. She was an only child. Russ noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and so far, hadn’t mention a boyfriend. Russ was about to ask, when the tables turned.

So, what’s your story? she asked, focusing her gaze on him. Russ gave her as much as he could without mentioning anything personal - School, work, that sort of thing. He could tell the subterfuge wasn’t going to last long, and at some point, he was going to have to mention family. A dead wife was a mood breaker, maybe even a deal breaker.

Then Hannah did something strange. Russ was taking a sip of his soda trying to figure out what to say next when she reached out and took his left hand. Hannah pulled it toward her slightly and turned it over like she was going to read his palm. She didn’t say anything at first.

I really appreciate what you did for me today, Hannah said softly. You saved my butt big time.

Russ noted the subtle shift in Hannah’s voice. Melancholy or even a hint of sadness, He thought.

Just doing what I can…. Russ began.

With what I got, she finished the line and returned his hand to him. Who’s Burt? she asked, her voice now more normal.

"Burt Gummer. Did you ever see the movie Tremors?"

No.

Let’s just say I sort of identify with the character.

Just then her cell phone rang. She removed it from her bag and looked at the number, before flipping it open and putting it to her ear.

Hannah.

She listened for about a minute.

I see, she said flatly, then she slowly flipped the phone closed and stared at it.

Bad news?

We didn’t get it; they are sticking with their regular firm for now.

Sorry to hear that.

C’est la vie, she sighed. Well… with that down the tubes, they are booking us the next flight out of Newark at three twenty. I had better get going. We need to wrap up with the client before flying out. She placed her cell phone back in her bag and rose from her chair. Russ stood with her.

After they had dropped off their trays, Russ walked her to the elevator and escorted her to the second floor where the Marketing Department was. When they stepped off the elevator, she asked him where room 220S was located. He gave her directions. He wasn’t going to go any further, or get any farther for that matter.

Good Bye, Hannah. It was great to meet you.

You too, Russ, she moved in for a quick hug.

She started walking toward