

### And Hell Followed

Mark Scott

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Mark Scott

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# Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

# Chapter One

Bruce Martin was a journalist for the Biscayne Sun for eight years. He was a good reporter. Martin had an uncanny knack for sniffing out a story and getting to the bottom of it. He was, as so many in the press tend to be, egocentric. Martin believed that he was far more intelligent than most Americans. That fact, in his mind, qualified him to educate the rest of society. This personality trait made Bruce Martin a first rate journalist, if not a first rate human being. When Martin's chief editor assigned him a mundane story on the Coast Guard's new role since nine eleven, he was less than thrilled. He never could have imagined that it would turn out to be one of the biggest stories in U.S. history.

Martin now found himself on the Coast Guard cutter Courageous which left Miami two days earlier. The cutter arrived on station in the Windward pass the previous night. As the Caribbean Sea flows north it is funneled into a series of narrow passages between the islands. The majority of ship traffic must move through these passes; consequently many are patrolled by the Coast Guard looking for drug smugglers. The Windward Pass lies between the southeastern coast of Cuba and the western shore of Hispaniola, the resident island of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

Martin sat on the starboard air castle, a sheltered weather deck ten feet above the waterline. He leaned his back against the brilliant white bulkhead while he jotted his impressions into a spiral notebook. Occasionally he would sweep his thick black hair from his eyes. He shifted his tall, slender frame in an effort to gain comfort. Every now and then he would stop and lift his face, tanned and handsome, to take in the beauty that surrounded him. Martin listened to the soft song of rushing water as the ship's bow sliced the Caribbean, allowing it to cascade along the two hundred and ten feet of hull. He watched the rise and fall of the cutter churn the blue water into luminous clouds of foam. The foam slid along the ship, sinking into the sea and as it did, fading from white to a brilliant turquoise before dissipating altogether. Martin stared off across the long, slowly rolling swells. He marveled at the water's beauty. The sea here was the deepest, purest blue that one could imagine. On the horizon, wearing a crown of fluffy cumulus clouds was the island of Hispaniola.

The serenity was broken by the shrill of the loud speakers. "Now, all hands man flight op stations. All hands man flight op stations." Martin rose to his feet. The roll of the cutter made walking difficult. In a half walk, half stagger he negotiated the narrow passageways and ladders that took him to the flight deck level. There he could see the deck crew preparing to launch the helicopter. Opening a hatch Martin stepped into a dark passageway. He nearly lost his footing as the ship turned hard to port and into the wind. Moving up a second ladder he began to feel a little sea sick as the bow rose into the swells, then fell into the trough with a shudder.

Arriving on the bridge Martin could hear the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the helicopter's rotor blades. The volume steadily increased until he could actually feel the noise beating against his chest. Looking out a large window Martin watched as the red aircraft glided by the bridge so close that he could see the crew inside moving around as they performed their duties. The helicopter banked off towards the open ocean. Martin turned his attention to the bridge.

The bridge is the nerve center of a ship. It is on the bridge that the ship is steered, the engines controlled and navigation plotted. The Courageous' bridge was surprisingly small, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. A traditional ship's helm was mounted before a huge glass window at the front and center of the bridge. Mounted above the helm was a large compass that was surrounded by monitors and other electronic equipment. On either side of the bridge there was a door, or hatch, in nautical terms. Each hatch led out to a kind of balcony called a bridge wing. On each bridge wing was mounted a machinegun. On the starboard bridge wing there was a forty millimeter gun. On the port wing there was a fifty caliber gun. Blue vinyl tarps were stretched out over the bridge wings to offer some protection against the elements. On the roof of the bridge is the crow's nest. In the crow's nest, just as in the days of the three masted sailing ships, a lookout stands his lonely vigil. A modern lookout, however, has a lot of assistance from technology. He uses a giant pair of binoculars which are mounted on a pedestal and can swivel in a full circle. The "big eyes", as they are called, are capable of measuring distance, seeing in infra-red or switching to night vision. The lookout can view a suspect vessel in the infra-red spectrum and can tell if the vessel is smuggling marijuana. When compressed into bails, Marijuana gives off heat just like a pile of grass clippings in a backyard. The big eyes can detect this heat, allowing the lookout to give a boarding party advanced notice of what they will encounter. Martin thought it was ridiculous that the lookout still relayed this information to the bridge by a most primitive means; he spoke into a metal tube that ran between the crow's nest and the bridge.

Martin stood in a back corner of the bridge next to the chart table. The cutter's navigator, Dave Anderson, poured over a scattering of nautical charts. Looking up from his task he flashed a smile at Martin, "What's up Marti?" The crew had bestowed the traditional nickname on Martin. He thought it rather juvenile and undignified but he endured it, nevertheless, as he was a little intimidated by most of the crew. Some of the crew, Anderson being one of them, was surfers. All of the surfers were in great shape and filled with a macho zest for life that Martin admired, though he did not fully understand it.

"Where exactly are we Dave?" Martin asked.

"We are right about... here," responded Anderson pointing with the sharpened point of his pencil to a spot on the chart.

Martin leaned forward, examining the chart. He saw where the run lines intersected at a spot nearly in the center of the Windward Pass.

"Has this area been very productive for you in the past?" asked Martin.

"Oh sure. It's pretty much a straight shot up from Columbia. A lot of runners will bolt for Haitian waters if they spot us. Personally I prefer the Mona or Anegada Pass. 'Cause when mid patrol break comes around we're in close proximity to some great surf. P.R. has some really hollow reef breaks like the Gas Chambers. But Anegada, ah, Anegada! We have a secret spot, a reef break, accessible only by boat. That place, on a good northeasterly swell, goes off!"

Martin wasn't sure he understood all the jargon Anderson had just rambled off. But he got the idea; the surfers of the Courageous had their own secret paradise.

"Where's Anegada?"

"BVI"

"Where?"

"The British Virgin Islands"

"Sounds sweet!" responded Martin.

"You know it man. One of these days I'm gonna take some leave and bring the old lady down. She'd love it."

A group of guardsmen entered the bridge. It was the change of the watch.

Anderson nodded a goodbye to Martin before sliding down the ladder and disappearing. The radio on the bridge crackled to life. Everybody on the bridge stopped instantly and strained to hear the helicopter pilot's voice.

"Coast Guard cutter Courageous, Coast Guard cutter Courageous this is Coast Guard zero six one five, how copy over?"

The O.D., (officer of the deck), lifted the mike off of the radio. Squeezing the mike's key he spoke, "Coast Guard zero six one five this is Courageous. I have you five by, (good reception), at this time over."

"Roger Courageous, zero six one five, be advised that we have a contact at approximately zero two zero relative at twenty miles. Subject is a white trawler with a red waterline. The waterline appears to be a legitimate waterline. Venezuelan colors. Have observed two, tango whiskey Oscar, two P.O.B. at this time. How copy over?"

The O.D. responded, "Roger roger zero six one five. Do you have a vessel name over?"

"Roger Courageous that is affirmative. Vessel name is Canarian, over."

"Zero six one five, Courageous, standby one."

"Roger Courageous standing by on one four over."

The O.D. spoke, "X.O., (executive officer), do you want to check the hit list?"

The X.O. nodded his approval. With that the O.D. walked over to the chart table.

He removed a black three ring binder from a shelf on the bulkhead beside the table and began thumbing through the pages. Martin was scribbling feverishly in his own notebook.

"X.O. do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" Martin asked.

"Fire away," the X.O. responded.

"I was wondering if you could explain that exchange between the helicopter and the Cutter, please sir." said Martin, feeling a little intimidated as he stared at his own reflection in the X.O.'s mirrored sunglasses.

"Well the helo, (Coast Guard slang for helicopter), crew has spotted a trawler that is suspicious. We have a list, that we call the hit list, anyway; this list is generated by intelligence agencies. If a vessel is on that list then we will definitely intercept and board. If a vessel looks strange or is behaving strangely then we will also board."

"What is zero two zero relative?" asked Martin, referring to his notes.

"That is the position of the trawler relative to us, the cutter."

"What was the pilot talking about...something about a legitimate waterline?" asked Martin.

"Sometimes, if a vessel is really loaded down, they will paint a fake waterline in an attempt to appear that they are not carrying a load. That is almost exclusively a pot smuggler's trick and to a trained eye it is easy to detect."

"So this guy isn't loaded, since he has a real waterline," Martin inquired.

"My guess is that he isn't running grass, I'll put it that way. It doesn't mean he ain't loaded with coke or guns, illegals, or hell in this day and age, he may be bringing in a nuke for all we know. My experience tells me if he's a trawler and he's way out here, then he's probably up to somethin'."

"Okay, let's see," responded Martin anxiously as he hurried to ask his questions before the X.O.'s duties required his full attention. "Venezuelan colors, he's flying a Venezuelan flag?"

The X.O. nodded "yes."

"What is P.O.B.?"

"People on board."

"X.O. we have a hit!" exclaimed the O.D.

The X.O. raised his hand and extended his index finger indicating for Martin to wait a minute. "Let's get with Miami and get all the data available on the Canarian," said the X.O. in a calm and measured voice. The O.D. turned and asked, "Where's the Bo swain's Mate?"

"Here sir," said a young man as he stepped onto the bridge from the starboard bridge wing. "Take this down to the radio shack and tell them to come up with Miami. Tell them we want all the data available on the Venezuelan vessel Canarian, number forty six on the current hit list. Got that?"

"Aye aye sir," replied the Bo swain enthusiastically. Then he turned and bounded down the steps leaving the bridge.

"X.O. do you wish to deviate?" asked the O.D.

"Standby," said the X.O. as he walked over to a black telephone that hung on the back wall of the bridge. He picked up the hand piece and pushed the numbers to ring the Captain's cabin. After a couple of seconds the X.O. spoke "Cap'n this is X.O., sir we have a visual by the helo that is on the current intel pub do you wish to deviate?" The X.O. paused and listened intently to whatever it was that the captain was saying. Then he spoke once more saying simply "aye, aye" before hanging up the phone. "Mister Storey, (that was the O.D.'s name), deviate to Canarian's course and intercept."

"Aye, Aye," replied Ensign Storey. With that Mister Story began issuing orders which had the immediate effect of sending the bridge into a flurry of activity. He began by giving orders to the young man at Courageous' helm. "Helmsman, come right zero one eight degrees."

The helmsman replied, "Helm aye, right zero one eight degrees." The helmsman then began to vigorously spin the wheel to the right. Suddenly he braked it then made some minor adjustment, all the while watching the ship's compass in front of him. Gradually the compass needle drifted onto zero one eight degrees.

Then the O.D. barked another order, "Navigation, project an intercept course for vessel Canarian."

The navigator responded with a simple, "Aye."

"Are you going to board this boat?" Martin asked the X.O.

"You bet! It's on the hit list. Even if he wasn't on the list just the fact that a trawler is in these waters is suspicious enough," responded the X.O.

"Is it only drugs that you're looking for? I mean since nine eleven are you alert for any terrorist activity?"

"Let me tell ya somethin' about the Coast Guard Marti. We've been at war with terrorist way before September the eleventh. I mean step back and look at the big picture. All of these drugs that we are trying to stop; do ya think it's all about money? Oh sure there's billions of dollars being made from drugs, but the money funds an ideology. Take coke for instance, follow the money and it leads you back to several Marxist groups in Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. The politicians call them 'narco-terrorist'. The money finances the ideology and the terrifying methods of cramming that ideology down the collective throats of a population. So the Coast Guard has been in a running battle with terrorism for many decades now. The public, though, is just now becoming aware of it. But for us...it's business as usual."

Martin stood there for a moment rather stunned. The X.O. really understood, not only his mission, but the geopolitical forces that necessitated his mission. The X.O. spoke concisely and articulately. Martin had looked down upon the Coast Guardsmen. In Martin's mind, he was a college graduate and most of them were not. Those that had finished college, in Martin's estimation must be some sort of loser to be in the armed forces. Yet here was one that was every bit as educated and perceptive as himself. Martin was taken aback. It would not be the last time that these men would surprise him.

The X.O. excused himself and joined the O.D., who was hunched over a nautical chart. Martin stepped out onto the port bridge wing. He looked out across the rolling blue Caribbean. The sky was a vibrant blue. Enormous towering clouds drifted slowly, suspended in the air by balmy breathes of the tropics. The cloud tops were a brilliant white. Each was etched with shades of blue that grew darker and darker until, at the base of the cloud, the blue was nearly black. Veils of rain linked the clouds with the sea below. The warm wind chilled as it picked up in velocity and the water faded from deep blue to a dirty green color and then, to slate gray. The orderly march of the long rolling swells became disrupted. The sea fell into confusion with the waves cresting and spotting the ocean with frothing whitecaps. Martin watched as a luminous spear of lightning leapt from a cloud to the water below. Seconds later came the low rumble of thunder. Off to his left Martin saw another cloud bulging at its base. Being a Floridian, Martin knew what this was and so he waited with eager anticipation. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bulge elongated. Finally a thin and wispy waterspout began its' slow dance across the waves. Martin watched it twist and writhe like some kind of strange atmospheric belly dancer. He stood, mesmerized by the spectacle until the cyclone diminished and receded, disappearing into the belly of the gathering storm.

The Courageous sailed on into the wall of rain. The drops beat so furiously upon the tarp stretched over the bridge wing that the noise was akin to standing in a drum. Martin retreated onto the bridge. The cutter's bow rose and fell as it plowed through the angry seas. The Courageous began to roll from side to side. Martin started to feel a little queasy. For forty five minutes the Courageous sailed through the storm. Slowly the rain abated and the clouds began to part, allowing shafts of sunlight to illuminate areas of the still choppy waters.

Finally the cutter passed from the storms influence and made a heading for the Canarian's position, now just twelve miles off the starboard bow. For the next thirty minutes Martin sat in a corner of the bridge writing all he had observed into his notebook. Then came the voice of the lookout, "Bridge, lookout."

"Bridge aye," responded the O.D.

"Bridge I have a contact bearing zero six zero relative at approximately five nautical miles."

"Bridge aye."

The O.D. strode over to the phone and called the Captain's cabin. "Captain," he said,

"we have a visual contact with the subject." The O.D. hung the phone up and walked out onto the forward bridge wing where the X.O. was standing staring at the Canarian through binoculars. A couple of minutes later Martin heard somebody call out, "Captain on the bridge!" That statement drew the X.O. and O.D.'s attention. The Captain nodded to them approvingly. Then the Captain took his seat at the front of the bridge to watch his junior officers intercept the Canarian.

By now the Canarian was plainly visible through the large windows at the front of the bridge. The Canarian looked to Martin to be about a mile ahead of the Courageous. The O.D. left the X.O. watching the vessel through his binoculars and walked back onto the bridge. Standing beside the helmsman the O.D. reached up above the helm and removed a microphone from one of the radios situated over the ship's wheel. The O.D. brought the mike to his mouth and spoke confidently, " Motor vessel Canarian, motor vessel Canarian , this is the United States Coast Guard Cutter Courageous, heave to and prepare to be boarded." The only response was the crackling static of an empty radio channel.

"Motor vessel Canarian this is the United States Coast Guard, do you copy, over?" Again, no response. The O.D. walked over to the helmsman and guided him as he steered the Courageous to within twenty yards of the lumbering old trawler. Now Martin had a good view of the Canarian. The vessel seemed innocuous enough. She was around sixty feet in length and her movement through the water seemed labored in comparison to the cutter. The gunwales were a weathered white, thin and cracked to reveal the lines of the planks from which her hull was constructed. Here and there, along the trawler's length, the white paint was streaked with streams of rust. The waterline was a faded red. The Canarian's thick bow responded clumsily to the swells. Her wide beam made her roll heavily first to port and then slowly back to starboard. With each roll the bottom of her hull was visible and Martin could see that she was infested with barnacles and algae. On the main deck, amidships, was the pilot house. The structure was basically the boat's bridge and like the Courageous' bridge, the pilot house was lined with many windows. Martin wondered how anybody could see out of those windows, as they were filthy and encrusted with salt spray. Inside the dark figure of the helmsman stood, unmoving, at Canarian's wheel. Directly behind the pilot house was a tall mast with a boom angling out over the trawler's stern. Ropes hung limply and the cutter was now so close that Martin could hear the block and tackle clanging off of the rusted rigging.

The X.O. turned to Martin and said, "See her trawlin' rig Marti? It's all rusted up, these guys ain't fishin!" The O.D. stepped out onto the bridge wing carrying a bullhorn. Lifting it to his mouth he spoke, " Motor vessel Canarian, motor vessel Canarian, this is the United States Coast Guard Cutter Courageous, heave to and prepare to be boarded." Once more there was no response. The O.D. leaned out over the bridegewing and called out to the Bo swains mate on the deck beneath the bridge," Give 'em the water canon Smitty!"

"Aye, Aye," came a voice from below.

A water canon is a high pressure fire hose attached to a long metal muzzle which is mounted onto a swiveling pedestal. The device is used primarily in firefighting but it is also employed as a nonlethal means of stopping a reluctant suspect vessel. To stop a fleeing boat the canon is used to pour large volumes of water down a vessel's stack in the hopes of, either drowning the engine or cracking the engine block. This tactic, however, was unsuccessful with the Canarian. The old relic merely sputtered and coughed a few puffs of white smoke before continuing on. The O.D. was then forced to use a more direct approach in apprehending the incompliant vessel. He gave the order to pull two hundred yards ahead of the suspect and to maintain that distance.

"Helm," said the O.D., "on my command swing hard to starboard. We will go dead in the water and block her."

"Helm aye!"

The O.D. then summoned the Bo swain, "Go below and assemble the Damage Control Crews in the forward peak and amidships deck two."

"Aye!" came the enthusiastic response.

Martin was alarmed by what he was hearing. He couldn't believe that this crew was actually going to risk colliding with another vessel. Martin dared not question them but he was certainly worried and perhaps even a little frightened. He watched the Canarian slip astern. The Courageous held her position for some ten minutes before the O.D. snapped the order, "Helm hard to starboard!"

"Hard to starboard aye!" and the helmsman began feverishly spinning the cutter's wheel. The Courageous leaned to the right then lurched to a stop. The engines went nearly silent as they now idled, awaiting their next command. Martin could see the Canarian approaching, never wavering in course or speed. To his horror it soon became apparent that a collision was eminent. Martin began moving around nervously, he wanted desperately to yell a warning but he saw the crew was not overly concerned and that calmed his fears. The Canarian closed the distance until suddenly there was a sickening thud. The cutter was jolted. There was a long screeching sound as the trawler scrapped down the Cutter's hull. Then a series of loud bells sounded followed by the P.A. blaring, "Collision, collision, collision! This is not a drill, this is not a drill. All damage control petty officers report status to the bridge. This is not a drill!" The radios on the bridge crackled to life as the crews reported that no apparent damage had occurred. Once again Courageous' engine roared to speed and the O.D. matched the Canarian's course just yards off her port beam.

The O.D. and the Captain stepped out onto the starboard bridge wing and stood next to the gunner's mate. Both officers lifted their binoculars and trained them on the Canarian. Martin turned his attention to his notebook and was scribbling down notes when he was startled by three quick and loud pops. He looked up just in time to see a wisp of smoke stream off the forty millimeter gun barrel.

"My God, they're shooting at them!" Martin thought as he scurried out onto the bridge wing to watch. The gunner's mate fired three more shots across Canarian's bow. As each round slammed into the sea it sent a violent plume of water ten feet into the air. Still, the old trawler never altered in speed or course.

Martin heard the Captain address the gunner, "Take out their engine at the amidships waterline."

"Aye sir!" said the gunner swinging the weapon from Canarian's bow to her middle. The water along Canarian's hull exploded as four rounds slammed into her. The old boat lurched and slowed while drifting off to her starboard. Within seconds, however, she straightened out and limped along at half of her original speed and spewing a cloud of thick white smoke from her stern. Pop, pop,...pop, pop, four more rounds ripped through the frail wooden hull and finally the battered trawler eased to a stop.

The O.D. radioed the Canarian once more and once more there was no response. Suddenly, much to everyone's surprise, the pilot house door swung open and out stepped three men.

The O.D. picked up a walkie talkie and spoke into it, "Boarding party Bravo, Courageous. Radio check over."

"Courageous, Bravo have you five by, how me over?"

"Bravo, Courageous, have you same. Do you have a lavaliere mike, over?"

"Roger Courageous."

"Bravo, Courageous, I want you to wear it and give me a blow by blow, keep your mike on, be vigilant. Stay alert, stay alive...somethin' doesn't feel right about this, over."

"Courageous, Bravo, roger, wilco...over."

Martin looked over at the Canarian. Her crew stood on her stern, staggering in an attempt to keep their feet under them, as the trawler pitched and rolled in the swells. Soon the boarding party's launch came into view. The launch was a zodiac. The gray inflated hull wrapped around a center console where the Coxswain, (person who drives the boat), stood. The rest of the boarding party sat in two rows opposite each other. The boarding party looked more like riot police than sailors. They each wore a flak jacket and a helmet. They all carried either an M-16 or a shotgun. Each guardsman sat with his weapon between his legs, butt on the deck, barrel pointing skyward. The Boarding officer was the only one who carried a side arm, a nine millimeter pistol worn under his arm. The zodiac slowly motored between the two vessels, a thin trail of blue-gray exhaust smoke mirroring the foam of it's' wake. Cautiously, as though inspecting the Canarian, the zodiac circled the suspect. Martin would occasionally glance at the gunner, watching him, reading him for any anxiety.

A sharpshooter with an M-16 took up a position on the cutter's bow. Both the gunner and the sharp shooter never moved their weapons from the three men on the Canarian's stern.

The zodiac maneuvered to the trawler's stern. Martin could see the Coxswain manipulating the throttle and wheel to hold his position. When the zodiac rose in the swell to a point level with the Canarian's deck a seamen deftly leapt from the launch onto the suspect. Instantly he wheeled around and pointed his weapon at the three men on the stern, motioning for them to put their hands in the air. The boarding party waited for that perfect moment when the two vessels would be level, and then one by one, they scrambled onto the Canarian. Once all the guardsmen were onboard the trawler, the zodiac sped off to the cutter's port side. The boarding party frisked each of the men then had them sit with their backs against the trawler's transom. Two seamen, one with a rifle and one with a shotgun stood watch over them. The boarding officer, Lieutenant White radioed the cutter, "Courageous, Bravo, suspects secured. Beginning vessel search, be advised there is no odor of mj at this time over."

Martin stepped up to the X.O.'s side and in a low voice asked, "X.O., I know you're really busy, but do you mind if I ask you a quick question?"

The X.O. never took his eyes off the Canarian and replied simply, "Sure Marti, go ahead."

"Sir, what does Mister White mean when he said that there is no odor of mj? "

"That means he doesn't smell marijuana. When these smugglers load a boat to the gills with tons of pot, you can smell it before you even board the vessel. The fact that he doesn't smell it tells him that they are carrying somethin' else. My bet would be coke. That's probably why they didn't want to stop. If they're carrying a couple hundred pounds of blow, man that's a hell of a lot of money to be lost if they're busted."

Martin watched the boarding from the bridge wing, just outside of the doorway so that he could still hear the Lieutenant's radio messages. Martin watched as the Lieutenant and Petty Officer Anderson slowly and cautiously opened the door to the pilot house. First the Lieutenant stepped in followed by Anderson.

Lieutenant White's voice came over the radio again, "Courageous, Bravo, be advised in pilot house at this time, gathering intelligence before continuing search, over"

The O.D. answered, "Roger that Bravo."

"X.O.", Martin asked, "What does he mean by gathering intelligence?"

"They'll write down the frequency their radio is set to, note any names, paper work, contacts, charts...where they've been, things such as that. They're basically just gathering information that will be disseminated by intelligence agencies."

Martin listened intently to the radio transmission from the Canarian. The O.D. stood directly in front of the radio listening as intently as Martin. Mister White had followed directions by leaving his lavaliere mike on. The Courageous could hear everything from their comments to the creaking of hatches as they opened them. The lieutenant spoke, "Courageous...be advised that we are about to enter the main hold. There is no light down here so we're donning our nvs, (night vision goggles), at this time. Oh yeah, that's better I'm looking for.....found somethin here...I got a mop, I'll use the handle to push open this hatch...don't like this...something's just not right about this down here."

Martin could not ask the O.D. nor the X.O. about what was being said since they were concentrating on the situation so he grabbed the Bo swain as he walked by and asked him, "Bill, why is he pushing the door open with a mop for?"

The Bo swain answered just as knowledgeable as any officer, "Checkin for booby traps. Sometimes these creeps will rig a hatch or even a bale. One of their favorite tricks is the old grenade in the can."

"What?" asked Martin.

The Bo swain continued, "They pull the pin of a grenade, then carefully slide it into a can so that the handle is still closed. A grenade won't detonate until the handle is released. Then they tie a string to the grenade, and then tie that to the hatch. A Coastie comes along opens the hatch, pulls the grenade out of the can, the handle is released and BOOM!"

Martin nodded his understanding and went back to listen to the transmissions of the boarding party. Mister White continued his narrative for the sake of the O.D., " O.K. easy does it that's it...hatch is open, looks clear steppin through, Anderson's right behind me...huh....the hold is completely empty...hasn't been used in a long time. There's allot of spider webs and even some bilge water sloshin'around. Wait a minute...I see another doorway off to our left here, Courageous...proceeding to that doorway...turning the knob. easy...easy, there! She's open! Goin' in."

Martin could hear the Lieutenant breathing nervously and labored. He could hear the wooden planks of the decking creaking in protest under the weight of the two men. Suddenly the Lieutenant said something that caught everyone's attention. He said simply, "Ah ha...here it is." The O.D. responded immediately by grabbing the microphone from the radio and addressing Lieutenant White, "Bravo, whatcha got?"

"Courageous...I'm really not sure, but we certainly have something. It's kind of hard to make out with these damn goggles on. Appears to be a couple of dozen sealed stainless steel canisters about waist high and a foot or so in circumference...very strange. I'm taking a closer look now. Ya know...these things look like the old fashioned milk cans back on my grandfather's farm. I'm trying to pop a lid off but they are sealed tight...won't come off."

There was a rustling in the background and Martin could hear the two men whispering but he could not understand what it was that they were saying. The next time Lieutenant White spoke there was obvious alarm in his voice, "Courageous, egressing at this time."

The O.D. radioed back, "What's going on there Bravo?" There was silence for what seemed like many minutes, though it was only seconds. Finally, Mister White spoke, but now it was scarcely more than a whisper. "Courageous, Bravo. Anderson thought he saw some movement in the back corner behind some crates. He signaled me to egress. Somethin' is definitely freaky here. I think the best way to resolve this is to go visual, (remove goggles), and turn on our flashlights out here and go in with Anderson braced in the doorway coverin' me. How copy, over?"

The O.D. looked over to the Captain and to the X.O. for guidance. The Captain said, "Take one of the seamen from the fantail and have him go with the shotgun to assist in entry of that space." The O.D. replied, "Yes sir", he then relayed the instructions to the boarding party. Martin watched as one of the seamen left the fantail and disappeared into the wheel house to make his way below. Several minutes passed before the boarding party made another transmission. "Courageous, Bravo we are lit up and entering once more..... Yea these are some really weird lookin canisters, yep! Yep! There's someone in here! Stand up! Stand up! Hands up! Get your damn hands up! That's it I'm not going to hurt ya fella. This is the United States Coast Guard...it's O.K....you're O.K. Courageous be advised that I have what appears to be one very nervous male, twenty somethin', appears to maybe be of middle eastern descent, hell I don't know."

With that single statement the bridge fell so silent that one could hear the proverbial pin drop. The Captain left the bridge wing and strolled over to the O.D.'s side. The Lieutenant's voice came across the radio once more. "See I told you this wasn't right." Then Martin and the Courageous' crew could hear Lieutenant White address the man in the Canarian, "its O.K. fella...your O.K. I need you to keep your hands up over your head and walk towards me....do you understand English?" A strange voice could be heard on the radio shouting something in a language that Martin did not recognize. Suddenly an enormous blast of hot air shot through the bridge accompanied by a deafening roar. The explosion was so intense that Martin felt it as much as heard it. He fell back against the bulkhead. Confused, he was unsure if he had been thrown by the force of the blast or had recoiled instinctively.

The O.D. shrieked, "Holy shit!" Grabbing the microphone the Captain yelled into it,

"Bravo, Bravo." The Captain dropped the mike and ran past Martin onto the bridge wing.

Martin rushed to the railing and looked down at the Canarian. What he saw shocked him, literally, like a jolt of electricity leaping through his body. The majority of the deck behind the pilot house was gone. There was a gaping hole with a thick black smoke issuing from it. Martin could see the figures of the boarding party lying on the deck, unmoving. Meanwhile the solitary seaman that was guarding the prisoners was just now struggling to his feet.

He was obviously dazed and disoriented. Martin could see him looking around for his weapon. Finding it he stepped back, always keeping an eye on the prisoners. He looked down into the hole and was yelling out Anderson's name. Suddenly the seaman began to frantically tear at his flak jacket as he ran towards the prisoners shouting and motioning for them to stand up. Martin observed that the prisoners seemed frightened and confused, not sure of what they were supposed to do. Martin noticed that the Canarian was taking on water at furious rate. Now Martin understood the seaman's panicked effort to rid himself of his flak jacket. If he fell into the sea with the heavy jacket on, he would sink like a rock. The seaman ran up to the prisoners and began pushing them over the transom and into the water. By this time the zodiac had come from around the Cutter's stern and was picking the Canarian's crew from the water. The seaman ran back to the trawler's ragged wound and jumped down into it. Martin could now plainly see that the other crew members were carrying Lieutenant White through knee deep water. The Lieutenant was covered in a white powder that was streaked with many rivulets of blood. The blue shirt of his uniform was dark with blood. He hung limp and lifeless in their arms. The boarding party disappeared through a doorway. By the time they came out of the pilot house and stepped out onto the deck again, the Canarian's bow was pointing at a sharp angle towards the sky. The zodiac glided up beside the boat and took the men aboard. The launch had no sooner pulled away from the Canarian, than the old trawler gave an eerie gasp as she exhaled vapors from her forward hatch. A second later the battered trawler slipped beneath the waves, carrying her mysterious passenger and cargo with her to an abyssal tomb. From the moment of the explosion until the sinking of the Canarian less than four minutes had elapsed. For Martin, however, it seemed to be a much longer span of time. Now he understood what people meant when they described an event as occurring in slow motion.

The Captain began giving orders to the O.D. to relay to the crew. "I want a M.O.P. team to secure the passageway to the clinic. I want the corpsman to be in full M.O.P. gear. When the boarding party comes aboard I want everybody off of all the weather decks and I want field tests on that powder A.S.A.P.! I want to know what that stuff is!"

The O.D. responded with the traditional, "Aye, aye sir!" Martin was concerned, he didn't understand what the orders meant but he could tell that things were not right. The crew seemed very apprehensive. Martin had watched these men work under a lot of stress and they had never exhibited any signs of weakness. Now, however, they seemed to be worried and a little confused as to just what was going on. Martin grabbed the Bo swain and asked, "What's a M.O.P. team?"

The Bo swain answered, "It's a team that wears suits to protect them from biological or chemical attacks. They're trained to detect and clean an area that's been exposed to that." Martin was now scared, he moved to the back of the bridge and stood there, not moving and not speaking but straining to hear and understand everything that was said. Several minutes passed when the O.D. announced to the Captain that the boarding party was aboard and in the clinic. He said that the corpsman's preliminary evaluation was not good. The clinic was reporting that White was unconscious with no vital signs. Anderson was not much better. The two seamen appeared to be in fair condition with some cuts and minor burns. The O.D. relayed to the Captain that the corpsman was requesting a medevac to Gitmo, (Guantanamo naval base, Cuba). The Captain responded glumly, "Very well. Make it so." Another ten minutes or so passed before the O.D. addressed the Captain who was sitting in his chair, staring out the window at the endless blue rolling sea. "Captain", said the O.D., "M.O.P. team is reporting that field test for chemical and biological agents are all negative. Field test for Cocaine is positive." The Captain sat motionless for a second then with an audible snort that slightly tossed his head back he murmured, "What the hell was all of that about then? I don't know... this isn't adding up." The O.D. spoke again, "Sir somethin' else that's strange here, the coke appears to already be cut. But even though it's cut it's still really high grade stuff." Martin jotted down that conversation in his note book and then continued to just stand there, doing and saying nothing.

The Captain and some crew members went below and Martin followed them. The Captain went into the clinic while Martin and the others waited outside in the passageway.

The crew was visibly shaken and distraught. Nobody spoke. Martin rallied the courage to break the silence.

"How are they?" he asked in a low and soft voice.

A crew member whom Martin had seen before but did not know his name answered, "Anderson's pretty banged up....it appears that the Lieutenant didn't make it."

The words took a couple of seconds to be absorbed by Martin. "Didn't make it....that's unbelievable, just a couple of hours ago he was joking around with his boarding party now...he's dead. This can't be happening!" thought Martin. His thoughts were interrupted by the P.A. "Now all hands set flight ops, prepare to take aboard medevac...this is not a drill."

Martin could feel the cutter come about into the wind. He walked out onto the air castle and ascended a ladder to the next deck up where the flight deck was. He stood beside the launch, now cradled in its davits once again. The helo became visible aft of the Courageous and slowly closed on her. The aircraft drifted in over the flight deck, its nose tilting slightly upward. As soon as the aircraft's tires hit the deck men in bright orange vests and white helmets with dark goggles leaped from the nets that hang along the sides of the flight deck. They swung straps onto locks on the deck, securing the helo to the cutter. Slowly the shrill noise of the turbine began to subside and melt into a whish, whish, whishing cadence as the rotor blades continued to spin. After a minute or so Martin could see the helicopter's door slide open. A member of the aircrew leaned out and motioned to somebody that was unseen from Martin's vantage point. Two guardsmen, half bent over under the threat of the spinning blades, hustled a stretcher bearing Anderson out to the helo. When they had loaded Anderson onto the aircraft they motioned to yet another set of guardsmen who hurried out to the medevac. They too bore a stretcher, but this one had the dark form of a body bag lying on it. Martin watched as they lifted the body onto the helo ,then one of the guardsmen leaned into the helo and draped an arm over the body bag in a quick hug. The Lieutenant's shipmate spun around and left the flight deck. The air boss walked out onto the deck and crossed his arms over his head. The swishing of the helicopter's blades became quicker and quicker. The volume of the turbine steadily grew until it hurt Martin's unprotected ears. The flight deck crew crouched down and scampered about under the aircraft, releasing it from its bonds. The helicopter lifted and hovered for a second before banking off to port in the direction of Gitmo. Martin stood there with the rest of the crew and watched it shrink in the sky until it disappeared. The Courageous' helo now came into view and had soon taken its spot on the flight deck. "Stand down from flight ops. Set the at sea watch." drolled the P.A. For a long while after that announcement the silence was broken only by the sound of water spilling past the Courageous' bow and washing along her hull.

# Chapter Two

Bruce Martin was exhausted. The emotional events of the day had left his mind numb. The journalist was no stranger to violence. As a reporter he had documented many crimes but he had always been an observer of the barbarity from the sanitized safety of society. Martin had always reported from the civil side of the crime scene tape. Today was different. Martin knew these victims and had witnessed the violence perpetrated upon them. Martin needed a mental break. He needed some time to sort through the flood of feelings and information. He decided to retire to his room and take a nap.

When Martin finally awoke from his slumber he was disoriented. It was one of those awakenings when a person isn't sure of where they are or of how much time has elapsed. Judging from the warm orange light of sunset pouring through the window, Martin had slept for many hours. Martin sat up and glanced at his watch. He was still groggy and was drenched in sweat from a deep sleep, the kind of sleep that only mental exhaustion brings. He stood and left his room, stepping out into the dark passageway. Martin threw the long metal handle of the hatch up and opened the door. He stepped out onto the air castle. Martin's senses were immediately awakened by a rush of stimulation. His eyes were met with the soft light of a setting sun. The trade winds sweeping across the deck ruffled his hair and dried his sweat soaked shirt. Martin faced into the wind. Tilting his head back and closing his eyes he enthusiastically greeted the cooling effect. Martin noticed that the Caribbean had calmed while he slept. The swell had diminished to such a degree that the cutter barely rolled. The ocean rolled along the Courageous' length, singing the soft chorus that only moving water sings.

Martin sat down, his back braced against the steel bulkhead warmed by the sun. To the west the sun was a luminous orange ball, alone and abandoned, drifting free in a vast and empty sky. In the east the blue facade of the sky was melting away to reveal the blackness that always lurked just beyond. With the setting of the sun, darkness was unleashed upon the world. The black crept in across the sky and the waters grew steadily darker. The low hulking form of some land mass could be seen on the horizon.

Martin guessed it to be Cuba. A long sweeping beam of light from an unseen lighthouse was the only relief from the blackness. The beam swept in a long broad swath followed a few seconds later by a short burst of illumination. At night the cutter observed a condition known as Dog Zebra. This condition prohibits any light to be emitted from the cutter. The windows are boarded and all outside lights were extinguished. As the lighthouse slipped astern the darkness became complete.

Martin continued to sit on the air castle, mulling over the events of the day in his mind. With the passage of an hour he rose and entered the vessel. He walked down the narrow passageway which glowed in red light. Red lights are used throughout the ship at night to prevent interference with the crew's night vision. Martin negotiated the thin, meandering passageways until he arrived at the mess deck. There, seated at one of the tables was Chief Carter and the cook, Gonzalez. Martin walked over and joined them.

"Evenin' Marti", said the Chief.

"Good evening Chief", replied Martin. Then he turned to Gonzalez and bid him a good evening. The three men sat there watching a television that was tuned to one of the news networks. The Cook commented on a crawler scrolling across the bottom of the screen. "Check that out man, thousands of pigs are dying in North Carolina from the flu. That's weird; I never knew that pigs could catch the flu. I wonder how long it'll take before the price of pork goes through the roof." Gonzalez asked the Chief, "What time is it Chief?"

The Chief rolled his wrist to view his watch and said, "Almost nine. We outta be in the vicinity in another three or four hours. Hope they can hold on that long."

Martin was perplexed. He had absolutely no idea what the two men were talking about. "What?" he inquired.

"Oh you haven't heard?" asked Chief Carter. "A Falcon spotted a Haitian sailboat loaded to the gills about one hundred miles north of Port au Paix. We're makin' for their last known position. In the Guard we call that Haitian Ops. We'll pick 'em up and take them back to Port au Prince for repatriation."

"What's a Falcon, some sort of aircraft?" Martin asked.

"Yea....you is catchin' on son," said the Chief in a light hearted draw. "That's right," he continued, "... it's a Coast Guard jet. They were flying back to Opa Locka from San Juan when they spotted those poor bastards. This will be an eye opener for you Marti. I know you've heard about it but now you're going to witness, first hand, just what people are willing to do and endure to get to the shores of the greatest country in the world, our home... America! Tonight, God willing, you will see the proverbial 'huddled masses yearning to breathe free!' Unfortunately for them, they won't make it."

"I guess I'll go get some rest before the excitement starts", said Martin. He rose and said good night to the men and he passed through another hatch that led out to an air castle. He walked along its length, his ears assaulted by the loud noise of machinery running. He reached the ladder that joined the air castle to the flight deck. The helicopter had taken the prisoners to Gitmo so the flight deck was empty. Martin walked to the center and stood there absorbing the night. He noticed that the wind had calmed dramatically. The only breeze was that generated from the forward motion of the Cutter. The sea was black as pitch and featureless. The sky was host to the greatest number of stars that Martin had ever seen. The complete absence of light permitted even the faintest of stars to be viewed. Martin had no idea that there were so many stars in the night sky. The distant suns silently oscillated between white and blue light. Here and there a rogue defiantly beamed red. The twisting course of the Milky Way was clearly visible, illuminated by the light of billions of suns. But the celestial bodies were stingy with their light. The Earth and sea were as black and empty as a shark's eye. There were no other ships in the vicinity. There were no visible signs of civilization. The Courageous plowed on through the blackness utterly alone. Martin had an uneasy feeling. Even though there were billions of stars aloft, their light was not warm and inviting but rather cool and distant. This night, despite the stars, was the blackest Martin has ever seen. Something had changed tonight. Somehow the world seemed different. Martin couldn't put his finger on it, things were just different.

Martin left the flight deck and climbed two more ladders which led to the bridge. He stepped onto the bridge. The helmsman, standing before the ship's wheel, turned and smiled at him. Martin smiled and nodded. The O.D. sat in the Captain's chair, his elbow planted on the arm rest and resting his head on his hand. The navigator sat on a stool that was tucked into the corner behind the chart table. The bridge was dark except for the flickering blue light of electronic displays and screens. The only sound was that of a distant A.M. radio station. The crew listened, mesmerized by the smokey voice of Art Bell relaying tells of U.F.O.s from "Somewhere in Time". The signal would grow strong and then slowly fade into static before growing strong once again. Every now and then the black night sky would erupt with a sudden burst of heat lightning. The radio would respond with a corresponding crackle. Martin walked over to the chart table, glowing red in the night light that illuminated it. The navigator only nodded to him as he sat motionless on his stool. Martin leaned over the table to examine the chart. He could see the Cutter's position by the merging run lines. The Courageous would soon leave the relative calm of the Windward Pass and head into the open sea north of Hispaniola. Martin stood there for a few minutes as he too fell under the hypnotic effect of the crackling A.M. radio. Another burst of heat lightning and static broke his trance and he went below to his cabin. He plopped down, still in his clothes, on the little bed. He did not bother to turn back the covers; instead he rested on the itchy green wool blanket that all U.S. military personnel know only all too well. Martin fell asleep listening to the strange lullaby of the ship as it moaned and groaned in protest to the stresses placed on it by the shifting, fluid sea.

Martin was jolted out of his rest by a sharp rapping at his door. "Who's there?" he called out hoarsely. A voice answered through the closed door, "its Chief Carter....if you want to see the Haitian vessel we're on sight. Come on up to the flight deck, we're all up there."

"Thanks, I'll be right there." Martin sat upright on the edge of his bunk as he attempted to gather his wits about him. He stood to walk out onto the flight deck and was surprised to find that the Cutter was rolling heavily again. "We must be out of the pass, she's really rollin' good," Martin thought. He walked clumsily down the pitching passageway to the hatch that opened to the flight deck. Stepping outside his eyes was assailed by an intensely bright light. There several yards off the cutters beam and bathed in brilliant shafts of spotlights was the Haitian vessel. Martin looked to his left and he could see the Chief and a dozen other crew members gathered at the rear of the flight deck. Martin turned his attention back to the boat watching it as it bobbed in the black water. The obviously frail boat was about forty feet long. Its' wooden hull was painted in two long strips of yellow and red. Amidships was a single wooden mast jutting up into the darkness. From the mast hung a tattered sail that had been repaired so many times that it more closely resembled a quilt than a sail. The boat was completely open with no shelter at all. Martin was amazed that these people had made it this far when he saw how close each swell came to swamping the flimsy craft. There appeared to be a couple dozen souls huddled in the boat. The flood lights revealed a previously invisible mist which hung over the sea. The vapor seemed to move and swirl like some sort of maritime specter. The mist appeared to distort the images it covered, making them quiver and shift as if being viewed through water. The scene was surreal. Martin walked over to the Chief and the other guardsmen. "Hey Marti, sorry for wakin' ya but you said ya wanted to see this," said the Chief.

"That's O.K.", said Martin. "What time is it?"

"Three fifty five", responded Chief Carter.

Martin noticed many milk jugs and jerry cans dangling along the boats hull. "Chief, what's with those jugs hangin' off the boat?" Martin inquired.

"Those are filled with gasoline or diesel fuel. They punch holes in them to allow the gas to leach out slowly. Their purpose is twofold. The diesel fuel creates an oil slick around the boat and that keeps the chop down. They say that the gas is a shark repellent. But I have seen sharks following these boats all the time, so I don't think it's very effective." the Chief responded. Martin watched intently as the zodiac materialized from the darkness and pulled alongside the sailboat. The crew assisted obviously weak refugees into the ship's launch. The zodiac gingerly pulled away from the Haitian vessel and ferried the occupants to the cutter. The guardsmen continued to shuttle back and forth between the gaudy Haitian craft and the Courageous until all of the refugees were aboard the cutter. The whole process took just over an hour. As the last of the Haitians were being helped aboard the returning sun began to light the eastern sky. Martin moved down to the starboard air castle to where the refugees were gathered. He was struck by the crews respect and kindness. The Haitians were being given food and water. Martin heard the X.O. call out from above to the coxswain in the zodiac, "Everybody aboard?"

"All the living X.O. We have one deceased female. Do you want to bring her aboard?" asked the Coxswain.

"Standby, I want some info on her before we make that decision." the X.O. shouted back.

"Why won't they bring her aboard Chief?" asked Martin, turning to Chief Carter.

The Chief answered, "Just in case she died from an infectious disease, such as T.B.... we'll see. There's the interpreter now, he'll ask some questions and the corpsman will check the body out. I'd bet she died of exposure. Poor thing."

Martin watched the interpreter as he knelt down beside a middle aged man. The man was black, very black, darker than any African American that Martin had seen back home. The Haitian man wore a dirty long sleeved white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. The front was unbuttoned. Martin could see the man's chest and he noticed that his ribs were plainly visible. He wore tattered blue trousers, old work pants Martin reckoned. The man wore no shoes. The interpreter was speaking to him in Creole and motioning to the sailboat. When the interpreter had finished Chief Carter walked over to him and conversed for a moment. Then the interpreter disappeared into Courageous and the Chief walked back to Martin.

"They're gonna bring her aboard. She was a very old woman who was trying to get to Miami to see her daughter and grandchildren. They've been at sea for six days. They ran out of water yesterday morning. Poor soul passed away last night at sunset."

Martin watched as the corpsman gave a precursory exam to each of the refugees. While this was going on dawn continued to pursue the darkness across the tropical sky. Spires of slate blue clouds became outlined in a neon orange light as the sun approached the horizon. The sky above the clouds began glowing in yellow brilliance. Then the Sun rose above the horizon sending shafts of light upward across the sky in a gesture of triumph over the night. Courageous was bathed in a soft golden light. Daylight had returned at last. Within minutes of the dawn a warm breeze picked up, stirring the mirror slick Caribbean Sea.

"Help us out here Marti." said Chief Carter, handing Martin a twelve pack of a sports drink. "Would you be so kind as to give our guest each a bottle, it'll help to rehydrate them."

Martin walked along the air castle handing each Haitian he passed a drink. The last bottle went to an attractive young woman with a baby. Martin knelt down beside the woman and opened the bottle then handed it to her. She smiled and took the drink and took only a small sip before setting it down on the deck beside her. Martin watched as the woman stroked her child's head and face. She whispered to it before gently placing her lips upon the child's forehead in a slow motion kiss. Martin was struck by such a tender moment amidst all the despair. Martin smiled at the woman then reached out to stroke the child's skinny leg. The mother smiled as her little baby cooed in response to the strangers touch. Martin patted the woman on the shoulder then stood to get more drinks. When he turned around he saw that the dead woman was being brought over to the Courageous. A crew member stepped out of the hatch onto the air castle. In his hands he carried a folded black sheet of plastic. Martin observed that he solemnly spread it out upon the deck next to the rope ladder that hung over Courageous' hull. The young man then knelt down and pulled a zipper down the length of the plastic. Martin now recognized the plastic sheet to be a body bag. The crew member then opened the bag and prepared it to receive the old woman. The young man was joined by three more as the zodiac arrived alongside the cutter. The guardsmen in the zodiac tenderly lifted the old woman up to their shipmates with as much respect and dignity as they could. The young men on the air castle gently carried the woman, one by her feet, one under her arms and a guardsman on each side supporting her frail frame. Ever so gently she was placed into the body bag. She laid there for a moment, in the open, the wind blowing the gray curls of her hair. Her face appeared peaceful as it disappeared behind the zipper of the bag. Martin was shocked to see the four crew members suddenly bow their heads as they knelt beside the old woman's body. One's lips moved but Martin could not hear what was being said. Another crewman made the sign of the cross. Then, they stood and lifted the bag and placed it on a stretcher. The guardsmen carried her into the ship.

The X.O. leaned over the bridge wing and yelled down to Chief Carter, "How they look Chief?"

"Fair, they're pretty dehydrated. Sun burned and wind chapped. No lice," reported the Chief.

"Very well, let's get 'em to the dispensary and get 'em up to speed.", called the X.O. Martin made his way to the bridge. Walking out onto the bridge wing he heard the X.O. giving orders to the gunner's mate, "Sink that pitiful excuse of a boat and light up any frigin' sharks that you see. I hate those damn things!"

As the machine gun popped off rounds into the feeble Haitian craft the X.O. gave orders and headings to make for Port Au Prince Haiti. Then turning to Martin the X.O. said, "Marti, looks like you'll get to see the poorest country in the western hemisphere. I guarantee it'll be a real education for you."

Martin could feel the cutter heel hard to starboard as she abandoned her present course and headed south. In a mere eighteen hours Martin's life would be forever altered. Tomorrow morning they would pull into a land far different than anything Bruce Martin had ever known before.

# Chapter Three

Martin strolled out onto Courageous' forecastle. Sprawling before him was the infamous island nation of Haiti. From the harbor's channel entrance, some two miles offshore, the place seemed peaceful enough. The blue-green mountains faded into dust brown hills that wrapped around the harbor. Lying at the bottom of this geographical bowl was the capital city of Port Au Prince. The details of the city and land were still invisible from Martin's vantage point. It appeared as any other Caribbean island with the mountains wearing crowns of towering cumulus clouds while thin and tattered blue-gray clouds glided swiftly beneath them, casting fleeting shadows across the land below.

Chief Carter joined Martin. "Marti, when we are secured in port I'll come get ya and take ya on a little tour of this lovely piece of real estate. I assure you that it will be an eye opener." said the Chief as he slapped Martin on the back. Martin just gave the Chief a half smile and watched as the cutter slowly, almost cautiously motored into the port. An hour later the Courageous was moored on a dilapidated quay wall in Port au Prince.

Martin stood on Courageous' quarterdeck, staring out at the decrepit waterfront of the Haitian capital. A heavy clanging sound of metal striking metal signaled the hatch behind Martin was being opened. He stepped out of the way. The heavy door swung open and out stepped a smiling Chief Roberts. Martin immediately noticed that the Chief was wearing civilian clothes. The Chief had lost his military bearing, wearing an old white tee shirt with a bonefish silk-screened on the back. The tee shirt hung loosely over a faded and somewhat tattered pair of olive drab shorts, obviously old military fatigues that had been turned into shorts. He wore a kind of flip flops that Floridians call "slaps". With his customary slap on the back the Chief called out merrily, "C'mon Marti.

Let's go!" The two men walked across the cutter's gangway and stepped onto the quay wall. Almost immediately they were set upon by a spinning, shrieking mob of children all of whom were yelling, "Sayloh Mohn! Sayloh Mohn!"

The children wore tattered clothes and all were barefoot. Some had crusty noses.

Every one of them were touching and hugging the two men. Martin recoiled in revulsion at their filth and at the possibility of disease. The Chief, however, had no such concerns.

He obviously loved these children. The tall white American towered over the crowd of black children. He took turns spinning them around. One little girl stood off to the side watching all the fun. Martin saw her and guessed her age to be four or five. The small child wore a dirty white dress patterned with faded pink butterflies. She stood there smiling. The Chief strode over to her and placed her upon his shoulders. Then Chief Roberts handed the little girl a handful of candy and she tossed it to the other children who scrambled for it giggling and laughing with delight. The Chief put her down and pressed a five dollar bill, along with some candy, into her dirty little hand. Then the Chief bent over and gingerly kissed her on her cheek. The little girl and the other children scampered off into the mean streets of Port au Prince.

The Chief and the reporter strolled down the sidewalk. Everywhere people hustled. Sidewalk vendors with exotic food called out to them. The Chief spoke in a low voice to Martin, "Don't eat or drink anything Marti."

"Don't worry Chief....I wasn't planning on it.", replied Martin sarcastically. Martin was appalled at the conditions that he found himself in. People sat behind boxes of food.

There was fruit being sold as well as rice, vegetables and meat of some kind. The vendor's hands were in perpetual motion as they fanned away the hordes of flies that swarmed the food. Some people hawked a kind of homemade drink that was sold in old soda bottles. Martin became nervous when he noticed that all eyes were on himself and the Chief. The two Americans approached a long single storied building painted a faded orange with turquoise trim.

"This is the Iron Market Marti.", called the Chief over the chorus of street noise. "It's the cultural center of Port au Prince." They stepped through a wide doorway and into a dark open interior. The place reminded Martin of some of the flea markets back home. Inside the building shafts of light entered through the deteriorating roof and pierced the darkness to reveal the shadowy forms of many people. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Martin could see that there were still more vendors standing behind rows of wooden tables. Dozens of voices called out to the men. "Americohns ovah here! Ovah here Americohns!" The two Americans wound their way through the throngs of people, making their way to the opposite side of the building. The Chief stopped. Leaning towards Martin so that he could be heard the Chief said, "Time to distract them long enough to get out of here without being robbed." Martin was more than a little panicked as he tried to process what the Chief had just said when the Chief thrust his hands into his cargo pockets and produced two handfuls of cigarette packs. Then, to Martin's astonishment he tossed them into the air and yelled "Vive le Haiti!" The crowd around them squealed like children as they scrambled for the cigarettes. The two men pushed their way through the pressing throng of people. Looking down at two men crawling after the same pack of cigarettes, Martin was mortified and panicked by what he saw. One man grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the other, who then grabbed a large piece of concrete off the floor and began bashing the other man's head with it. The victim fell to the ground semiconscious and releasing his prize. The aggressor grabbed the cigarette pack and leaped to his feet holding the pack victoriously over his head, completely unconcerned with the wounded man at his feet.

Martin pushed on through the crowd in a near panic. Somebody grabbed his shoulder.

He spun and dropped his shoulder to free himself and hustled to catch up with the Chief.

The men stepped through a narrow door in the rear of the market place and stepped out into the brilliant and scorching sun. The noise and commotion of the Iron Market faded behind them.

"Son of a bitch Chief did you see that?" shrieked Martin.

Chief Roberts nodded and spoke as they walked, "yeah...I'll tell ya after all these years of coming here I still haven't figured this place out. I mean it's really weird, these people can be so friendly and childlike but then suddenly they go off. I don't know...I just don't know. It's really scary...you've heard of voodoo right? Well this place is the freakin' voodoo capital of the world! I mean this is the home of voodoo! I've come to conclude that there are certain places in the world where evil reigns. I think this place is one of them." While the Chief spoke, Martin took stock of their surroundings and his unease grew even greater.

The two Americans continued walking along a dusty path that ran beside a wide ditch.

The water was black and putrid. Brown rafts of bubbles floated across its surface as the ditch's contents boiled and festered in the tropical sun. The stench was almost overpowering. Every now and then they would move over to one side to make room for someone approaching from the opposite direction. As the Haitians passed the Americans their heads would turn, watching the foreigners in near disbelief. Martin's unease was quickly melting into fear. After walking the path for over half an hour the ditch ended, emptying into a large lake of the same noxious liquid. Scattered across the banks were tiny shacks made of tarpaper, plywood and cardboard. Here and there narrow planks bridged the cesspool, just inches above its toxic surface. The men crossed over one such rickety structure. The Chief, leading the way, jokingly called back to Martin, "Don't fall in Marti!" The stench was so overwhelming that Martin thought that he might actually vomit. The Chief reached the opposite side and stopped. Martin walked up beside him.

Chief Roberts spoke softly with an inflection that conveyed a deep compassion for the people here.

"It's a sad place, huh Marti?"

Looming over the hellish lagoon and its shantytown was a tall and steep hill. It was the city dump. Clouds of thin blue smoke issued forth from its bowels and drifted across it. Martin glanced up to the top of the mountain of garbage. He noticed a person standing tall and erect. Martin thought it strange that the figure seemed to wear a hooded robe.

Something about the person made his skin crawl as they stood there, staring down at the filth below. Martin glanced around at the people picking through the trash on the mountain of garbage. When he looked back up at the top the strange specter had disappeared.

"This, Mister Martin, is City Solei...the poorest and largest slum in the Western Hemisphere. Infant mortality is over seventy percent. The average life expectancy...forty years. That is if something else doesn't take ya out before that, like a hurricane or the Tan Tan Macquote."

"The Tan Tan what?" Martin asked.

"Baby Doc Duvalier was the dictator here. The Tan Tan were his secret police. A

kind of a Haitian Gestapo. Every since Baby Doc's overthrow the Tan Tan work for the highest paying creep. They'll off you in a heartbeat and not even bat an eye."

"Sweet", Martin replied dryly.

The Chief and Martin slowly traversed the muddy narrow paths that served as streets.

City Solei had no cars. The only means of transportation was walking. Everywhere women walked with their burdens on their heads. They even carried shifting, sloshing buckets of water in this manner. The only source of fresh water here was a single communal pump. Some women carried their water for a half mile or better. Chief Roberts explained to Martin that in the rainy season the poisons from the dump leached into the well water precipitating annual outbreaks of dysentery and cholera. The air around the wretched place was filled with an acrid haze from the many cooking fires. The fuel for these fires was not wood but rather garbage from the dump. Wood in City Solei was a precious commodity that was too valuable to burn. Lumber was used to build and to carve things to sell for a pittance to tourists. The smoke burned the throat and assaulted the eyes. Rounding a bend in the muddy trail the men stopped abruptly. There before them was the most macabre scene Martin had ever witnessed. A man lay dead beside a dead pig on the path's edge. Martin's American mind struggled to process what he was seeing. Martin was not afraid but rather, he was utterly bewildered. The scene, to the cultured eye of Paul Martin, seemed unreal.

The man was a black man, a Haitian. He lay in the mud with his limbs grotesquely twisted beneath his torso. Wherever his body contacted the ground his ashen skin became deep purple. The man was lying face up so that Martin could see that his eyes were partially open. The eyeballs were shriveling and retreating into their sockets. A

stream of blood, now cooked black by the cruel tropical sun, was caked around his nose.

His mouth was opened wide as though his last mortal act was to scream in terror or pain.

Fat green flies flew in and out of his mouth, no doubt the source of the maggots that were consuming this poor soul's flesh.

Lying in the mud next to the dead man was the bloated and rotting carcass of a pig.

The swine's pink skin was mottled with what appeared to be large areas of bruises, a sign that the process of decay was well under way. All four of the creature's legs projected stiffly into the air. The head was nearly severed. The pig also wore a swarming, buzzing shroud of flies. The stench of the corpses made Martin's stomach turn and lurch. He fought to keep from vomiting. Martin had never experienced the smell of human decay.

It seared itself into his memory just as it does with every human being who is exposed to it. The smell was that of rotting flesh mixed with an aroma akin to body odor. It was the most horrid smell that Martin had ever known. He would never forget it.

The Chief spotted a young man walking hurriedly past. Chief Roberts called to him and walked over to the man, gesturing towards the bodies and speaking in Creole. The Young Haitian retorted in a similar fashion and when he had finished the Chief said

"Merci" as he slipped a five dollar bill into the young man's hand. The Haitian looked at the money. With a broad smile he took the Chief's large hand into both of his and enthusiastically shook it. The Chief then walked back to where Martin stood swooning.

"Ya O.K. Marti?" asked the Chief in a sympathetic voice.

"Ya, let's get the hell out of here." Marin choked.

Martin walked quickly past the corpses staring straight ahead and holding his breath.

The Chief spoke as they negotiated the narrow writhing path. "According to the fella I was talkin' to the locals stoned and hacked that man to death for stealing that pig."

"Why in God's name don't they bury him?" inquired Martin in a greatly diminished voice.

"Apparently both he and the pig are cursed. He stole that pig from some foreigners who own a large pig farm up that mountain over there. He said it's just outside a town called Peytonville. Some other guy stole a pig from there and brought it back here to City Solei. After eating it he and a whole lot of neighbors up and died. So the good citizens of the area assumed that the foreigners placed a curse on the neighborhood for stealing their pig. So when this guy came along they killed him and the pig in order to avoid another plague...least that's what that fella said." explained the Chief.

"That's sweet... a curse! They killed a guy 'cause they thought he was cursed!"

laughed Martin.

"Oh yeah!" The Chief went on, "Don't forget man Voodoo is very much alive here.

Even if you don't believe, they do and perception is reality. So here in Haiti curses and black magic and evil are all around."

The two men found themselves caught in a torrential downpour. They began to run down the steep muddy path until it merged with the larger path that ran alongside the ditch. The large warm drops of tropical rain beat down harder and harder. The two Americans ran faster, their pace quickened when a bolt of lightning struck nearby. They ran until they came to the city streets of Port au Prince. They stood in the doorway of a derelict building and watched the rain fill the poorly drained streets with water. Stiff blasts of cool wind drove the rain down the roads in undulating sheets. In the midst of the torrents, a woman in a hooded robe walked past them, seeming unconcerned with the driving rain. She glanced at Martin as she passed. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen. She wore her hair short and possessed a hypnotic stare. Something about her made him very uneasy. She walked around the corner and disappeared.

Once the rain subsided the Americans walked down the street until the Courageous came into view. She floated at her mooring glowing white in the dim light filtered through the last lingering clouds of the storm. The tiny ship represented America and the American ideals of liberty and safety. Martin noticed the flag, or the national ensign as the guardsmen called it. Old Glory snapped and popped as it waved proudly in the winds of a foreign storm. Martin walked up the gangway and stepped onto the quarterdeck. He felt an enormous sense of relief. For the first time in his life Martin had come to understand just how privileged he was to be an American citizen. Chief Roberts was right, Martin had received a unique and life altering education. Martin spoke with the Chief briefly before retiring to his room. He hung his soaked clothes up to dry before showering the grime of Port au Prince off of himself.

Later that evening Martin laundered the clothes he had worn that day. He placed them, along with his Nike tennis shoes, into a garbage bag. Walking down to the quarterdeck he noticed a young Haitian man trying to sell the crew some wood carvings. Martin motioned for him to come over. Martin bought a hand carved walking stick for five dollars. Then, smiling, Martin handed the man his bag of clothes. The man looked into the bag and then at Martin. The young Haitian pointed to himself and nodded his head, "yes?"

"Huh?" stuttered Martin. Then realizing what the man was trying to ask, Martin said, "Oh yes...for you." The Man grabbed Martin's hand and kissed it exclaiming,

"Merci! Merci!" Then he walked down the quay wall and faded away into the Haitian twilight. Martin felt good about himself. Being a brash up and coming professional from a well to do family, Bruce Martin had invested little time in his fellow man. Even though this gesture of kindness and compassion was a small one, Martin felt the joy of giving and was genuinely happy for the young man. He walked past the petty officer of the watch who was at his post. There were also a couple of seamen pulling guard duty, each armed with M-16s. As Martin strode by, all three men grinned an understanding smile at him. The next morning the Courageous was once more underway.

It had been two days since the Courageous had departed Port au Prince. The day had come for Martin to leave the cutter. A helo had flown out to the Courageous from Opa Loka air station in Florida. Martin wondered through the narrow passageways saying as many goodbyes as he could but many crew members had fallen ill with a nasty flu, including the wounded Anderson. While the crew was in Haiti Anderson had passed away. The Courageous' crew was told that the injuries that he had received in the suicide bombing had so compromised his body, the flu turned quickly into an especially virulent form of pneumonia and he passed away soon after that. Martin walked out onto the flight deck and was approached by the X.O.

"It was a pleasure working with you Bruce." said the X.O. "I wish to God things had been different. In twenty two years of service I have never lost a crew member. Now I've lost two." Martin could see the pain on the X.O.'s face. The officer continued, "The funerals will be out of state. We're going back into Port in about five more days so that anybody wanting to take leave and go to the funerals will be able to do so. I'll look forward to reading your articles. Take care of yourself."

"Thank you for everything X.O. you guys are doin' a hell of a job out here. I can't put my finger on it but my journalistic instincts tell me that something significant happened on this patrol. I'm gonna look into what the hell that bomb was all about. Thanks again."

said Martin, shaking the X.O.'s hand.

Martin turned and walked towards the bright orange helicopter strapped to the flight deck. The whine of the turbines started and grew steadily louder as Martin climbed onto the aircraft and took his seat. He placed his gear in a net that hung on the helicopters bulkhead. He fastened his seat belt and put his headset on. He could hear the chatter between the pilot and the bridge. "All set back there?" asked the pilot. Martin responded with a simple "Yup."

A deckhand in his bright yellow jacket with chemlights swinging from it suddenly appeared at the helo door. Martin could not tell who it was since his features were in a helmet and dark goggles. The crewman gave thumbs up to Martin as he slid the door closed. Martin felt his stomach flutter in response to the first moments of weightlessness as the aircraft left the Cutter's deck and banked hard to Starboard. Through a window across from him Martin could see the brilliant white ship shrinking from view. Soon, only the blue ocean rolled a thousand feet below.

Martin was relieved to be going home. At the same time, however, Martin felt a sense of melancholy. Perhaps it was because he actually missed the guardsmen already, or, perhaps it was because he had enjoyed the rush of danger and the thrill of the unknown. Martin's intuitions and senses had been awakened from civilization induced dormancy.

On the Cutter, especially in Haiti, Martin had been charged with life. Now, however, he was returning to the creature comforts that had reduced him to a gentleman. He was subdued as his mind tried to sort through a tangle of thoughts and emotions. After a while the dark blue ocean began to be interrupted with scatterings of turquoise from the shallows around reefs. The upper Keys soon came into view off to the left as the helicopter continued on its northerly course. Next the Florida mainland appeared.

The sun was setting as a large burning pink ball. Beneath the aircraft spread the Everglades, half water, half land, shimmering in the setting sun. Flocks of white wading birds rose up from the green Saw grass and Cypress trees. The wetlands began to become fragmented by development. The thread of a road here, a sprawling development there, until the wilds completely disappeared beneath the concrete crypt of urban sprawl. The evening sky faded into a dark dreamy blue. The towering cumulus clouds of the Tropics were left hundreds of miles behind, replaced by the clouds of winter. These high wispy clouds were illuminated in varying shades of pink. Out the cockpit window Martin could see the City of Miami glowing in a dazzling display of white and green light. The helicopter dropped lower and lower as it approached Opa Locka. Finally Martin felt the wheels touchdown with a heavy thud. Bruce Martin was home.

# Chapter Four

The ringing of a telephone coaxed Martin from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed. Without lifting his head Martin reached for the telephone which sat on a nightstand next to the bed. Picking up the phone he brought it to his ear. His voice was harsh from sleep and crackled as he spoke.

"Hello?"

"Bruce it's me, Dave. Welcome Back!" It was Martin's editor Dave Snider.

"Dave? What time is it?"

"Ummm its eight-o-clock. Listen, I know that I promised you a few days off but I really need you to submit your story and then I have something else for you, something hot!"

" What? I haven't even started my story; I don't even have all of my notes organized." retorted Martin in a grumpy tone.

"I know, I know, listen... push it to me from home sometime over the next couple of days, O.K.? But listen Steve has gone AWAL on us and..."Martin could sense the excitement in Dave's voice.

"Steve? Steve who?"

"Steve Pratt he's missing. I had him working..."

Martin interrupted, "Missing? What ya mean missing?"

"Missing! Ya know, gone, vanished. He was working on this story and he just disappeared."

"Wait a minute man. I'm still half asleep. Now just what is it that you want me to start on and what's it got to do with Steve?"

Dave answered, "Well, let me start from the beginning. It seems that there is some sort of really nasty bug going around. As far as the local medical types can tell it's some brutal exotic strain of the flu. It's fatal nearly ten percent of the time. Anyhow, I gave the story to Steve. He worked on it for a couple of days before he called me from his cell phone from somewhere around the Port. He said that he couldn't talk on the phone but that he was onto something big...really big! I haven't seen or heard from him since, neither has his fiancé. Matter of fact she filed a missing persons report yesterday. Bruce, we can't afford to let the broadcast boys get this and run with it! People are literally dropping like flies and I need you to pick up where Steve left off. See if ya can pick up the trail...ya know? I know that he started at the Metro Medical Center. So what ya say? Ya up to it? Could be the bug and the story of the century, another SARS or AIDS. Ya know what they say if it bleeds, it leads and baby this is one bloody story!"

"Yeah, yeah, ok Dave I'll knock out my Coast Guard story and get on this so called scoop. Keep me informed about Steve, ok?"

"Listen, I know that he was in contact with a Dr. Garcia at our hospital .Later."

"Later."

Martin hung the phone up and lay back in his bed. Images of the Courageous drifted uneasily through his troubled mind. The experiences of the brief trip had shaken his belief system to its very core. His mind, it seemed, was demanding that he take the time to sort through the tangle of emotions and thoughts and to somehow apply them to his life. Martin thought about the person on the Canarian. He wondered why somebody would blow themselves up for the sake of a cocaine shipment. His mind drifted to White and Anderson and about how tragic it was that Anderson survived the bombing only to succumb to some funky third world strain of pneumonia. But Martin had a new story to pursue. The soul searching would have to wait. But that's how it had always been with Bruce Martin. In Martin's life demons are to be avoided and never confronted, let alone conquered.

Martin sat up in bed. "I wonder what the hell happened to Steve?" he thought. "Oh well, his loss, my gain!" he said aloud. Martin never really liked Steve Pratt; for Steve was a young and attractive go getter, fresh out of college. Martin was a decade his senior and viewed him as an up and coming threat.

An hour after his conversation with Dave, Martin was strolling across the Hospital parking lot. A brisk winter breeze neutralized the brilliant sun burning in a perfect blue sky. Bruce Martin usually existed within the confines of his own little world, scarcely aware of his surroundings. This day, however, was so glorious that even Martin reveled in it, noticing nothing else. He stopped in the middle of the large parking lot. A smile broke across his face as he tilted it to catch the warmth of the sun. The cool North wind excited his skin. He heard a mockingbird warbling in a large Maple, made naked by winter's advance into the sub-tropics. Martin continued on, weaving his way between the parked cars. He squinted his eyes to shield them from periodic bursts of sunlight that was reflected off of the glass and chrome. The automatic doors of the Emergency room swung open as Martin approached them. Once inside, Martin's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. At first all Martin could make out was a flickering television set mounted high on the far wall. Martin's eye sight slowly acclimated to reveal a waiting room full of people. Some sat staring vacantly at the drolling T.V. Others wrapped in blankets slumped weakly in their chairs. Announcements over the P.A. competed with a cacophony of coughs and moans. Martin walked meekly up to the reception desk.

Without looking up from her paperwork the receptionists asked, "How may I help you? Do you have an insurance card?"

Martin responded in as pleasant a voice as he could manage, "Uhm, yes mam, my name is Bruce Martin, I'm a reporter with the Sun, I'm here to see Doctor Garcia...please."

The receptionist looked at Martin across the top of her glasses. "I'll let the doctor know you're here. Have a seat and she'll be right with you."

Martin turned and quickly surveyed the waiting room. He walked over to the farthest corner, as far as possible from the many sick people who populated the room. Martin sat uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, fidgeting nervously with his hands and cringing with each cough that he heard. After the receptionist called out to Martin, "The doctor will see you now." Martin stood and approached a pair of large doors. As he drew near he heard a loud buzzing noise as the doors swung open. The emergency room was bright with fluorescent light. People swirled around busily moving between rooms. The smell of disinfectants hung heavy in the air. Martin walked towards the nurse's station. Before he could speak an attractive dark haired woman stepped out from a side room.

"Mister Martin? Hello I'm Doctor Garcia, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said extending her hand to shake Martin's.

Martin was slightly taken aback as he was expecting a man and not a beautiful young woman. Doctor Garcia had flawless olive skin, her coal black hair was pulled up in the back with thin strands of dark curls spilling out and framing her face that was punctuated with a perfect smile and sparkling grass green eyes. Martin looked directly into those eyes in order to "size up" the Doctor. Martin took a special pride in his ability to size up almost instantly by looking into their eyes. It was a skill that he developed as a reporter. This ability proved invaluable on many occasions for the journalist. Martin could determine, with a fair amount of accuracy, a person's credibility and character. The Doctor's eyes betrayed her exhaustion and that she was troubled, deeply troubled.

"Come into my office Mister Martin we can talk here, but only briefly, as you saw in the waiting room we are very busy these days." said the doctor guiding Martin into a small room with a couch and a desk. "You must forgive the clutter; this is actually the attending physician's office. It is shared by five of us. We take breaks here, eat here and sleep here...so it's a little messy. Please, have a seat." She said gesturing towards an empty chair. She sat on the edge of a large wooden desk and crossed her arms across her chest.

"Well Mister Martin how may I assist you?"

"Well, I guess that my first question is what is this epidemic, I mean it is my understanding that this is some kind of influenza, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Why is this thing so deadly, I mean I know that the flu can kill little kids and old folks, but this thing is killing healthy young adults, right? Why?"

"Mister Martin, most people have little concept of just what influenza really is. It is a respiratory infection caused by a virus. The Influenza virus, of which there are many, is an extremely adaptable virus. By that I mean it has a propensity for mutation, which makes it a dangerous virus."

"Why is a mutating virus dangerous?"

"Because your body's immune system can recognize a type of virus and generate the antigens necessary to combat the infection. But if that virus mutates, if it changes, then your body does not recognize it until the invaders have made vast inroads in the infection process. And with this bug that delay is lethal. This thing has a very high mortality rate, perhaps as high as twenty five percent. Do you know how unheard of that is Mister Martin? I mean, even the Spanish Flu didn't have that kind of virulence, H5N1 does though but I don't think that's what we're dealing with, at least we'd better pray that this isn't H5N1."

"H5N1?"

"The bird flu, Avian Influenza."

"What is Spanish Influenza?"

"In 1918 a strain of influenza called the Spanish Flu infected hundreds of millions of people and killed something like thirty million people around the globe. I can't imagine that this is what we are dealing with. I have sent tissue and blood samples to the CDC. What is really surprising is that I seem to be getting the run around by them, even though this bug is extremely contagious and lethal. I just don't get those people."

"Well it may be that they are more bureaucrats than doctors there, who knows. This hospital saw the first cases in inmates, prison guards and law enforcement officers. But within the last two days we have been getting a lot of cases from all walks of life...except the usual suspects"

"The usual suspect? What ya mean by that?"

"In a normal year most of the influenza fatalities are the very old or the very young. Most of these people seem to be young to middle aged people who are healthy, except of course for having the flu."

"Who was your first patient with this flu?"

"I'm sorry Mister Martin I can't divulge that information to you."

"Oh, um, sorry...of course. Well, can you describe how this thing infects a person, like how do you catch it and what happens to you once you've got it?"

"Well, as I said it is a strain of Influenza and like all influenza viruses it is extremely contagious. Somebody coughs and the particles of saliva are loaded with viruses and they float through the air and are inhaled by another. Somebody coughs into their hand and then opens a door, somebody else goes through that door and touches the door knob. Now their hands are infected with the virus and say the rub their eyes or nose and now they become infected. It's like the proverbial pebble tossed into the water. The rings just keep radiating out from patient zero."

"Patient zero?"

"That's a medical term, the first person with an infection. Find your patient zero and you will usually locate the source of an outbreak. As far as symptoms go this is an especially gruesome bug. The person shows all the typical flu symptoms, fever, body aches, and malaise. But then after a day or so a sharp hoarse barking kind of cough becomes more and more pronounced. I mean once you hear this cough, you'll never forget it. It haunts you. As far as how this thing kills there are actually several things going on simultaneously. The incredibly high fever, we're talking 104 or so, can initiate organ failure. But the main threat is a strange kind of pneumonia that seems to occur with this strain of Flu. The onset of pneumonia is incredibly rapid and it is very aggressive. Their lungs are so deteriorated that the victims actually begin to have a bluish coloration of the skin, from a lack of oxygen. Just hours away from death the patient will begin to cough that horrid cough more frequently. At first the cough is not productive but with the progression of time the cough becomes nearly constant and the patient begins to produce a frothy mucus tinged with blood. With the passage of time, and mind you we are talking only about two or three hours, the foam becomes more and more filled with blood until it is completely red. When the patient is just minutes away from death they become incontinent and begin to pant and gasp for breath. Death comes suddenly, a deep gasp or two, a mildly convulsive exhale and the patient dies. It is nearly the same scenario for every patient that I have seen, it's creepy. I can say that from the onset of symptoms to death is pretty much two, two and a half days."

"My God!" cried an astonished Martin.

The Doctor continued, "Oh yes, SARS received a lot of press and it was nowhere near as virulent as this bug."

Martin sat there holding his pad and pen. He had become so alarmed that he realized that he was no longer taking notes. Now he knew that his original assessment of the Doctor was correct. She _was_ deeply troubled and with good reason; there was a new and hideous disease stalking the denizens of Miami. Before Martin could say another word the Doctor's pager went off. She looked down at her pager as she spoke, "I'm sorry Mister Martin but I must leave you now. But you may stay here until you are finished", she said noticing that Martin was scribbling furiously in his note pad.

Martin finished his notes and stood to leave when he observed a stack of folders sitting on the Doctor's desk. He leaned over the desk and quickly thumbed through them. They were medical records. Martin turned and watched the door intently for a moment. Then nervously he flipped through the stack of folders again. He found the records of a patient admitted three days before with influenza. He scribbled down the name, Susan Perry, before quickly walking out of the office into the bustling Emergency Room.

Martin walked quickly past the Doctor when he heard her call out to him.

"Mister Martin! Please wash your hands over at that sink." She said nodding towards a sink next to the nurse's station. "And wash again once you leave the hospital." Martin obediently complied. Turning to thank the doctor he saw her bending over a man lying on a gurney. She wore a mask and gloves. The man lurched up with the violence of a loud and hoarse cough. The flu! This man had the Flu. Martin realized that he was within close proximity to this deadly bug. He quickly walked out through the automatic doors. The dark and sterile world of the hospital yielded instantly to the bright sun of the parking lot. The crackling of the hospital PA was replaced by the sweet song of the Mockingbird. Martin wove his way through the cars reflecting the brilliant Florida winter sun until he reached the familiar safety of his own vehicle.

Martin left the parking lot and drove down the wide palm lined avenue known as Old Dixie Highway. He pulled into the parking lot of the first gas station that he came to and parked next to a phone booth. Martin walked up to the booth and flipped through the weather wrinkled pages. He found the name Susan Perry. Martin glanced to the left and then to his right and then he tore the page from the phone book. Back in his car Martin dialed the phone number. But before hitting the send button he reconsidered. "Perhaps it would be better to catch her off guard, to just show up in person." Martin started his car and pulled out onto the highway. He drove across McArthur Causeway heading towards the beach. He could see the ships leaving the chalky blue waters of Biscayne Bay, moving down Government Cut towards the open ocean. The causeway ended and Martin turned onto A1A and drove north. Finally he found the street from the phone book listing. He parked and got out of his car only to be confronted by a large fifteen story condominium complex. The phone book only gave the complex address and not any specific unit for Susan Perry. Martin walked into the lobby looking to see if any names were visible on the mailboxes. That strategy failed. He would have to call her after all. Walking back towards his car Martin noticed a silver Honda with a license plate on the front bumper that read "Susan". The car was parked in a spot marked as 921. Martin wondered if that might be Susan Perry's car and if 921 was her unit number. It was a weekday and the chances of finding someone at home were slim. Martin strode back into the lobby and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. He stalked down the hall searching for 921. Finding it, he knocked on the door. Much to his surprise the door slowly opened and a young woman peered out from behind it.

"Hello, my name is Bruce Martin and I'm a reporter with the Biscayne Sun. Are you Susan Perry?"

The woman simply nodded.

"Would it be alright if I could ask you some questions?" inquired Martin.

" 'bout what?"

"Well I'm doing a story on the recent outbreak of a deadly new strain of the flu..." Before Martin could finish his sentence the woman swung the door open. She spun around and walked into a living room bright with the winter sun. "C'mon in and have a seat." said the woman as she pointed to a recliner.

Martin sat down and flipped his notepad open. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. Clicking the button on top of the pen he spoke as he wrote. "Well Miss Perry, I understand that you had a nasty bout of this bug."

"First let _me_ ask _you_ a question." said Susan. Her face betrayed her annoyance with Martin. "How the hell did you know that? Aren't medical records, like supposed to be kept secret or something?"

"Uhmm, well yes that is true but I heard from a mutual acquaintance that you were ill with this horrible bug." said Martin. Of course none of this was true and Martin was surprised when the Susan didn't question him further.

Her countenance eased in its agitation. "What do ya want to know?"

"Well let's start with where do ya think you caught it from?"

"From Sid...yeah I know I caught it from Sid."

"Sid?"

"Yeah my fiancé... Sid Owens. He had this thing but he didn't make it." she said in a voice quivering with emotion. She pulled her legs up to her body and pulled a blanket off the back of the couch that she was sitting on. She wrapped the blanket around her as she diverted her eyes out the balcony doors and stared out at the view of Biscayne Bay.

"Yeah, my poor Sid. I never got to say goodbye. I mean by the time he was in the hospital I was damn near dead here. I finally managed to get to the phone and dial nine one one. I was pretty much out of it in the hospital. When I came around two weeks had passed and they told me that Sid had died."

"Do you have any idea of where Sid may have caught this thing?"

She looked back at Martin again and he could see anger in her eyes. "From one of his scum bag coke buddies. He had a real problem with coke. I told him that if I ever heard of him doing that stuff again I would leave him. Well, from what I hear one of his buddies had a new source, supposedly high quality stuff real cheap. Anyhow I found out that Sid was doing coke again. I lost it. I threw my engagement ring at him and stormed out of his apartment. It was two days later that he got sick. Three days after going to the hospital he was dead. I'm pretty sure he got it from one of those guys. Sid was healthy as a horse, it's just weird that he gets back into that scene and five days later he's dead."

"What did Sid do? I mean what did he do for a living?"

"Sid was an attorney."

Martin was surprised. "An attorney?"

"Yeah, he worked down at the Federal Building downtown. That's where one of the coke heads introduced Sid to some homeless guy who had connections to some big shot importer of cocaine. I warned him...coke or me. Well I guess he just couldn't resist. I tried to reason with him. I told him to be careful, street people don't sell high grade cocaine. That shit was probably laced with something. Poor Sid."

"Do you know this homeless guy's name?"

"No, just what they called him."

"What was that?"

"Doc...they called him Doc. Isn't that ironic?" she said as her eyes welled up. "I'm still all screwed up. I mean I lose my health and fiancé all at once. I can still barely breathe. They think that I may have permanent lung damage. I have zero energy and I have to take an antidepressant."

"Really?."

"Yeah, the doctor at the hospital told me that this bug isn't the ordinary flu. She said that she has seen a couple dozen cases over the last month and that depression seemed to be associated with the thing. That is if you survive." She curled up even tighter under the blanket. She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed. The cough suddenly made Martin realize that this woman had been sick with this strange and deadly virus and that the bug was in her condo. Panic set in but Martin kept a cool exterior while extricating himself from the interview and the apartment as quickly as possible.

"Well Miss Perry I have all I need. I'm sorry for your loss and I hope that your recovery is a full and speedy one.

"Yeah, right." She said in a half laugh that prompted yet another cough.

Martin could hear the voice of the doctor in his mind, telling him how contagious the flu is. Martin stood and spoke. "Don't bother getting up...I can let myself out."

Martin drove back across the causeway towards downtown. He was thinking through the information he had just collected as he wove his way through the bustling streets of Miami. He turned off of North Miami Avenue into the Federal Building's enormous parking lot. The only empty spaces were at the far end of the lot. Martin parked and reviewed his notes. He decided that he would kick around and try to find out as much information on the homeless man known as Doc. Martin stepped out of the car and strode across the lot.

Towering over the parking lot was the Federal Building. Twenty five stories high, the brilliant white building wore rows of windows that glistened in the sunshine like strands of diamonds. As Martin made his way closer to the building he began to notice that the structure was in decay. The glistening windows were streaked with rust stains running like tears from the metal frames. The block was cracked in stair step fashion that ran up the building for several stories. Martin walked on a sidewalk that ran along the side of the building. Here the white paint was stained green with the algae that took advantage of the deep shade provided by two very large oak trees. Martin moved to the front of the building and stood beside a light pole to avoid the stream of people flowing past as they went about their business.

Martin wasn't quite sure just what it was that he was looking for. He felt that he would know it when he saw it. Martin stood for several minutes watching the businessmen and attorneys jostle past. Suddenly Martin saw something that caught his eye, a person. A man, an obviously homeless man, a bum if you will. His soiled and tattered clothes made him stand out in the flow of Armani suits. The stream of people parted and flowed around him like water around a rock. The human torrent bumped him and moved him without seeing him. It seemed to Martin it was as if he were watching a ghost that walked amongst the living, unseen except by him.

Martin moved towards the man and was immediately spotted by him. The man's face conveyed a look of fear as he turned and walked rapidly away. Martin quickened his pace and called out to him. "Hey, hey wait a minute!" But the man disappeared into the roiling crowd. Martin ran a little further but could not see him anywhere. "Well this was a waste of time." thought Martin as he walked back towards his car. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye Martin spotted the man shadowing him across the parking lot. Martin stopped and turned towards the man. Much to Martin's surprise the man did not run but spoke. "What do you want with me?"

Martin slipped between the cars, walking towards the man. "I was looking for Doc."

"What you want with Doc? You a cop?"

"No I'm a reporter. I need to ask him some questions about somebody we both know."

"I tell you what, you get in your car and drive north two blocks until you see the A1 Discount Beverage store. In the parking lot is a phone booth. You wait there and if Doc wants to talk to you, he'll call you. Now get out of here before they see us talkin'. They're probably watching us right now!"

"Who? Who's watching us?"

"Just go!" The man moved off into a row of trees bordering the parking lot and disappeared.

Martin did as he was told. He found the store and stood in front of the phone. Many minutes had passed when the phone rang. Martin picked it up.

"Is this the reporter who wanted to talk to Doc?"

"Yes...this is Bruce Martin. I'm a reporter with..." but before Martin could finish his sentence he felt a tap on his back. Turning around Martin was astonished to see an elderly man standing there with a cell phone to his ear.

"Hi I'm Doc! Bruce? Didn't you say your name was Bruce?" asked the man in a most enthusiastic voice.

The man standing before Martin was not at all what he had expected. This drug dealer looked to be sixty something. He had long gray hair that was pulled back into a pony tail. A neatly trimmed white beard and eyebrows were in contrast to a deeply tanned and weathered face. His eyes were blue and sparkled with an obvious excitement. His genuinely warm smile instantly dissolved any apprehension that Martin had about meeting this mysterious figure. Doc snapped shut his cell phone and clipped it to his hip. His colorful attire; an Aloha shirt, olive drab fatigue pants and leather sandals stood in stark contrast to Martin's muted and conservative dress.

"So son what can I do for you?"

"Well Doc, may I call you Doc?" asked Martin.

"That's what they call me!"

"Well then, Doc, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions that may be, well shall we say, a little delicate."

Doc's smile faded slightly as his eyes squinted with suspicion. Doc was quickly trying to get a handle on just who Martin was and what he truly wanted.

"What ya mean?" asked Doc.

"Well did you know Sid Owens?"

Doc looked at the ground rubbing his chin as he concentrated. "No...no can't say as I know anybody with that name."

"Well Doc, Sid Owens was an attorney and he supposedly purchased some drugs, Cocaine to be exact, from you."

Doc's whole demeanor suddenly changed. He raised an out stretched finger to his pursed lips to indicate silence. His brow furrowed with anxiety as he looked around him in a sudden fit of paranoia.

"You're one of them ain't ya?"

"What?" stammered a confused Martin.

"Gimme your wallet. Come on man! I ain't gonna rip you off! Give me your wallet! Listen man, you want me to trust you? Then you're gonna have to trust me, now give me your wallet!"

Martin extracted his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to Doc. Doc opened it up and pulled out Martin's driver's license. Doc scrutinized the picture. Then he thumbed through Martin's credit cards and his press credentials before handing him his wallet back.

"Well I guess you're legit. I don't know this Sid guy. I'll answer your questions but not here...they might be watching us."

"Who might be watching us?"

"I'll tell ya, come on let's take us a little walk."

Martin followed Doc across the road and onto the far shoulder. They walked a few more yards before turning off onto a set of tire tracks that had worn away the grass and left two narrow paths of sand. They approached an old gate that was connected to a decaying barbed wire fence. Doc slid through first and motioned Martin to follow him. Martin hesitated.

"Come on, this is my property...it's O.K.!"

Martin's raised eyebrows betrayed his disbelief of what Doc was saying.

"Yes! I own it!"

"Why did you crawl through the gate then?"

"Why open it just to walk through it? Here, I'll show you!" said Doc as he thrust his hand into his pocket. He produced a shining key. "See!" he said holding it up for Martin to see. Then reaching through the gate Doc put the key into the tarnished padlock and it popped open. "Feel better?" asked Doc sarcastically. Martin was surprised. He walked through the gate and waited for Doc to close the gate behind them. "If you're surprised by the fact that I own land just wait 'til ya see what I'm gonna show ya next! You're gonna really flip out!" said Doc chuckling and motioning for Martin to follow him.

As the two men walked along the ruts the sound of traffic subsided and was replaced by the songs of birds. The tracks wove through a heavily wooded area before abruptly ending at the edge of a large grassy meadow. Doc was right. Martin stood at the border of the woods, looking out across the meadow in shock and disbelief. Stretching out before Martin was a scene straight out of the old west. Five large teepees were in a semi-circle around a large campfire.

"Well, what ya think? Bet ya never saw anything like this before, huh?" said Doc proudly.

"Is this where you live?" asked Martin.

"Yup, me and some others. C'mon, let me show ya around."

Doc walked up to the first teepee and pulled out several wooden pins that held a flap closed. Throwing the flap off to the side the two men stepped in. Martin was surprised at the room within the tent. A full grown man could easily stand upright. In the middle were the charred remains of a small campfire.

"See, in the winter you can have a fire in here. The smoke goes right up and out the top. If it's raining ya can close the flap up there. The teepees are made out of water proofed canvas. Just eight poles hold it up. I can drop this and pack it for moving in less than twenty minutes. Very functional. The plains Indians really knew what they were doin'. Yeah boy! C'mon let's go sit on my thinkin' log, you can ask all your questions there."

Doc led Martin to several large logs that were lying around a large fire pit. Doc motioned for him to sit down.

"Now, you were askin' me about some junky named Sid, Huh? Never heard of him."

"Do you sell cocaine Doc?"

"Yeah. That's how I get my money to help my friends."

"Your friends?"

"Yeah, man this camp is for those people your type call the homeless. I give 'em shelter and food. I sell a little blow to those suits around the courthouse. I use their hypocrisy to help those who can't help themselves. Most are mentally ill ya know. Completely ignored by our great and compassionate nation. These teepees, this land is their home. It's my gift to them. My friends are the outcasts of American society, the defective, the different, and the mentally ill. Hell son, I'm mentally ill! Bet ya didn't know that, huh?" said Doc grinning. Martin shook his head. "Yeah Bipolar. I'm Bipolar. Diagnosed twenty years ago. Before that everybody just wrote me off as eccentric, that weirdo professor type. I used to teach at a state college. I have a doctorate in the humanities. That's why they call me Doc. My real name is John. Anyhow to answer your question, yeah, I sell some poison to those spoiled suits. Like I said, I use their own hypocrisy against them. They go into the courts espousing all their high falutin' ideals by day and by night they get loaded on the same crap they're puttin' others away for. It's they who are the scum"

"Where do you get the cocaine from? I mean how does somebody of limited income, like you, afford to buy enough cocaine to sell?"

"Well, I was at this store over by the Ridge, when this guy started talkin' to me. He said that he owned a store, it was a seafood store, and that he also owned some boats. This guy told me that sometimes a boat might bring a little something extra back from a fishin' trip."

"Cocaine?"

"Yeah, said that he really didn't know what to do with it and if I helped him sell it we would split the profits fifty fifty. He even gave me five pounds of shrimp that day for free! Told me to go back and give everybody a good meal. He told me to come back at the end of that week and see if he had anything. Well, I did and he gave me a kilo of coke. Made five thousand bucks in two weeks! Things were going great and then it happened."

"What happened?"

"I caught some kinda bug. In fact the whole camp came down with it. It was bad man. There used to be nine of us livin' here. We were a family, man!" said Doc as his voice cracked with emotion and tears welled up in his eyes. "Anyhow, it was a bad assed flu. It wasn't like any flu I've ever seen. It killed my friends. I had it too. It kicked my ass! I really don't remember much, I was outta my mind with fever most of the time. When I finally came around and had enough energy to move around I found that I was it. I was all that was left. They're all out there."

"Out there? Out where? What ya mean?"

"I mean out there, I buried them out there," said Doc motioning towards the woods.

"You buried your friends in these woods?"

"Sure, what was I supposed to do with 'em? If I called somebody they'd just make me shut down my little Shangri La. They'd dump my friends into a pauper's grave or cremate 'em. This was their home. This is beautiful, c'mon!" Doc leaped to his feet and took Martin into the nearby Hammock of ancient oak trees. Martin's eyes took a moment to adjust from the brilliant sunlight to the deep shade. There before Martin stood eight small white crosses. They were about knee high and each one had a name written neatly upon it. In front of each cross the ground rose in a low mound and was covered with thick green and manicured grass. Martin walked up to the nearest cross and knelt down beside it. He read the name aloud, "Loretta Powers."

"Yup," said Doc, "Terry, that's what we called her. She was a schizophrenic, suffered horribly with it since she was twenty two. She died when she was forty one. That's a mighty long time to live in a nightmare."

"Yes it is Doc."

"I found her rootin' around in a dumpster. We got her to come here. I got her some meds from the clinic down the road. She used to love romance novels. Said she could live like a normal woman in the pages of a book if she couldn't live a normal life in reality. My poor Terry." said Doc and he began to cry. He looked up to the sky and said "Please take real good care of her God." Then Doc kissed two of his fingers and pressed them to Terry's cross. "I miss you," he whispered. "I miss all of you." Martin felt bad for Doc. Unsure of how to comfort him, he simply patted his shoulder.

Martin left Doc sitting on his log. The strange old man had been upbeat but now was dejected and somber. Martin made his way back to the trail. Walking along the path the sounds of nature were assaulted by the noise of the city. Martin was reflecting on the graves and was struck by the lethality of this virus. He sprinted across the busy street and walked back to his car. As he unlocked the door he noticed a dark sedan parked across the lot. A man wearing sunglasses was watching him. When the man realized that Martin was looking at him a dark tinted window rose to obscure his face. The car started up and rolled slowly past Martin. Martin watched the car, unsure of why he was feeling suddenly paranoid. The winter sun was sliding low in the western sky and Martin decided to call it a day. He drove out of the little store's parking lot and blended into the rush of traffic streaming along the busy highway.

The next morning Martin went to the office. He knocked on Dave's door. "Come in." called Dave. Martin went in and shut the door behind him. He sat down in a chair that was in front of Dave's desk. He tossed a folder onto the desk.

"This your Coast Guard story?"

"Yeah, I finished it last night."

"How's the flu story comin'."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. First of all have you heard anything about Steve?"

"No. I talked to his girlfriend yesterday. She is freaked out of her mind. I am too. I asked her what the cops said about the missing persons report... nothing has come of it. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah. Dave, something really weird is going on with this bug story. The trail has led me to a group of homeless guys who sell cocaine."

"That's different. Ya think they might have hurt Steve?"

"No, I don't think so; I mean I don't know...really. Dave there were graves there! At least that's what this guy called Doc said they were...the graves of his friends who died from this bug. I've also had somebody following me, well; I think somebody's following me. It's all just really creepy and I'm really afraid for Steve."

"Hmmm...yeah. It is strange. I mean also think about this...why has nobody else jumped on this story? I mean there is this strange new flu that's killing a lot of people out there and nobody else is on it, at least as far as I know. But it won't be long before they catch on so give me something that I can run real soon."

"Ok. I'll do that."

Dave grabbed the folder with the article in it and began to scan it. "Looks good."

"Yeah. Listen...I'll see ya in a couple of days" replied Martin. Dave nodded as he continued to read his story.

Martin walked past Dave's secretary, Leah. She smiled. "Good morning Bruce." Martin smiled back and felt his face get warm. Leah was a stunningly beautiful woman. Martin had always been attracted to her but was insecure and shy around her. "Morning," he managed weakly as he hurried off to his work station. Martin sat down in front of the computer and went online; searching for seafood stores in the area of town that Doc had told him about. He found only one. Next he researched who owned it. Martin found that a Saudi family owned it, having purchased it two years earlier. Martin jotted down the information and departed the office.

The next morning was a very foggy one. Martin drove south towards Cutler's Ridge. After driving for twenty minutes Martin found the store. The parking lot was empty. Martin glanced at his watch; it was ten-o-clock. Surely they must be open by now he thought. He got out of his car to investigate.

Martin walked up to the doors and pulled on the handle. It was locked. Martin cupped his hands to block the light so that he could see inside. The store was dark and empty. "They left without a trace about a week ago." said a strange voice. Martin turned around to see an elderly woman walking a skinny old dog.

"Pardon?"

"They left. Didn't say anything about closing. One day they were selling fish and the next day they were gone. I used to buy fish here every Friday. Fashid, he was the owner, asked me why I bought fish only on Friday. I told him it was because I was Catholic. He thought that I was the exception, being a religious American. I told him that he must not know America very well then because all of my family and friends go to church. But my, my, they vanished just like that, not even a going out of business sell."

"You knew the owner?" asked Martin.

"Not really just that his name was Fashid."

"How long has this place been open?"

"Maybe a little over a year or so. It used to be a meat market years ago. It sat empty for a long time."

"So ya don't know where he went?"

"No, like I said poof...vanished, just like that," said the old woman with a snap of her fingers. "Travelin' light too. They chucked everything."

"What ya mean?" inquired Martin.

"This place reeked a week ago. They must have tossed a ton of perfectly good seafood into the dumpster out back. Piled it so high, they couldn't fit anything else in there. They had a lot of boxes with pictures and books piled up beside the dumpster. The garbage man only dumped the dumpster; he didn't even bother getting out of his truck to get all those boxes. Maybe you could find out where he went if you looked in those boxes. Fashid in some kind of trouble? Did he go bankrupt? Are you from the bank?"

"No just a reporter."

"You writing a story on seafood?"

"Yeah, something like that."

The old woman gave Martin a look up and down. Then with a shrug of her shoulders and a quick tug on the dog's leash she disappeared into the fog. Martin walked around to the back of the store. The old woman was right. Clustered around the dumpster were half a dozen cardboard boxes. Martin opened a box and found only shredded paper. He opened another and found still more shredded paper. The third box that Martin opened was filled with eight by ten photographs of people on fishing boats. Martin did not recognize anybody in the pictures. He continued looking and found more pictures of boats that looked to be fishing and shrimping trawlers. One picture caught Martin's eye and he pulled it out to examine it more closely. To Martin's astonishment it was a photograph of the Canarian, the same trawler that Martin had encountered with the Coast Guard. He wasn't sure what this meant but somehow the trawler, the Arabs that were on it, the Arabs who owned this store and the virus were all linked. Martin heard a noise that alarmed him. He spun around peering into the fog but all that he could see were drifting veils of white. Martin froze as he listened to the unmistakable sound of tires rolling slowly over the gravel driveway of the abandoned store. Then the form of a dark car slowly emerged from the fog. The car drove slowly past Martin and disappeared once more into the fog. A wave of fear suddenly swept over Martin. He was now quite sure that someone was following him. He ripped the photo of the Canarian from its frame and tucked it into his pocket. He retreated to his car and drove several miles until he came to a strip mall. He pulled into the parking lot and parked his car.

Martin pulled out his cell phone and called the cutter Courageous' phone number. After a dozen rings he hung up and called the Coast Guard station. A young man answered the phone. "Good morning Miami Beach Coast Guard station, Seaman Owens speaking."

"Hello, this is Bruce Martin; I'm a reporter for the Biscayne Sun. I wrote a story about the cutter Courageous. I just tried their number and got no answer, are they in port?"

"No sir she is not."

"Hmm, I was told that she would be back by now."

"Would you like to speak with Chief Ferguson, he is in charge of the station; he may be able to help you."

"Sure...thanks."

Yes sir, stand by one I am transferring your call."

"Thank you."

A much older voice came on the phone. "This is Chief Ferguson, how may I help you.?"

"Hello Chief, I'm Bruce Martin with the Biscayne Sun. I was recently embedded on the Courageous during her last deployment and I needed to follow up on some things. Do you know when I might expect her back in Miami?"

"No sir I do not. I am not at liberty to discuss the movement of our cutters. I am sorry that I could not help you."

"Thank you." said Martin as he terminated the call.

Martin's instincts as a reporter told him that he was on the trail of something big. This virus was somehow connected to all of this But where to turn to now? Martin debated his next move and decided that to get a better handle on what may be going on he needed to know all that he possibly could about this bug. He would go back to the hospital.

Martin arrived at the emergency room to find it overflowing. People were sitting outside on the walkway. Martin went up to the receptionist and was told that the doctor was much too busy. But just as he was about to leave Doctor Garcia saw him from across the room.

"Mister Martin!" she called out to him. She walked quickly up to him and said in a low voice, "Look at all of these people. They all have the flu! Something very unusual is happening here and we can't seem to get any answers about just what it is that we are up against. The Medical Examiner's office and I have sent many tissue samples to the CDC but we get no answers. Do you think that you could bring to bear the power of your pen and help us?"

Martin leaned closer to the Doctor and whispered, "You're right something is going on. I'm not sure but I think that I'm closing in on it. I'll let you know whatever I learn...OK?"

"Thank you very much Mister Martin and now I really am swamped. I must get back to work." The Doctor spun around and walked back through the crowd. Martin watched her. He suddenly felt as if he were being watched. Martin turned to see a man in a business suit staring intently at him. The man looked vaguely familiar. Something about him made Martin very uneasy. He glanced away from the stranger. When he looked back he was gone. Worried, he walked quickly back to his car.

Martin sat in his car in the parking lot mulling over the pictures from the fish market. The fact that Arabs were a common thread made Martin wonder if this was some kind of biological attack. "But why the flu?" he wondered. "Surely they wouldn't bother with something like the flu...even if it did kill some people surely there are deadlier bugs out there than the flu." He thought. But his mind kept going back to the fact that Arabs were on the Canarian which was smuggling cocaine. Arabs owned the store that sold cocaine and the Canarian's picture was in the store. And the people who were involved with the cocaine all got sick. Could it be that the bug was perhaps in the cocaine? Martin drove back to the little store down the street from Doc's property.

He darted across the road and walked along the tire tracks until he came to the gate. He paused and called out, "Doc! Hey Doc, it's me, Bruce Martin! Hello! Doc?" Slipping through the gate Martin continued on. Arriving at the camp he called out once more, "Hello...Doc!" There was no reply. Martin walked up to each teepee and called out but nobody responded. He walked around the camp and when he passed close to the makeshift cemetery he heard a strange buzzing sound. He stopped and cocked his head to get a bearing on the direction the noise was coming from. "Doc?" He called out in a low voice. He walked towards the buzzing sound and into the shadows of the woods. The buzzing grew louder. He saw the grave markers in front of him. Martin began to feel uneasy. Turning to go back he suddenly saw the source of the buzzing. There on the ground was Doc. Instantly Martin recognized that he was dead. His eyes were open and they stared vacantly at Martin. A single small gunshot wound was in the middle of his forehead. Large green flies buzzed all over the corpse, the same flies that Martin saw on the dead Haitian in City Solei. Martin was paralyzed with shock and then fear. He opened his mouth to scream but only a short gasp escaped him. Martin spun and ran as fast as he could run. He ran across the clearing and down the trail. He ran across the road in blind panic. Horns honked as cars swerved to miss him. He burst into the store. The bewildered clerk stood there looking at him as he bent over gasping for air. Gaining his composure for a moment Martin blurted out, "Call the police, a man's been murdered!" The clerk's eyes shot wide with alarm. She grabbed the phone and dialed nine one one. Within minutes the little parking lot was swarming with police cars.

By the time Martin was finished being interviewed by the homicide detectives the sun was beginning to set. The tranquil camp was turned into an archeological site. Large flood lights illuminated the camp and the cemetery in blue-white brilliance. The generators that powered the lights roared as they belched diesel fumes into the still evening air. Several men stood around Doc's body. Teams of men were exhuming the bodies from the graves. They stepped over grids of white twine that was suspended over the graveyard in a checkerboard pattern. Bright flashes of light popped periodically as the crime scene technicians took pictures.

A kind and soft spoken detective escorted Martin back to his car. Along the highway were a half dozen news trucks, their booms erected into the darkening December sky. Martin could see the reporters standing in spotlights before the cameras eagerly conveying the gruesome story. Martin got into his car and drove away. Looking into his rearview mirror, he watched the bright lights of the macabre carnival fade into the distance.

He picked up his cell phone and saw that his editor had called several times. Martin called him.

"Hey Dave its Bruce," said Martin flatly.

"Man, what the hell is going on?" asked Dave.

"I found one of my sources murdered. I told you that I thought somebody has been watching me! I bet something horrible has happened to Steve! I told the police, so maybe that might be some help in finding him."

"You didn't tell them what you were investigating did you? I mean you didn't say anything about the bug did you?"

"Yeah, what ya mean did I tell them about the bug? Of course I told them. This was a murder investigation! You bet your sweet ass I told them about the bug! It might help them find Steve! Don't you care about Steve?"

Dave completely ignored Bruce's question and continued on his tirade. "Now those broadcasts jerks are going to fall right into this one. We lost a scoop! If what you're telling me has really happened then we lost the biggest scoop of the decade! I can't believe that you told them about the flu!"

"So you'd rather have me sit there and say nothing about this bug while people might be dying all over this city? You're an asshole man!"

"Hey you listen to me Bruce! Scoops are what sell newspapers and this newspaper pays our salaries...yours and mine. You used to have a killers instinct, I think you've gone soft on me man! You had better not forget who you're talking to! I am the boss!"

"Well, maybe it's time I found a new boss!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Maybe I'll just take the scoop of the decade somewhere else!"

"Listen to me Bruce..."

"Oh save it Dave! I'm not going anywhere! It's been one hell of a day. I'll call you tomorrow." Martin hung up with the push of a button. "Jerk." He muttered to himself as he swept his hand through his hair and exhaled deeply to relieve the stress. Turning into his apartment complex Martin parked his car and retreated to the safety and comfort of his home. He fell across the bed and almost immediately fell into a deep but troubled sleep.

# Chapter Five

The phone roused Martin from deep sleep. The clock glowed wo fifteen in the morning. Martin fumbled for the phone. "Hello."

"Mister Martin?"

"Yeah."

"Virologists believe that the Spanish Influenza virus was an avian virus that was mutated in a pig that in turn passed it on to humans."

"Who are you? How'd you get my number?" inquired Martin.

"Just listen to me! The flu, this flu is the Spanish Flu! The government does not want that known. Some sort of government agency has taken over the CDC. We were told that if anybody divulges any information on what is going on, they will be arrested. No member of the CDC is allowed in the labs so we don't know what is going on in there. Some believe that this is a government experiment gone wrong and...."

The conservation was interrupted by a sudden rustling and banging of the phone. Martin could hear some sort of struggle. Then there was silence. Martin listened intently. He heard footsteps and then he heard somebody breathing and then the line went dead. Martin sat in his bed staring into the dark and contemplating what he should do. It wasn't long before he rationalized that he should do nothing because, after all, it was an anonymous caller and he certainly wasn't going to stir up a hornet's nest or besmirch his reputation over something so bizarre. Still Martin couldn't get the conversation out of his mind. He mulled over the conversation. He turned on the lamp next to his bed and retrieved his laptop. He sat in his bed with the computer on his lap, the keys clicking rapidly beneath his fingers. The caller had used the phrase Spanish Flu. Doctor Garcia had talked about the Spanish Flu. Martin performed an internet search and was confronted by page after page of hits. "Well," he thought to himself, "there really is such a thing now let's read up on this thing."

Scrolling through the pages of a website dedicated to the Spanish Flu, Martin read how in 1918 the virus had decimated the armies engaged in World War One. The article went on to explain how every human being alive at the time had breathed in the virus and how over twenty million had died from the virus. He read about the huge impact the virus had on the social structure. He read about how fear and paranoia gripped the large cities of America and Europe. The article pointed out that in 1918 it took five days to cross the Atlantic Ocean and how population centers were much smaller than they are today. The article surmised that if the virus were to reemerge that, with modern jet travel, it is only hours away from any point in the world. The author of the article cited the statistics by various health organizations that if Spanish Influenza emerged again, this time the death toll may be over one hundred million people.

Martin next read an army doctor's account of a young soldier dying from the Spanish Flu. "The young man lay there, delirious from the fever which was one hundred and five degrees. His face was a ghastly purplish color from the cyanosis that we see with this disease. He was begging for his mother, (who of course was not present), to bring him water. His whole body would quiver in rapid convulsions as the high fever gave him the chills. The poor soul's body would lurch upward as his chest was wracked by a persistent and painful, shallow barking cough. I shall never forget the awful sound of that cough.

On the last day of his life he began to produce a frothy white phlegm which was tinted red with blood. At the moment of his death the man convulsed and sighed loudly. The body relaxed as the sigh faded into a low gurgling sound. The strange white foam issued from the corners of his mouth and nostrils as death turned his complexion from blue to an ashen gray. It was as quick and ghastly a death as I have ever witnessed, worse yet than the comparative mercifulness of the gas."

"My God." thought Martin. He was struck by the violence of the virus' attack on its victims. "That sure sounds like what Doctor Garcia was describing." He muttered to himself. Next Martin looked up a phrase that was in the article, Cyanosis. He found it immediately. The term was in yet another article about the Spanish Flu. The whole term was Heliotrope Cyanosis. Reading on Martin discovered that Heliotrope Cyanosis is a condition that occurs in some diseases that attack the lungs. It basically means that the lung function is diminished to such a degree that they cannot supply enough oxygen to the body. This condition results in the bluish coloration of the skin. "Geez...this thing is really nasty." thought Martin. Towards the end of the article he found information on how virologists are hunting for an intact virus in order to see just why this virus was so deadly. To date only partial viruses have been analyzed. But the latest evidence indicates that the virus underwent a regeneration of the A strain of influenza from avian to swine to human.

"What the heck does that mean." mumbled Martin. Martin performed yet another search and a large number of sites appeared. Martin clicked on the first one. The site appeared on the monitor and Martin read how Influenza A is carried by and infects birds, pigs and people. Martin sat on his bed in the dark room leaning close to the glowing monitor, mesmerized by the grim story before him; the story of how influenza regenerates itself by mutating as it moves from species to species. The virus steals RNA from each host. This mutates the virus, making the immune defenses ineffective against the new and unrecognized virus. The article went on to speculate that this may have happened between a bird virus and a pig virus. The new virus from this regeneration then went on to mix between a pig and a human. The latest timeline studies of the Spanish Flu point towards the possibility that the virus began in an army base in Belgium where both pigs and people began to get sick. The article also pointed out that this is why so many pandemics of influenza get their start in the Guangdong province of China. For here domestic fowl, pigs and people live together in intimate proximity.

Martin stopped reading. He sat there in the dark, his face illuminated by the flickering facts. He sat there, his mind racing as he tried to absorb the enormity of what was unfolding before him. If this new bug in Miami was, in fact, Spanish Influenza, then the world sat on the eve of the greatest pandemic it has ever known. This plague would make the Black death of the middle Ages look like viral child's play. Then Martin panicked when he considered what the caller had told him about what was occurring at the CDC. Martin became distressed when he wondered how the caller got his number. He began talking to himself in earnest. "OK, OK calm down...this can't really be happening. I mean how the heck would this thing get here...oh no! No way! Not the cocaine!" Martin's excitement grew as the picture began to crystallize before him. Then a thought stabbed at his very heart and this thought sent shock waves of pure horror through his body. "Pigs!" he cried out loud. "The dead pig in Haiti! The pig farm that supposedly brought a curse when that guy stole a pig. It wasn't a curse! It was the flu! The flu was there! The guy in Haiti said foreigners owned the farm...I bet they were Arabs, just like the owners of the Canarian and the suppliers of the coke. Oh my God! This is a terrorist attack! They're bringing the virus into the country in cocaine!" Martin leaped up; his laptop tumbled off of his lap onto the bed. He ran his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was trying to think. "OK...OK...calm down. Let's look at this one step at a time and see where we're at." Martin decided that he should visit Doctor Garcia at the hospital once again. He fell back onto the bed.

Martin awoke with a start. The sun was pouring through the blinds of his bedroom. He sat up and looked at the alarm clock. It was eight forty five. Martin quickly dressed and headed out to the hospital. Upon his arrival at the hospital he was confronted by a crowd of sick people lined up along the wall outside the Emergency room. Martin walked into the stuffy emergency room and was immediately struck by the amount of people there too. So many people were crammed into the room that people were sitting and lying on the floor. Most were obviously very sick. A chorus of dry barking coughs made Martin's skin crawl. He walked up to the reception desk and was shocked to see that the receptionist's face was concealed behind a surgical mask.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes could you please tell me when Doctor Garcia is on duty? I'm Bruce Martin with the Biscayne Sun; I was here the other day to speak with her."

"I remember you," she said as she looked up. "You really need a mask in here." Standing up she said, "One moment please," and she disappeared behind a partition. A moment later she reappeared and said flatly "Someone will be with you shortly." She sat back down and began to work on the computer signaling her disinterest in any further conversation. "Thanks." said Martin. He stood nervously listening to the coughing and blaring television. It was over fifteen minutes before the doors opened and a middle aged doctor appeared and called Martin's name.

Martin walked up to the doctor. The doctor inquired of him "Mister Martin?"

"Yes."

"Hello, I'm Doctor Morgan." Martin held his hand out to shake the Doctor's. "Not to be rude mister Martin but we don't shake hands these days. It's an excellent means of transmitting this virus. In fact if I were you I wouldn't shake anybody's hand until we can get this thing licked."

"Doctor Morgan, I was hoping to speak with Doctor Garcia, I'm writing an article about this bug."

"Mister Martin I'm afraid that Doctor Garcia has taken ill with this flu. She is very sick. She asked me to allow you to visit her. I really don't have a problem with that but you might."

"What do you mean?"

"As I said she is very ill. Her appearance is disconcerting to say the least. You will have to wear a mask and gloves because the virus will be all around you. You see, we have been so inundated with flu cases that we have dedicated the entire fourth floor to just the flu. If you take precautions though, it is safe to visit. After your visit we will go into a bathroom we have set up to dispose of your masks and glove and to scrub up before leaving. Are you ready?"

"Yes", replied Martin nervously.

"This way please." said Doctor Morgan as he led Martin through the buzzing double doors. In the rear of the Emergency Room were two elevators. One had a sign on it that read in bold red letters "Fourth floor only". Martin began to feel a little nervous. The two men stepped into the elevator and the doors glided shut behind them. The elevator jerked slightly as it began a smooth ascent. There was silence except for the chiming announcement of each floor slipping past the rising elevator. Finally it stopped and the doors slid open. Martin's anxiety level was rising as he stepped into the hallway. In front of the elevators were two carts with boxes of masks, gloves and shoe covers. Martin followed the Doctor's example and suited up. As they walked down the corridor Martin felt very alone as he was one of the few people that knew that this plague was a biological terrorist attack. Walking down the hallway they walked past rooms with opened doors. Martin heard the now familiar chorus of barking coughs orchestrated by the virus that was all around him. The coughing was soon overcome by the volume of his anxious breathing as it reverberated in the mask. They arrived at an opened door.

"One minute please." said the Doctor as he disappeared into the room. "Doctor Garcia will see you now."

Martin walked into the room. There on the bed lay the doctor. As Martin approached he was shocked by her appearance. The strikingly beautiful features were gone, replaced by a sallow face. She wore a thin tube under her nose to feed her oxygen but despite that her skin was still colored blue gray from the cyanosis that Martin had read about. He felt quite certain now that the mysterious caller was correct, this did indeed appear to be the most deadly virus in history. The doctor managed a feeble smile. "Did you..." before she could finish her sentence she was wracked by the horrible barking cough. The Doctor's chest heaved as she fought for breath and then she spoke again. "Did you find out what this thing is?" Martin did not want to say that he had been tipped that it was the Spanish Flu so he simply shook his head. "You must find out...nobody's talking." Once again the Doctor was overcome with a coughing spell and once more she struggled for breath. Martin nodded and the Doctor closed her eyes and fell asleep. Martin turned and left the room. Doctor Morgan was waiting for him. "She insisted that I bring you up here. You can remove your gloves and mask at the gowning station. We have set up a surgical scrub station in the bathroom. Use it Mister Martin. Then wash your hands as soon as you can after leaving the hospital."

Martin walked out of the hospital and down the steps. Sitting on a wall next to the steps was a man reading a newspaper. When Martin walked by the man dropped the paper down slightly to reveal his face. "Morning." he said. Martin slowed his pace and responded in kind. "Visiting someone?" asked the man. "A sick friend." responded Martin. "Well I hope she feels better soon." said the man. "Thanks." replied Martin. As he walked away the conversation played back in Martin's mind. "Hey...wait a minute. How did he know that I was visiting a woman?" thought Martin. He spun around and looked at the man who was busy reading his paper again. The paranoia began to creep in again on Martin. He hurried to his car and glanced over his shoulder to see if the man was following him. Much to his dismay the man had disappeared. Martin reached his car and hurriedly locked himself in. He sat there for a moment pondering on what his next move should be, all the while looking nervously around. He remembered that Doctor Garcia had mentioned that the Medical Examiner's office had sent off tissue samples to the Centers for Disease Control. Martin decided to pay the coroner a visit and see what his take was on this virus. Starting his car up Martin drove the couple of blocks to the County Coroner's office.

Martin walked into a small lobby area that contained two worn chairs tucked into a corner. It was obvious that visitors were neither welcomed nor expected here. On the wall was a telephone with a sign over it that read, "Pickup for entry." Martin picked the phone up. After a multitude of unanswered rings Martin hung up and left the building. As he walked to his car he observed a white paneled van pull around the back of the building. Following the van Martin timidly peaked around the corner to see a tall young woman remove a gurney from the van. On the gurney was the unmistakable form of a human body wrapped tightly in sheets.

"Excuse me", said Martin. His unexpected presence startled the young lady who quickly shoved the gurney back into the van. Spinning around she stared nervously at Martin as he approached her. Walking closer to the young woman he could see that the young woman was very pale. Networks of blue veins were visible under her pallid complexion. The sunlight seemed to irritate her and she squinted her eyes which were ringed with dark circles. Locks of long jet black hair spilled from a high pony tail and wrapped around her neck. The young woman, although very different in appearance was strangely attractive. As she spoke only her voiced conveyed any hint of emotion. "This area is off limits", she said in a tone thick with irritation.

"Oh I'm sorry", cowed Martin. "My name is Bruce Martin I'm a reporter for the Biscayne Sun. I was trying to speak with the Medical Examiner. I went around front but nobody picked up the phone."

"Yeah, we're real busy around here these days."

"Because of the flu?" interrupted Martin, staring at the woman. He wondered what somebody so young was doing working at the morgue. While speaking she glared suspiciously at Martin. "Wait right there and I'll see if the M.E. has time to see you."

"Thanks", replied Martin.

A minute later she reappeared. "This way." Martin followed obediently. She led him through a battered door and into a long dim hallway. The odor of death hung heavy in the hall as both sides were lined with corpses on gurneys. The bodies were wrapped in milky plastic, giving them the appearance of ghosts. Martin looked straight ahead, anxious to get out of the hallway. He followed the young lady through another door and stepped into a brilliantly illuminated room. White tiled walls and polished concrete floors enhanced the light's effect upon the room. Along one side of the room were four stainless steel autopsy tables each was occupied. At the far end of the room the coroner was bent over a corpse.

"Doctor, this is the reporter."

As the doctor slowly stood upright Martin could see that he was a tall and thin man. As the coroner walked towards Martin he removed his cap and face shield to reveal the features of a man who appeared exhausted. The doctor took his blue gloves off with a snap and tossed them into a red bin marked with the biohazard symbol. "Thanks, Angelique."

Martin turned towards the young woman. "Oh, that's an unusual and pretty name. Is it French?", Martin asked in a futile attempt to distract his mind from the macabre scene that surrounded him.

"I dunno. I was named after a vampire."

"Oooooh kaaaay", responded Martin.

"My mom was a huge fan of some TV show in the sixties called Dark Shadows. I was named after a female vampire in that show", explained Angelique.

"What can I do for you Mister?", the doctor asked tersely.

"Martin, Bruce Martin with the Biscayne Sun. I'm writing an article for the paper on this new flu."

"Well, it's about time that somebody showed some interest. This thing is burning through Miami like a wildfire and nobody seems to give a damn."

"Really?" inquired Martin.

"Really", responded the coroner. "I'll tell you why nobody cares. The first victims were all a bunch of druggies and criminals. But then this thing broke out and well, look around you", he said with a sweep of his hand motioning towards the corpses on the tables. "Soccer moms, teachers, teens, it's loose and killing."

"What is it? I mean I know that it is some kind of flu, right? But why is it so deadly? Does anybody have an idea of where this thing came from?"

The coroner popped down onto a stool and ran his hands over his head. He was in his mid-fifties by appearance and was bald except for long gray hair around the back of his head. "Well" he began in a weary voice, "I've sent tissue samples to the CDC and they responded by saying that it is an unidentified type A influenza. Hell I knew that! I get the feeling that I'm being stonewalled. You're the first reporter to come here. This thing has been going for a few weeks and now it really has a head of steam but there is no real interest. The dead increase daily."

"Why?"

"That!" said the Doctor in a suddenly animated voice that half startled Martin, "That is what is so crazy about this bug." The Doctor leapt to his feet and walked along the tables and motioning to a body lying there. "See all of these people on these tables, what do you see that they all have in common? C'mon! Look at them!"

"I'd really rather not", mumbled Martin

"If you want to understand this thing you have to see what it does. Don't be a whimp, you can't catch it. Look at them!"

Martin took a few feeble steps forward and glanced at a body in front of him. It was a middle aged woman. Martin was shocked to see that her chest was opened up. He swooned and gagged as he plopped down onto the stool that the coroner had occupied.

"They were all healthy, in the prime of life!"

"So?"

"So! Influenza usually kills the very young or the elderly but this thing is killing healthy adults in their twenties, thirties, forties. Here's how, it's fascinating! Come here", said the Coroner as he leaned over the woman. "Look at her lungs...they're nearly liquefied. This gives the person a blue appearance from a lack of oxygen."

Martin straightened himself, "Heliotrope cyanosis", he said with a hint of pride at his knowledge.

"Yes! Yes! You, you have done your homework! At first I thought that it was some kind of hemorrhagic fever, dengue or something. I was even afraid that it was H5N1 ya know the bird flu. But this thing is way nastier than H5N1. I've discovered how it kills...it's fascinating, just fascinating. It kills by creating an immunological event known as a Cytokine storm, see that's why the lungs turn to jelly."

"What's a cyto whatever storm?" asked Martin pulling his little notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket.

"A Cytokine storm is, well, in layman's terms it's your own immune system becoming confused. It's basically when your immune system sends hordes of immune cells, such as killer T cells, to the infection sight. But the enormous numbers of immune cells confuse the body's own tissue with the virus and attack the body, destroying tissue, in this case lung tissue. This greatly reduces lung function and allows a secondary bacterial infection to set in. If the storm doesn't diminish enough lung to kill then the secondary pneumonia will kill you. That is why healthy people succumb to this because their immune systems are vibrant enough to initiate the storms. The young and the old get the flu but they seem to be able to pull through if they can avoid the pneumonia, though it is a dangerous illness regardless of who becomes infected."

"Ya have any idea of what the mortality rate is?" inquired Martin as he scribbled furiously in his notebook.

"A solid twenty percent, yes at _least_ twenty percent."

Martin asked, "Is that high?"

The Coroner responded, "Incredibly high."

"I just find it incredible that nobody outside the local medical community is alarmed by this thing. Perhaps a graphic account of what is really going on will initiate some action", Martin speculated.

"Perhaps", said the Coroner as he pulled on two new gloves. He walked over to a corpse and looked at his assistant. "Ready?", he asked Angelique. She produced a small electric saw from a drawer and handed it to the Coroner. Anticipating what was about to happen Martin said in a panic, "I'll see myself out." The Coroner looked at his assistant with a smirk; she just shrugged. Martin rushed through the hallway lined with the dead. He hurried out the back door and into the warm fresh air. Once outside he stopped and breathed in deeply. He turned to the sun and let it wash his face in its radiant warmth. It was good to be alive.

# Chapter Six

Martin left the Coroner's office and drove to the offices of the Biscayne Sun. But Martin did not take the most direct route. Instead he wove his way through the back streets constantly glancing into his rear view mirror in order to reassure himself that he was not being followed. Paranoia had a firm grip on Bruce Martin.

Within the safe confines of his office building Martin negotiated the maze of homogenous cubicles. He was greeted with smiles of recognition. Martin was one of those people is liked but who is not exceedingly popular. This was not because of any outward contempt for his coworkers but rather a subtle introversion that tended to insulate him from others. Bruce Martin was good looking, intelligent and when he chose, he could be quite engaging. But Martin kept the world at an arm's length. He was painfully insecure and there were valid reasons for his insecurities. Rather than addressing his shortcomings, however, Martin chose to build walls. His condo was his fortress. His books and music were his armor and shield against the world. His conceit and intelligence were weapons to be drawn if necessary. Most people, though, were somewhat cognizant of Martin's pain and were, therefore, mostly kind to Bruce Martin.

Martin walked into Dave's office. Dave looked up from a scattering of papers that cluttered his desk. "Oh hi Bruce, how's it going?" said Dave without really looking up at him.

"Dave, I think I'm onto something really big with this flu"

The excitement in Bruce's voice was cause for Dave to stop what he was doing and look up at Martin. He leaned back in his chair and began to rock slowly, eyeing Martin all the while.

"Well, I've been to the hospital and the morgue, Dave this thing is exploding out there, hundreds getting sick and half of them are dying! Listen Dave...I think I know what this thing might be and how it got here!"

"O.K Bruce, I'll bite...what is it? The Bird Flu?" said Dave with a hint of skepticism in his voice

"No! Have you ever heard of the Spanish Flu?"

"Can't say as I have."

"Well in nineteen eighteen this flu killed over twenty million people. I was researching this thing and they said that with the advent of jet travel and huge population centers that this bug could easily wipe out one hundred million!"

"Bruce...take it down a notch...who are _they_? This smacks of alarmist to me."

" _They_ are the CDC and the World Health Organization."

"And _they_ confirmed this to be the Spanish Flu?"

Martin's mind flashed to the mysterious phone call from his CDC source. Dave was already skeptical. If Martin told him that he believed that his CDC source was an anonymous phone call that ended with some sort of scuffle, he would never get to press.

"... yea, well, uhm...an unnamed source...kind of."

"No way! Are you kidding? You want me to run a story that some sort of modern plague is upon us and based on an anonymous source? C'mon are you nuts? C'mon Bruce you're a far better journalist than that. You're being lazy. Burn some shoe leather and get back with me in a couple of days with a solid story."

"Dave, if we don't get the word out thousands could die from this thing in just a week or two, and there's more! This thing came into the country in cocaine. I saw it first hand on the Courageous!"

Dave leaned back in his chair and laughed. "That's rich, that's really rich. Tell ya what Bruce, I'll run this story, conditionally. No anonymous sources and no speculation on what this thing is without multiple sources confirming it. And you had better show me tons of documentation on the cocaine angle. Capeche?"

Martin nodded sullenly and wandered out of Dave's office, mumbling to himself as he weaved blindly through the labyrinth of office cubicles. Martin heard his name whispered as he passed a cubicle. Martin stopped and stepped back to see who had called him. Ray Matthews was the outdoor writer. Martin greeted him, "Hi Ray, what's up?"

"I heard your conversation with Dave. It's no secret how I feel about that candy assed boot licker...so I'm gonna help ya out. That bug you were talking about is scary stuff, huh? Well I know this guy who works with an intelligence group up at McDill. He comes down here every now and then for some Bone fishin' at Islamorada. Anyhow, this guy would know who to connect you with to shed some light on what you're lookin' for...interested?"

"Sure...that would be great."

"O.K. then I'll give him a call. I'll call ya on your company cell to let ya know when he can talk with ya."

"Sounds good."

The next day Martin found himself standing outside of a large three storied building on McDill Air Force base. Martin entered through a pair of heavy glass doors and found his way to the elevator. He exited on the third floor and discovered it to be deserted. Martin glanced at the back of the spiral notebook he carried to find the room number that he had written down. As he walked down the long hall his footsteps echoed. Martin walked slowly along reading the room numbers as he went. He found the room where his meeting was to take place. He pulled on the door but it was locked. He stepped back to double check the room number when he noticed a framed poster on the wall. It was John F. Kennedy's inaugural address;

"The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe-the belief that the rights of man come, not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.

We dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that first revolution. Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans...

Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty."

Martin was so immersed in the words he was reading that he didn't notice that someone had walked up to him. He was startled by a voice from behind him.

"That speech reflects the attitude of this nation back when we had real leaders, not just self-serving politicians."

Turning around, Martin saw a tall man with closely cropped salt and pepper hair. He produced a broad, friendly smile and eyes that revealed a strong and self-assured personality.

"Bruce Martin?" the man asked.

"Yes." responded Martin.

"Tom Davis, pleased to meet you. I'm a colonel in Army intelligence, our mutual acquaintance Ray says that you have some very interesting and sensitive information that you wanted to run past me."

"Yes I do, I have come across a possible biological att..."

The Colonel cut Martin off in mid speech by raising his hand to signal him to be silent. "I have some very interesting items that I think will blow you away. I have taken the liberty of inviting some others, experts in the subjects that we will discuss...I trust that's OK." The Colonel gestured towards an open door and he and Martin stepped through it into a large conference room. A long wooden table lined with chairs sat in the middle of the room. Four men sat on the far side of the table. Tucked into a far corner was a cluster of computers with two young men and a young woman typing furiously. The Colonel shut the door behind them. Martin noticed that it had a thick layer of foam insulation on its backside. Looking around the room Martin noticed that the entire room was lined with the same material. The Colonel became cognizant of Martin's observation. "This is a secured conference room...soundproof." With that the Colonel nodded to one of the young men in the back of the room. He stood and walked up to Martin with an electronic device that resembled an oversized tuning fork. "All clear sir." said the young man. The Colonel nodded approvingly. Martin had been scanned for bugs.

The Colonel introduced the room's occupants to Martin by first name only. Then he gestured for Martin to take a seat. The Colonel sat down beside him and said to , "Why don't you share with us what you have discovered."

"O.K." said Martin with some hesitation. "It's going to probably seem incredible." warned Martin.

"Not half as incredible as what we have to share with you!" laughed the Colonel.

Martin became even more uneasy, wondering what the Colonel meant by that statement. "Well", Martin began again, "I have uncovered what I belief to be a biological attack on us by Islamic terrorist." Martin recited the entire story and when he finished he sat there looking at the eight faces, desperately searching them for an indication of what they were thinking. Did they believe him?

The Colonel spoke, "Believe it or not Mister Martin we have documented the very same events that are occurring in Miami in several other cities. The bug is indeed the nineteen eighteen influenza and it has all been traced back to cocaine. But what is of even greater concern is the fact that the government is attempting to cover up the source. They are preparing to announce that it is H5N1, the Bird Flu, brought here by migratory birds. This is why your source at the CDC and others have been muzzled. The government has released the hounds."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because they have failed to protect the nation yet again! The policies of the President and his lapdogs on the hill have placed all of the citizens of this country in imminent danger. They are afraid of what the consequences may be, not for you or me, but for themselves. How do you think people will react when they discover that millions will die and the nation itself may succumb because of malfeasance in Washington? Rich, why don't you share with Mister Martin the true scale of this attack."

A man of small stature rose from his seat across the table. "Over the last twelve months or so we began to pick up chatter between Pakistan and China, the Guangdong province of China to be specific."

"That is where most of the influenza viruses come from isn't it?" asked Martin.

"Well, basically, yes and we believe that they have recovered the Spanish Influenza virus, somewhere in Guangdong. We then noticed a shift in the chatter from Pakistan and China to Pakistan and Peru, specifically with the remnants of a terrorist group called The Shining Path. Are you familiar with this organization?" inquired Rich.

"Yes, they are Maoist who attempted to overthrow the Peruvian government. But I thought they were destroyed."

"There are still hardcore elements there; they have just faded into the jungle, biding their time if you will. The activity then shifted yet again to chatter between the Peru and some Narco terrorist in Colombia. Then the same pattern began between Columbia and Port au Prince, Haiti. Here is what we believed happened. First of all the participants in this plot are all firmly anti-American. While they differ greatly in philosophies they all share that fervent hatred of the U.S. We believe that Islamic terror organizations operating in Northern Pakistan either heard of the virus or actively sought the virus in China. Once they had it they devised a plan of delivery. Their plan was ingenious. The cocaine is snorted directly into the sinuses, right where the bug needs to be. The secretive nature of the drug culture would allow the bug to spread. By the time anybody discovered it, it would be too late. But they don't grow Coca in Pakistan, so they made contact with The Shining Path, perhaps somewhat duping them by playing up the Chinese connection. So the Path provide the Coke, but they are too small and too far removed from the U.S. to get their Coke in, so they turned to the Columbians for the logistics. The staging area was Haiti. We believe the pig farm that you heard about down there is actually a virus farm. They are actually growing the virus in the pigs."

"So it's like a global conspiracy against the U.S.? That's really scary! And you're telling me that the government isn't doing anything about it?" asked Martin with more than a hint of panic in the inflection of his voice.

"Why don't they protect our borders? We have been sold out by our own government. The congress sits on their collective fat asses, and getting fatter all the while!" said the Colonel with such anger and volume that Martin was taken aback. "People like you Mister Martin, the press, have their own agenda; none of it is in the country's best interest. In fact, they are the propagandist for the corruption in D.C. But the real problem lies in the judiciary! The arrogant bastards have allowed criminals to run amuck, literally kicking in our doors and raping and murdering innocent people. They have taken away our rights in small increments and perverted the constitution. They legislate from the bench. They have extended their power beyond their authority as provided by the constitution. Do you know what the first amendment says Mister Martin?" railed the Colonel.

"Uhm...it concerns the separation of church and state..." Martin responded meekly.

"Allow me to read it to you Mister Martin, 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion. 'Now, tell me sir where it says that there shall be no observation of religion by government? You cannot tell me because it doesn't say that. It merely states that congress shall not pass a law dictating that one religion shall become the religion of the state. The courts today are practicing just what this amendment was designed to prevent...you are prohibited in many instances from practicing your religion! This is where another element in this wholesale attack on American values comes from...the public schools! From elementary up through college....there is a dumbing up of the citizens of this country! For instance, most people don't know that the Declaration of Independence charges us to move against a government that is unresponsive to the people. Let me read you this:' But a long train of abuses and usurpations pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce then under absolute despotism it is their right, is their duty to throw off such government.'"

Martin interrupted, "Are you telling me that there is some kind of vast conspiracy in the government to turn us all into some kind of dumb worker bees...some sort of zombies?"

The Colonel looked at Martin steadily as he spoke, "Mister Martin, I hear the sarcasm in your voice. You represent just what I was talking about. You are a card carrying journalist to be sure! Disagree with you and lookout! People only have rights as long as they fit into your idea of what should be. This conspiracy as you called it is not the kind where a group sits down and says that we will do this in order to achieve this. No...it's much more insidious than that. It is the leadership slowly, greedily securing their power."

The Colonel nodded to an elderly man who had been sitting mutely at the far end of the table. The old man rose slowly, steadying himself with a hand on the table. He straightened himself up and swept a lock of snow white hair from his forehead. He cleared his throat and then he spoke.

"Over a hundred years ago a group of people, or more precisely a class of people, began to consolidate power. Today they populate the Senate and to a lesser degree the House, but more importantly they sit on the high courts and in the oval office. This ruling class comes from one of two places, either a military academy or an Ivy League college, predominately Harvard and Yale."

Martin challenged the old man, "I know that Reagan didn't come from any of those places."

"That is correct; in fact a handful of presidents did not come from this class. Two, however, entered the Presidency after the deaths of the elected President that was from that class, Roosevelt and Kennedy. Speaking of Kennedy, a rift began between two opposing forces within this ruling class. One group of these elites, that's what I call them, the elites, because that's how they view themselves. Anyhow one group of the elites was old school, ya know freewheeling markets, and they operated under a set of ethics. But the other group, a younger more progressive group embraced greed openly and sided with an emerging global elite movement. This younger group opened previously controlled markets to foreign interest and allowed large corporations to become international mega corporations. They began sending manufacturing jobs abroad, doing irrevocable damage to the American middle class, but increasing their bank accounts by incredible amounts of cash"

"Back in the sixties and early seventies the progressives openly challenged the old guard whom they termed the "establishment." But the old guard still controlled the power; they still controlled the institutions of government, and called the shots socially. Kennedy was a progressive. He moved too quickly and was not cognizant of the threat that he represented to the status quo. He was eliminated and replaced by a traditionalist, albeit Johnson was not an elite. As a matter of fact the previous President warned the nation of the emerging new unholy alliance between the government and industry. At that time it was primarily the military industrial complex but today it has greatly expanded to include banks and the global mega corporations. Mister Martin is you familiar with Eisenhower's farewell address?"

"Can't say as I am."

"Here read this...it's quite long, here is the meat of the relevant part" said the old man as he ran a highlighter over a printed page before he slid it across the table for Martin to read.

"In the councils of government we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought by the military industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.

We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together."

Martin raised his eyes from the speech. "That's really interesting, scary, really." The old man nodded his concurrence. "This warning was almost prophetic. It's like the Colonel said it has expanded way beyond just the military industrial complex. But things are occurring as we speak that will hopefully correct the situation, if it's not too late."

"And what would that be?" asked Martin.

Martin noticed that the Colonel exchanged nervous glances with the others in the room. The man called Rich leaned across the table and spoke in a calm voice. "Mister Martin, may I call you Bruce?"

"Yes, of course."

"Great...Bruce, there are still great leaders in the country, learned and brave patriots who believe that the nation has been taken by a sort of silent coup. The current culture, both political and social is like a cancer upon the nation. Many ordinary people, in fact most Americans feel this way, including a vast majority of the military. Well, Bruce, the time has come to take our nation back from these people who would loot and destroy it."

"A coup? Are you telling me a revolution is planned? That's crazy! It'll never happen!"

Rich continued in the calmest of manner, "Crazy? Can't happen? Like a biological attack that will wipe out a third of our population? Bruce, it is already happening."

"It is not a revolution Mister Martin! The government revolted against us! We are merely taking back what was given us by the Constitution. We call it a retrolution. We are going back to what is ours."

"No way! I'm outta here you guys are nuts!" said Martin rising to his feet.

"Sit down Bruce and listen to what is being said, it may save your life.", said the Colonel sternly.

Martin felt a jolt of fear leap through his chest. How could they let him walk out of there now? Rich continued to speak, "The current government was planning to use this outbreak to declare martial law. That would assure that they stay in power, those elected this past November would not assume power. But many have already become aware of the impending face off...the revolution as you put it. Anyway, many congressman and senators have already taken their winter vacations in France and other places....they are afraid and they are running. Many are going to be held responsible for their actions, especially the judiciary. I would not want to be a judge or lawyer...."

"Nor a journalist." said the Colonel. "Those journalists, who have fervently worked to undermine the goals of the United States by publishing false information, are going to be held accountable. Those that published classified information will be brought up on charges as well. Freedom of speech carries a certain amount of responsibility. Mister Martin, the next several months are going to be very trying, not just for this nation but for individuals as well. People are going to have to decide where they stand and just how much they are willing to sacrifice for their morals. Many will be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice."

"Times are going to be hard for the world too Mister Martin. Mexico is going to be forced to deal with their corruption and poverty after we round up all those in this nation illegally and close our borders. All of those nations receiving aid will have to get along without it. America will take care of her own. We are not the police of the world. We are not the bank of the world. We are a sovereign nation, we are not a resource to be abused by the rest of the world" said Rich.

"Well Mister Martin? What do you think? You have the opportunity of a lifetime...of a thousand lifetimes. You are sitting on the front row of history. You are the only journalist who knows the story, the whole story. What'd ya say Mister Martin are ya up to it? Because if you are we will stay in touch...keep you pointed in the right direction."

Martin sensed that these people were looking for an avenue to reach the people. He was definitely interested, for Martin always believed that he was destined for greatness. But he was also afraid. Just what he was afraid of he could not immediately define. But in order to get out of this place with his life he figured that he had better accept the offer...he could always evade them once he was out of there.

"Yeah...but the problem is going to be getting the story printed...my editor isn't going to believe all of this. I'm not sure I believe all of this...I mean, my God, we're under a biological attack that is going to kill millions of people...the government is so broken that revolution is the only way to get back to where we came from..."

"You still don't get it!" barked the colonel. "It isn't a revolution; we are merely taking back what was ours. This is a country of the people, for the people...those fat cats in government and their cronies in industry have taken our country from us. We are taking our nation back and those who robbed us will pay for their crimes. But I know what you mean Mister Martin; I myself can't believe that America has come to this. But there is still time to put things right and we intend to, are ya onboard?"

"Yes." answered Martin firmly.

"Good, now to be perfectly honest with you, the next thing that we have to be concerned with is keeping everyone in this room safe, which includes you." The Colonel gestured to one of the young men in the back of the room. He rose and delivered a small electronic device to the Colonel. "This Mister Martin will detect bugs; always sweep your home, car and office. Never, repeat ,Never uses your cell phone to discuss any of this. The Colonel opened his suitcase and produced a large cell phone. "Use this, it's a secure sat phone...don't call us...we'll call you. Got everything now Mister Martin?"

Martin nodded. The Colonel then shook his hand as did all of those in the room. The Colonel opened the door to the conference room. "Good luck Bruce and God Bless you and God Bless America." Martin mustered a weak smile and strolled down the long sterile corridor, his footsteps echoing. Martin was emotionally stunned and drained as he reached the outside doors. The sun was a large pink ball sinking over the Tampa skyline.

After half an hour of running the gauntlet through Tampa traffic, the highway opened up before Martin. The sky behind him darkened as the bright lights of Ybor City slipped below the horizon. Interstate Four became dark except for the streams of tail lights and headlights. Martin stared almost catatonically into the approaching headlights, wondering where they were going, what they were doing. He imagined that some were going out to dinner in Ybor City, or perhaps returning to the shelter of their homes in Clearwater. Martin wished mightily that he did not carry the burden of his knowledge of impending doom. All of these car's occupants were blissfully ignorant of the approaching disaster. Martin wondered what it must be like to return home to a wife and children. He thought about his childhood but suddenly sorrow poured in upon his thoughts. The emotion took him by surprise, for it always lingered around the edges of his mind and heart, but through many years of practice Martin had tamed the emotion. He quickly changed his thoughts and turned on the radio. He found himself drawn eastward instead of going back south.

"I'll find a place to grab a bite to eat in Orlando" he thought. "I'm in no hurry...I'll take the scenic route and go over to the coast and head south on Ninety Five."

After an hour on the Interstate Martin saw an exit sign for the town of Celebration, Martin took the exit and a few minutes later he found himself driving over a quaint little bridge lined with Victorian street lamps. He was in Celebration. Martin enjoyed the drive down Celebration Avenue. The road was lined with large homes, all of which were intricately decorated for Christmas. Martin found a parking spot and walked through the brisk December night towards the town center.

# Chapter Seven

The Christmas lights that decorated the store front blinked in varying colors and cast shifting pools of tinted light upon the sidewalk. The little town square was crowded with holiday shoppers. They brushed past Martin with a smile or a hello. Martin reciprocated the nicety. He stopped and watched as a child pressed his face up against a window to gaze in wonder at a miniature train set buzzing thru a diminutive winter wonderland. The little boy would have to periodically change his position as his breath fogged up the glass. Martin's face slowly broke into a smile as he reflected on the wonders of his own childhood.

The air suddenly filled with the sounds of a band playing inside a large whitewashed gazebo. A line of carolers dressed in Victorian clothing wound their way down the narrow streets, singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Martin watched as his mind began to drift. He was thinking about how many hundreds of years this song was performed for Christmas. In his mind he contemplated the richness of western civilization and the astonishing fact that it was now under siege by a bunch of modern day barbarians. His thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of laughter from children as the streets began to fill with artificial snow. Martin slowly strolled down the sidewalk watching the kids play in the snow. A wonderfully seductive smell of food wafted through the chilled December air. Martin found the source of the Aroma, Antonio's restaurant. Martin stepped into the well-lit and warm building while brushing the flaky snow from his head and shoulders. The receptionist stood behind a podium.

"How many sir?"

"Just me, uhmm ...one."

"Very good sir, this way please." Martin followed him to a small table for two. "Your menu sir. Would you care for a beverage? Some wine perhaps?"

"Oh, no thank you, I have a long drive ahead of me tonight, just some ice water please."

"Very good sir. Your waiter will be along soon."

By the time Martin's food arrived, he was lost in thought. His mind was occupied with sorting out the unbelievable information presented to him on this very surreal day. Little did Martin know that it would get stranger yet. The fact that this Nation's own government sought to hide the true nature of the outbreak was particularly troubling. But Martin was almost relieved that the greed and self-service of the government was about to be addressed, surprisingly the looming revolt was not troubling to Martin.

He watched the people around him enjoying their meals. A young couple, perhaps on a date, leaned over the table and spoke in whispers. An older couple, obviously very comfortable with each other chit chatted at another table. A family of six sat across from Martin. He watched the youngest, perhaps three or four years of age, writhe and twist in her chair with the boundless energy that is endowed upon the very young. Bruce Martin sat picking at his food. He felt very isolated. Long suppressed emotions were surging in his psyche, demanding his attention. The horrific knowledge that he carried made him alone. Martin was surrounded by people enjoying life, oblivious to the invisible enemy that even now was sweeping across the country. Martin knew that in a measurement of days joy would be replaced with sorrow and fear as millions would succumb to this most cowardly and vile attack.

Martin found his way through the merriment back to his car. He drove out onto the Greenway that loops its way across the great urban sprawl of Orlando. He drove onto the beach line, a highway that shoots through the dark Florida swamps, straight as an arrow towards the coast. An hour later Martin was at the I-95 interchange but instead of heading south on the Interstate, Martin continued to drive east. He had spent many summers at his uncle's house in Cocoa Beach. Martin and his cousins enjoyed countless hours surfing, fishing and sailing. He had many fond memories of these summer days. Perhaps it was because he had thought of his childhood a lot that evening or perhaps it was because he had a subconscious inkling that he may never see Cocoa Beach again, but for whatever reason Bruce Martin found himself driving down highway A1A. The Cocoa Beach of today did not resemble the Cocoa Beach of nineteen seventy seven. The beach itself was hidden behind massive walls of condominiums. The once sleepy road of A1A was now spattered with the gaudy neon light of a cheesy tourist strip. Martin drove south until the lights faded. He was now in a residential area. It was the middle of the night and he found himself alone on the road. The stiff winter winds carried a misty salt spray across the barrier island. The spray was visible as a halo around the street lights. The heavy drifting mist gave the scene a dreamy ethereal effect. Martin began to recognize landmarks. He was getting close to his uncle's old house. So many years had passed that he was not sure of exactly where it was and then, he saw it.

The old two storied house materialized from the mist like a ghost conjured from the foggy recesses of Martin's memory. It seemed to be vacant. There were no cars in the driveway and no lights were on. The front door was sheltered by a small roof which projected out from the house. The downward angle of the roof made the house appear to be frowning. Two large and darkened windows on the second floor looked like two eyes staring sadly into the night. Perhaps the old house missed the good times, happy days whose passage was measured with the laughter of children.

Martin stopped in the middle of the street. He could see that the white paint was peeling and battered by the harsh island climate but the house looked just as Martin remembered it. In a flash the smells and sounds of this place flooded his mind. He pulled off of A1A and turned onto Fifteenth street south. Martin parked and stepped out into the thick air. The night was damp with sea breeze. The roar of the surf was accented with the smell of the ocean. This place had been sequestered deep in Martin's memory. He stood in the middle of the parking lot looking around as though he could not believe that his memories had materialized. "Fifteenth Street..." he said aloud. Martin walked across the parking lot and sat down on the wooden stairs that cross over the dunes. He sat on a step and just took it all in. The cool sticky spray washed across his face. The surf harmonized with the rustling fronds from the palms that grew around him. He could see the white lines of white water rolling in the darkened sea. The lights of a distant trawler blinked on the horizon. To his left Canaveral lighthouse swept the night. The twinkling yellow lights of the launch pads were visible on the Cape. Martin had spent countless hours of his youth on this very beach.

He sat staring out at the black Atlantic ocean. Memories of his childhood rolled over his mind like waves crashing upon the beach. A tide of memories flooded Martin's brain. He was swept away for many hours in thoughts of bygone years. As one hour became two and then three, Bruce Martin wrestled with old demons and rediscovered long lost allies. The memory of his beloved father's death seared his heart. There was anger at an emotionless mother who remarried for money just months after his father's demise. Martin remembered with embarrassment how his mother simply gave him over to his uncle to raise when she left for Switzerland with her new husband. Martin wondered about his Aunt. His uncle had passed away some years previous but he had heard that his aunt was still alive and living in a small northern Indiana town. He had heard nothing from his three cousins with whom he had grown up. He had not spoken to his mother in over twenty years and he wondered if she was even still alive. Bruce Martin did not fit in anywhere. He was utterly alone. But the memory of a kind and loving father soothed his troubled soul. Martin reflected on the Sunday ritual of church and the lessons that he learned there. This welled up in Martin and gave him strength and comfort. He recited the Lord's Prayer. Bruce Martin was rediscovering who he really was; as though Martin's soul had come staggering out of a dungeon and into the blinding light of day.

It was the first light of dawn that snapped Martin out of his trance. The sky grew steadily brighter with a golden light. People began to stir. A jogger ran by, close to the water's edge. Two elderly women nodded a greeting as they power walked past Martin. He heard a car pull into the parking lot behind him. He turned around to see two young surfers removing their boards from the car. "Morning", they said as they walked down the steps and onto the beach. Once again the thought of the bug and the approaching storm weighed heavy on his mind.

"Morning Bruce."

Martin was startled by a stranger's voice. "Who are you?" he asked incredulously.

The stranger stuck out his hand in greeting. "Alex, Alex Hidell." Martin did not move to shake his hand. "Now Bruce, that's not very friendly. I was hoping that we could be friends." Martin suddenly recognized him. A bolt of fear shot through him replaced almost immediately with a surge of anger. "You're that guy from the hospital, the guy who's been following me."

"Yea, I'm sorry about your doctor friend, that's a really nasty bug." Hidell jumped up onto the handrail to sit. "That's kinda what I need to talk to you about."

How do you know me, how did you know that I was here?" said Martin as he stood up.

"It's my job Bruce; you are kinda like my latest assignment."

"Who do you work for? You a writer?"

"Now Bruce," said Hidell with a half chuckle, "surely you know that I cannot divulge that. Let's just say that I represent a kind of governmental special interest group and leave it at that."

"So you work for the government?"

The stranger slipped down off of the handrail and stood directly across from Martin. Hidell lowered his voice into a menacing tone and leaned forward closer to Martin while completely ignoring his last question. "It would be in your best interest just to forget about this bug and go about your business."

Martin felt fear beginning to stir within him. But the fear was only momentary. For Bruce Martin felt his Father's steady hand on his shoulder. When Martin answered the threat it was with confidence and in a tone that was filled with disdain. "I'm going to write the story and expose all that I have learned. People need to know, people need to know what they're up against so that we can stop this thing."

"Maybe I underestimated you Bruce. I had you figured for just another wormy journalists. Ya know Bruce, write your story if you must, but why divulge where it came from? This thing was here ninety years ago naturally and who's to say it can't happen again. Think of the panic that a story like that will create when people are told that they are under a biological attack that is going to kill millions of them. All I'm asking for is the omission of one minor detail. The virus is here, why does it matter where it came from?"

"People need to know the truth."

"Ahhh...Bruce, c'mon now, you're so naïve! Surely, you know better than most that the truth is subject to interpretation! The truth changes man! The Truth! Ha! That's such a ludicrous word. Tell me Bruce, be a typical journalist and enlighten me please! Tell me what the truth is! Do you know for sure where this bug came from?"

"Well, not personally, I mean I have no personal knowledge but the facts point towards an attack."

"An attack? A bunch of paranoid hawks told you it was an attack."

"I saw the guy on the boat blow himself up! I have talked with the first victims' families...even now a lot of people are getting sick....it's obvious what is going on."

The relatively amiable disposition of Alex Hidell suddenly turned dark and threatening. "You're a fool! And you'll soon wish that you had listened to me! You'll pay dearly if you're stupid enough to go through with this."

"Pay? Yeah, like poor Steve?"

Alex stared coldly at Martin for a moment before speaking again. "You pose a certain amount of risk to me Bruce. A challenge if you will. I can't take the easiest means of neutralization...I can't just kill you. These things must be done delicately; you've spoken to far too many people about this. But make no mistake you will be dealt with in short order. My organization is the best in the world...hell we _are_ the world. We pulled a coup off in broad daylight in front of the whole world in the most powerful nation on Earth and got away with it! Do you think some punk like you is going to stop us?"

Martin looked his nemesis squarely in the eye as he spoke, "You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to do." Martin had come to accept that his survival was sketchy at best.

"Very well," said Hidell as he motioned to a car in the parking lot. The large brown sedan rolled slowly up to the crossover. The windows were darkly tinted just like the car Martin saw in the seafood market's parking lot. Alex got in and the car pulled away. Martin noticed a strange sticker on the car's rear bumper. The sticker read, "Goldwater in '64." Martin burned it into his memory.

Martin sat in his car and rubbed his eyes. It had been over twenty four hours since he had last slept and he still had three hours of driving ahead of him. Martin found his way back onto the interstate. He was nearly asleep behind the wheel when the shrill tones of his cell phone snapped him out of his highway stupor.

"Hello?"

"Bruce...its Ray. Where are you? You OK?"

"I'm on ninety five just north of Fort Pierce."

"I was getting worried about you man, my buddy called and said it was very productive. That's all I should say, he warned me that people will be listening."

"Yeah, I just met one of those people...very disturbing."

"Oh Yea? Well listen you be careful, we'll get together when ya get back. I'm interested to hear what went down."

"Alright see ya later Ray, thanks for everything."

"Later."

Martin called an associate at the paper.

"City desk."

"Mike...its Bruce."

"Hey man, what's up? The scuttle butt is that you're on a really hot one! True?"

"Very true!"

"Cool."

"Listen man, I'm on the road, can you do some research for me?"

"Sure, whatcha got?"

"See what you can find on a guy named Alex Hidell...maybe a government type. Also a bumper sticker with the words Goldwater in 64."

"Right man, ya got it."

"Great ya can Get back with ya soon."

Martin drove for another hour before the phone rang again.

"Hello."

"Bruce...Mike. I have your info. Ready?"

"Shoot."

"Alex Hidell that was an alias of Lee Harvey Oswald. The bumper sticker was seen on two different cars in and around Dealy Plaza on November twenty second in sixty three."

"That's creepy man, I talked to this guy who was like a spook type...basically threatened me and said his name was Alex Hidell. The car that picked him up had the Goldwater bumper sticker"

"Weird, maybe these guys weren't legit, just messin' with ya."

"No they were real enough. Listen man thanks again. I'll see ya around the office."

Then Martin turned up his radio. The Ten Years After song "I'd Love to Change the World" was playing. Martin turned it up.

# Chapter Eight

Martin arrived at his apartment around two that afternoon. Without hesitation he threw himself across his bed and fell asleep. A pounding noise slowly aroused him. He tried to gather his senses as the pounding increased in volume. Martin was surprised to see that it was now night. He stumbled out of bed, his face creased from lying on blankets. His hair was disheveled and his eyes still heavy with sleep. Opening the door he was confronted by a stocky middle aged man. He was wearing dress slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He held up a badge and spoke.

"Bruce Martin?"

"Yes", replied Martin.

"I have a search warrant allowing me to search these premises", said the man as he stepped past Martin.

"Search for what?" asked an obviously irritated Martin.

"Cocaine.", the cop replied flatly.

"That's ridiculous!"

The cop handed Martin the search warrant. Martin stood there scanning over the document still half asleep and barely comprehending what he was reading. A uniformed cop came strolling in.

"You check the bed room; I'll look in the kitchen." The two men rummaged around Martin's apartment until he heard the uniformed cop cry out, "Viola!" The uniform cop bounded out of the bedroom, a sly smirk upon his face and holding a Ziploc bag of white powder. Martin was shocked. "No way!" protested Martin. "This is a setup!" The plain clothed man instructed the other to bring the car to the bottom of the stairs. Then he pushed Martin into the kitchen.

"Put your hands on the counter and spread your legs".

"I want to see some I.D....who _are_ you?" demanded Martin. The man did not respond. He began to pat down Martin. When he ran his hands down Martin's leg he steadied himself with one hand on the counter. Martin glanced at a ring he wore. To his horror Martin noticed that it was the same design as a ring worn by Hidell. Martin now realized that these were no ordinary cops, if they were cops at all. Panic shot through every fiber of Martin's body. His mind went totally blank and he now acted purely on instinct. Before he realized what was happening Martin had grabbed a marble paper towel holder and slammed it into the man's head. The man fell unconscious to the floor. Martin dropped the holder and bolted towards the still open door. He could hear the policeman coming up the stairs. He spun around and frantically scanned the apartment for an escape route. He raced to the sliding glass door that lead out onto a balcony. He threw the door open and stepped out. The balcony overlooked the complex's pool which was in the middle of a large courtyard. Martin climbed up onto the railing and stood balancing himself. Looking back he could see the policeman was now accompanied by another plainclothes man as they entered the apartment. Both rushed to the side of the unconscious man. Martin turned and leaped as far as he could into the air. He landed in the middle of the pool. The icy water enveloped him in a shock of cold. Rising to the surface, Martin flailed at the water in a panic, swimming as fast as he could to the far side of the pool. He grabbed the edge and looked back. He heard a pop sound followed almost immediately by a "thunk" in the water next to him. Martin could see the men on the balcony pointing at him. A bright flash and a pop and again the 'thunk' sound hit the water beside him. Martin realized that they were shooting at him!

Martin pulled himself from the water and ran along the building across the courtyard, his mind delirious with fear. He heard another pop and on the wall immediately in front of him he saw a tiny spark. He felt a sting on his cheek. A bullet had sent shards of concrete into his cheek. Martin ran on barefoot and his clothes, heavy with water, were barely hanging on him. Finally he came to the gate that leads from the courtyard. Pausing to look back he saw the two men run back into his apartment. Martin shot across a parking lot and dove into a thick tangle of brush that separated his apartment complex from its neighbors. Martin laid there, his lungs heaving in an attempt to meet his body's demands for oxygen. He closed his eyes in an attempt to slow his racing mind. He needed to think clearly. Where would his pursuers go? Martin guessed that they would go to the other side of the woods and await his exit, so Martin doubled back. He ran through the parking lot, staying low and hiding behind cars to shield himself from view. Martin moved as quickly and as cautiously as he dared, circling around the parking lot until he reached the far side of the complex. He crept up behind the brick wall that was the condominium complex's sign. He watched the traffic on the road. When no cars were visible Martin bolted across it and fled across the parking lot of a strip mall. The sky was nearly completely dark now. He glanced at his watch. It had stopped when he hit the water at five forty five. He deftly moved through the shadows behind the stores. He came up to a stockade fence which surrounded two green dumpsters. He sat down upon the garbage littered dirt. He leaned back against the fence. It creaked under his weight. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them in a feeble attempt to stay warm. He laid his head on his arms, his mind racing wildly.

"I wonder if I killed that guy", thought Martin. "What if he really was a cop? No, no way...that was a setup! I'd be in a swamp if I would have left with them. What do I do now? Where...think...where to go...where to go. Leah! Leah lives about a mile away! She could help me!"

Martin rose to his feet. He surveyed his surroundings. He saw nobody, only an empty delivery truck idling behind a store. Martin made his way towards the truck, hobbling across the sand littered with broken glass and sand spurs. He was nearly to the truck when he heard a familiar noise, faint at first but growing rapidly in volume. Thump, thump, thump. It was the sound of an approaching helicopter. Martin spun around to see a tiny red blinking light rushing through the night sky towards him. A blinding beam of Xeon light swept from the helicopter across the city below. "Are they looking for me?" wondered Martin. He bolted for the woods but stopped dead in his tracks. "They'll still see me with their infra-red." Martin ran back to the dumpsters. "I'll have to crawl in here", he thought. Martin lifted the heavy plastic lid when he noticed the truck still idling behind the store. He dashed back to the truck, oblivious to the pain inflicted on his bare feet by the litter of the vacant lot. Martin pulled on the back door of the truck. It was open! He leapt into the truck and slammed the door behind him and not a minute too soon. As Martin wiggled in between two large crates he could hear the helicopter overhead and he could see the truck illuminated momentarily by the circling chopper. Martin leaned back, hoping that the driver would not see him. He could hear the driver coming back to his truck. He heard him step in and sit down. With a lurch the truck began to move. Martin held as still as he could as the truck wove its way through the streets of Miami.

The truck jolted to a stop once again. The airbrakes hissed and Martin heard the driver leave once more. Cautiously Martin leaned forward to confirm that he was indeed alone. He nervously opened the back of the truck and slipped out into the cold night. He found himself on a residential street. He slowly spun around in an attempt to get his bearings. He could see an intersection with street signs down the house lined road. He was walking towards them when he heard the air brakes release and the truck departed. Martin walked, barefoot and wet along the sidewalk until he came to the intersection.

"Sunset Point and Wilson. I know where I'm at," he mumbled to himself. Martin crossed his arms across his chest as the adrenaline abated and the cold now took hold of him. He trotted along one street and then down another, always staying in the shadows. Whenever a car would pass he would step behind a tree, a shrub or a parked car. Finally he found himself standing before Leah's apartment building. Caressing his forehead he tried to coax her apartment number from his memory.

"I'm pretty sure, geez I hope, her apartment is five twenty three," he whispered to himself. If I go to the wrong apartment looking like this they'll call the cops on me for sure. I have no choice, I'm freezing, I can't just wonder around. Geez Bruce you're talking to yourself a lot...you're beginning to lose it man! Well, here goes nothing."

As Martin began walking along the open breezeway in front of the apartments an elderly man walking his dog stepped out of a door and began walking towards Martin. As the man passed Martin smiled and nodded. The man scowled at him. Martin noticed the old man's eyes dart up and down him, no doubt sizing him up in his bare feet, wet clothes and disheveled hair. With an arrogant huff, the man looked away and spoke to his dog, "C'mon Suzy." The old Martin would have cringed, hoping that the old man would not call the police. But the man's arrogance and rudeness had struck a nerve in Martin. Perhaps it was a reminder of Bruce Martin's very own attitude, an attitude that was quickly dissipating. Whatever the reason Martin noticed that the man wore an old Fedora hat with a small feather tucked into the band. "Nice hat!" mocked Martin, stopping to watch the old man's reaction. The man's only response was to quicken his pace without looking back.

Martin walked briskly until he came to apartment five twenty three. He knocked on the door. Slowly it opened. Leah stood in the door way looking at Martin in astonishment. "Hi", said Martin sheepishly. He stood there for a moment waiting for Leah to invite him in but she was frozen with surprise. With yet another departure from his old ways Martin brazenly asked, "May I come in?" "Oh...yeah...sure, sorry 'bout that," said Leah as she moved away from the door to allow Martin to enter.

Martin sat down on a chair and Leah sat on the couch across from him. Martin launched into the incredible story of the virus, starting with the cutter Courageous and ending up with the setup by the police that evening. When he finished a full forty five minutes had passed. Martin looked at Leah desperate for her to believe him. Leah was somewhat skeptical. But a sharp rap on her door would put an end to any suspicions. Martin leapt to his feet and slipped into the little hallway that led to the bedroom. He raised his finger to his mouth to signal "shhh." Leah nodded her understanding and opened the door with more than a little apprehension.

There stood a tall young man. He stepped in pushing a shocked Leah out of the way. "I'm here for Bruce Martin."

"Who?" asked Leah innocently.

"Listen lady I don't have time for games. If you want to live to see the next hour tell me where he's at!"

Martin stepped out of his hiding place. The young man looked at him suspiciously. "Bruce Martin?" Martin simply nodded. "Colonel Davis sent me for you. My name is Rob. We have to leave now! They're right behind me!" "Who?" injected Leah. Rob completely ignored Leah's inquisition and said simply, "We need to go!" Leah looked at Martin. Martin looked at Leah. Martin realized that he really had no choice but to trust this stranger. "O.K. I'll go with ya." Martin turned to Leah, " Thanks Leah...thanks for believing me." Rob said, "Uhhmm...I think your friend should go with us...I mean I don't think these people would hesitate to harm her." Martin looked over at Leah. Leah had a determined look on her face, "Let's go!" Leah jumped back into her bedroom and returned in just seconds wearing shoes and carrying a laptop and some clothes. "Here!" she said tossing some flip flops and a jacket to Martin. The three of them scampered out of Leah's apartment and bolted across the parking lot. They climbed into the Suburban that Rob was driving. As they approached the street Rob said "Quick! Get down!" Martin and Leah lay down across the back seats. They could see headlights sweep across the vehicle. Martin could feel that they were turning onto the street. He cautiously raised his head and looked back into the parking lot. There was the same dark sedan and two police cars in front of Leah's apartment. Martin sat back in his seat and exhaled loudly. Looking over at Leah he said, "Sorry I got you into this mess. Maybe we could drop you off at a friend's house or something." "Oh no, that's alright Bruce", said Leah. "Besides this is the most exciting date that I've ever had!" Leah chuckled lightly and adjusted an attaché case on her lap. Martin had been so unnerved by the day's events that he did not notice the case until now." What's that?" he inquired. "My laptop...has all of my business contacts and music. Ya never know when ya might need an internet link, ya know?" Martin smiled at her. They were both startled by a ringing phone. Rob picked up a large brick phone off the front seat. He spoke in a low voice before hanging up. Martin could see Rob looking at him in the rear view mirror. "Mister Martin..." "Call me Bruce" interrupted Martin. "Bruce that was some of my associates. They have informed me of something that may be of interest to you two." "Oh yeah? What would that be?" inquired Martin. "It's just up here." responded Rob as his voice was drowned out by the wail of a passing fire truck. Rob deftly spun the steering wheel to guide the car down a dark street lined with businesses. Up ahead the night sky glowed in a flickering orange light.

Rob steered the car around the next corner. "Oh my God!" exclaimed Leah. There before them was the Biscayne Sun building engulfed in an enormous fire. Martin said nothing. He sat there staring out the window in utter shock. Rob slowed the car to a crawl. Martin watched the flames dance high into the air. People silhouetted against the bright flames moved slowly like dark forms from Dante's lower levels of hell. It all seemed so incredibly surreal.

"Pretty obvious that they are panicked huh?" asked Rob as he stepped on the gas. "Who are _they_?" Leah asked. "Well it's pretty complicated but it basically boils down to this... _they_ are elements of the government that have operated in the shadows for decades. People whose job is to insure that the elite stay in power."

"So why should they care about this bug?" asked Leah. Rob just shrugged "Long story", he said dryly.

Leah noticed Rob looking into the rear view mirror as he spoke. He made a sudden right turn and then another, all the while glancing into the mirror. "Damn!" he said.

Martin looked nervously over his shoulder. Leah did the same. Their bodies lunged back into their seat as Rob stepped on the gas. Looking out the back window Martin watched as the headlights of a car behind them closed the distance between the two vehicles. There was a hard thump and the suburban leapt forward. The car was ramming them! There was a second grinding thump followed by the sound of racing engines as the cars careened wildly through the streets of downtown Miami. Rob accelerated and yanked the steering wheel violently to the right. The car slid sideways with its tires screeching as it whipped around the corner. Rob turned the lights off and looked back into the rearview mirror to see his pursuers fly through the intersection.

"We lost them!" cried Martin triumphantly.

"Not for long." Rob replied.

They came to an overpass and Rob locked the brakes up. The car slid with its tires protesting, screeching in acrid blue smoke. Rob leapt from the car and ran to the back. Martin and Leah watched him with anxious curiosity. Rob slammed the trunk closed and glanced nervously around. Martin was alarmed to see that he carried a large military assault rifle with some kind of large projectile protruding from beneath the barrel. He ran up to Martin's door and yanked it open as he yelled, "Get out hurry! Jump up front and get the hell out of here! The phone next to you is a secure satellite phone...play with it...you'll figure it out. The Colonel's number is programmed into it. Call for help after you find a safe place. Get rid of the car quickly. Oh...here, you might need this." Rob said as he pulled a nine millimeter pistol from beneath his shirt. He tossed it on the front seat next to Martin. "Now go!"

Martin slammed the door and in a rush of adrenaline he gunned the engine. The wheels screamed as the car fishtailed down the road. Martin could hear the sharp crack of rapid rifle fire. In his rearview mirror he could see the flashes of the fire fight behind them.

"Hang on!" cried Martin. Leah hung onto the back of the front seat as Martin wildly spun the steering wheel, putting the car into a hard right.

"What are you doing?" Leah asked excitedly.

"I'm going back to help him."

"But I really think he wanted you to stay safe. He was counting on you to get the truth out."

"Listen", said Martin, "Here's my zip drive, it has everything on it. I'm going to stop up here and let you out."

"Oh no you're not!" said Leah defiantly as she climbed into the front seat.

Martin looked sternly at her. "Listen Leah I got you into this mess and I'm not about to be responsible for you getting killed!"

"You Listen Bruce! I'm a big girl...I can take care of myself. "

Martin smiled at her. "Alright then...game on!"

The car sped through the streets. In just minutes Martin pulled the car onto the road's shoulder. The car came to a rest just short of the overpass. Martin and Leah got out and moved stealthily across the road. The silence was broken only by a low hissing sound. As they approached the overpass Martin could see the flickering orange light of flames on a road sign. He stopped and looked around, holding the pistol that Robbie gave him at the ready. He turned to Leah and put his index finger to his pursed lips silently signaling her to remain quiet.

The two of them sat as still as a tombstone, intently listening. Then, together, they half slid, half fell down the steep embankment onto the street below. Before them was a car still burning. Martin squinted against the glare of the flames. He could make out the charred remains of the driver still sitting upright behind the steering wheel. On the concrete embankment under the overpass they found the body of a middle aged man. Martin walked up to the corpse. Martin put his foot on the man's shoulder and pushed. The dead man rolled over, his arm flinging limply as he did. Martin looked into his partially open eyes. "Ya know him?" he asked Leah. Solemn faced Leah simply shook her head, "no." Martin rolled the body back over and pulled out his wallet and slid it into the waistband of his pants.

"What a ya doin?" protested Leah.

"When we can, I want to go through his wallet. Maybe we can figure out who he's workin' for."

Leah nodded her approval. "Where's Rob?" she asked.

Martin looked around and shrugged. "I don't know...maybe he got away." They could hear a chorus of sirens off in the distance. "Let's go...hurry!" shouted Martin. The two of them raced back across the road, past the burning car and dead bodies. They scrambled back up the steep incline of the overpass and leapt into the car. They flew down the road until they came to an intersection. Martin stopped at the stop sign as police went through it with lights and sirens wailing.

"That was too close", said Martin.

"Where are we going?" Leah inquired.

"Don't know...I'm thinking', but I do know that we gotta get rid of this car quick! Wait! Yeah...yeah...I know where to go! Now I just gotta figure out what to do with this car."

Leah sat next to Martin saying nothing and constantly looking all around them as though she expected the unknown enemy to appear any second now. "O.K I got it now...feel like going for a walk Leah?"

"I guess".

"I'm going to park the car up here at Byrd Plaza and then we'll have to walk for three miles or so. We'll go to my old church, they'll give us refuge," Martin said, his voice trailing off into a mumble. After a few minutes they pulled into the dark parking lot of the plaza. Martin turned off the car and looked around. They sprang from the car. Martin brought the gun and the satellite phone with him. He tossed the keys on the floorboard and locked them in the car.

"Keep to the shadows and stay out of sight. I know that they're looking hard for us. O.K.?" he asked. Leah smiled weakly and nodded her concurrence. They stood there for a moment, Martin holding the phone and Leah her laptop. Then they walked silently across the parking lot and disappeared into the shadows.

# Chapter Nine

After a half hour of walking and jogging through the back streets of Miami, Martin and Leah arrived at Saint Mary's Catholic Church. They stood in the shadows of a large oak tree on the edge of a parking lot washed in the orange light of street lamps. They ran across to the far side. Martin guided Leah to a large iron gate. The gate was locked with a chain and heavy padlock. Martin braced himself and pulled the two gates apart enough for Leah to slip through.

"We're safe now", said Martin, "very few people know what is back here. C'mon."

The two of them walked silently down a narrow sand road, a glowing path twisting through hulking shadows of ancient oaks. Pennants of Spanish moss hung from the limbs, twisting in a cool wind. Tattered clouds raced across the sky periodically hiding the moon.. Eventually a cemetery, the old Saint Mary's church and the bay came into view.

"Wow! I never knew all of this was back here."

"Yeah, there's a parsonage and a half dozen cabins back here that used to be used as a retreat next to the bay. Prime real estate, huh?"

They walked along a waist high coquina wall that surrounded the cemetery. Even in the broken moonlight dark patches of algae and blooms of lichen on the stone made it apparent that the wall was very old. Martin stopped and hopped over the wall. In a corner of the wall he dropped the gun and brushed leaves and moss over it. He hopped back over the wall again and the two friends continued on down the path. The clanging of a flag pole could be heard along with the whoosh of the choppy little waves expending themselves on the shore. They walked around the dark and boarded old church, following the path of sand and broken shell. The trail snaked through an open grassy field studded with very tall and stately palms. The fronds rustled in a cool brisk wind coming in off of the water. As the two friends approached the parsonage Martin could see the blue flickering light of a television through a window. He glanced down at his watch.

"What time is it?" asked Leah.

"Ten fifteen...OK...let's do this." Martin drew a heavy breath to bolster his resolve. He stepped up to the door and knocked on it lightly. A second later the porch light came on and a voice addressed them from within the little house.

"Who is it?"

Martin answered rather meekly, "Bruce Martin."

Father Patrick Ryan cracked the door. A shard of bright light leapt out of the room and illuminated Martin's face. The priest opened the door a little wider. His expression betrayed the confusion of his mind. Martin instantly picked up on this.

"If we may come in sir", said Martin, "then I can explain why I'm here. _Please_."

"If you call our office in the morning, I'm sure that they can arrange for any counseling that you may need." said the priest with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"We're not in need of counseling Father...we seek sanctuary."

The priest was obviously surprised. "Sanctuary?"

"Yes...please, if we may come in I can explain."

The priest studied them intently for a few seconds before stepping aside to allow them in. Martin walked into the room. Leah followed him and smiled at the priest as she entered the bright little room.

"Can I get you something to drink?" asked the priest, taking notice of their disheveled appearances.

"Oh yes, thank you some water please." said Martin.

The priest turned to Leah "Oh nothing for me, thank you", she said timidly.

Martin turned to Leah and smiled weakly. She returned the gesture. Martin sighed heavily as he released the stress from his body. After being hunted for the last several hours he now began to feel at ease. The warmth of the room was an inviting refuge from the cold and hostile world beyond the old coquina walls of the church compound. Martin surveyed his surroundings. There was a large crucifix that hung on the taupe colored walls of the small living room. A large window occupied the far wall, curtains drawn across it. Martin sat on a long, deep couch. An assortment of pillows was piled on one side where the priest had obviously been laying watching the television. Next to the door was a well-worn recliner upon which Leah sat nervously on the edge. She and the chair were washed in the warm light of a floor lamp standing sentry behind it. The polished wooden floors reflected the flickering purple and white light of the television. The whole effect was one of security and serenity.

Leah was a well-liked woman. She was attractive and confident. She had a keen sense of humor and was kind and empathetic. Martin was attracted to her and was beginning to see new attributes that he was unaware that she possessed. After all, she had just been swept from her comfortable life into a world of murder and mayhem. She was now hunted by God knows who and had just hiked no less than five miles through a cold winter's night. But despite this she was calm and composed .Leah watched Martin eagerly sipping his water. Martin looked over at the priest who had now sat down on an ottoman.

"I guess I should start at the beginning" said Martin. The priest sat quietly listening to Martin relate the entire story. When Martin finished he sat staring and anticipating the priest's response, hoping with every fiber of his exhausted being that the priest would believe him.

"There was a story on the news tonight about that flu." said Father Ryan.

"So then you believe me? You can give us sanctuary? Ya know I used to go to this church. I'm Robert Martin's son. He's buried in the cemetery out front."

"Oh really?" asked the priest, his disinterest betrayed by the tone of his voice. "Yes, Bruce I think that we can put you up for a while".

"Thank you!" shouted Martin as he leapt to his feet and took the startled priest's hand into his and began to shake it furiously.

"Yes, thank you" said Leah softly. The priest turned and smiled at Leah.

"What shall I call you miss?"

"Leah."

"Leah", continued the priest "we have a very small convent. Only Sister Loretta lives there. You will have your own little apartment, it's not much but it has a kitchenette in it. I am afraid, however, that the pantry is bare. If you come here with Bruce in the morning we can have breakfast and then get you set up. Bruce, I think that you will like your accommodations; we have five small cabins out along the bay. They were used for retreats, they're actually quite nice."

"Thank you Father, anything is most appreciated."

The priest stood and disappeared down the dark hall before returning with a set of keys.

"These are the keys to your room, it's the last one right outside the parsonage" said Father Ryan as he handed the keys to Leah.

"Thank you very much, I'm beyond tired and, well, just wiped out. It has been the weirdest and scariest night of my life. I hope you don't mind if I turn in now", she said.

"Of course, Bruce I would venture to say that you too are ready for some sleep, huh?"

"Yes, I am exhausted."

"Come young lady I will escort you to your room. Bruce, make yourself at home, I'll be right back."

"Thanks for everything Leah, I'll see ya tomorrow"

"OK Bruce, see ya in the morning."

Martin fell onto his side. He felt himself sink into the soft couch. He stared over at the T.V. The news had just ended and an old episode of the Twilight Zone was coming on. Martin's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

Martin was aroused from his sleep by a light tapping on the door. He sat up, startled by his new surroundings. He rapidly collected his thoughts and ran his hand over his hair in a futile attempt to tame his bed head. Opening the door he was greeted by a nearly frantic Leah.

"What's wrong?"

"I was watching the news this morning and they are saying that the flu may be the Bird Flu. Anyhow, the news showed the emergency rooms at several hospitals around the country and they are overflowing. People are in a near panic and some experts are calling for a travel restriction."

"Just in time for the holidays? That'll go over like a lead balloon."

"They were still talking about it on every news channel. Come watch it with me."

"OK let me freshen up first; I'll be right with ya."

Leah sat down and picked up a magazine from the coffee table. She began flipping through it when Father Ryan came down the little house's hallway.

"Good morning Leah, were your accommodations suitable?"

"Oh yes Father, thank you very much. I also want to thank you for giving us sometime to figure out what we're going to do. I was just telling Bruce that the Flu outbreak is all over the news...they're claiming that it is the Bird Flu."

"I fear that dark times are here."

"Really Father? Do you think it's going to get worse?"

"Most definitely, evil is entrenched everywhere, perhaps the epic showdown between good and evil is just over the horizon."

"The Apocalypse?"

"Well, yes but to be more precise, the end times."

"The end times? I would love to learn about this Father, I'm afraid, to tell you the truth."

"No need for fear if your faith is strong in the Lord. I would love to teach you about the End Times, unfortunately I must prepare for a funeral mass. It seems that one of our parishioners has fallen victim to this flu. Perhaps this afternoon?"

"That would be great."

"I will come find you when I have some time."

The priest went into the small kitchen to make some coffee leaving Leah to ponder their conversation. She sat there troubled by what the good father had said about evil. She tended to believe him considering how quickly evil had swept her from her comfortable life. Leah was snapped from her thoughts by Martin's voice.

"Good morning Father."

"Good morning Bruce. My, I see that we are going to have to find you some clothes. I will gather some for you. I will have somebody set you up in your cabin as well. I have a funeral today..."

"A flu victim!" injected Leah.

"Oh." was Martin's only response

"So there will be people around today. Only in the new sanctuary outside of the compound but the burial is in the cemetery that you passed at the front of the compound. So you will have to lay low today Bruce. I don't mind providing you and Leah sanctuary until you get this straightened out. The church surely doesn't need any difficulties with the law."

"Of course Father. I'm exhausted. Today would be a good day to rest and get my head together."

The priest smiled at Martin as Leah rose and gently took him by the arm. I beg your pardon Father but I 'm going to show Bruce my room."

"Oh yes, of course" said the priest in his usual cordial manner.

The two fugitives left the priest to prepare for his day and walked the short distance to Leah's room. The nun's cells looked more like military barracks. Each room had a tiny single room with a sink, a small refrigerator and a microwave tucked into one corner. The kitchenette also had a small round table with two chairs. The bedroom was just as small as the rest of the cell. Leah walked over to a dusty television and turned it on. The news was on and Martin and Leah sat silently absorbing all of the misinformation. According to the reports the Bird Flu had made the dreaded leap to human to human transmission. Emergency rooms were overflowing with the ill and the dying. Panic had already gripped the country. The president was to speak at noon. After an hour of the news Leah took the remote into her hand and turned the T.V. off. Martin looked at Leah. Leah looked at Martin.

"I have to figure a way to get the truth out there", said Martin.

"I've been thinking about that and I believe I have a way to get the word out there in a hurry without giving away our location."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah...there's a nun living next door, I'm going to ask her if she has a digital video camera...I'll be right back!" Leah said with enthusiasm.

"I'll be here" replied Martin in flat tone that belied his mental exhaustion.

Leah darted out of the room. A few minutes later she burst into the room with a triumphant grin on her face. "Bingo!" she said holding up the small video camera. She sat the camera on the table and began to move quickly about the room. Martin watched her with growing curiosity. She went into the bedroom and yanked off the sheets from the bed. She tossed one across the table and hung another on the wall behind him.

"What in the world are you doing? And where'd you get a camera?" Martin asked.

"From Sister Loretta. I'm getting ready to shoot some video. I'm putting sheets over anything that could possibly give the government a clue to our whereabouts. Bruce, have you ever heard of a website called You Tube?"

"Sure" said Martin a little insulted by the inference that he may not be up on the Country's pop culture.

"Well I figure you tell the story, I record it and upload the video onto You Tube. Whata think?"

Martin sat for a second before a slight grin broke out across his face. "Leah, that's ingenious! But, how will we upload it? Can't they find us if we go onto the internet?"

"Well yes, that's true...the trick is to not to go onto the Internet from here, I'll figure that out later, first let's video your story. Hey...I have another idea to throw them off the trail...we'll make 'em think that we left Florida!"

"How ya going to do that?"

"By putting a coat on you and throwing a pair of gloves on the table, ya know, like ya just took them off."

"Where ya going to get a coat and gloves?"

"I saw them hanging in the priest's apartment. I'll be right back!"

Once again Leah darted out of the room and she returned a few minutes later with her props. Martin put on the coat and tossed the gloves off to the side on the table while Leah set up the camera.

"O.K. Bruce, ready when you are..." said Leah.

Martin drew a deep breath and began. A half hour later Leah pushed the stop button on the camera. "Great" she said. "I'll figure out how to get this on the web..."

"Hey Leah!" interjected Martin, "where's the phone and that guy's wallet?" In my room, with my laptop, why?"

"Well the phone is supposedly secure and satellite...right?"

"Yeaaah..."

"Well...I bet it has internet capabilities...it had all kinds of bells and whistles!"

"I'll go get it!" said Leah. She returned and handed the rather large phone to Martin. He fumbled with it and managed to turn it on but that was all he was able to do. In frustration he handed it to Leah who deftly navigated the keys until she found the internet. Next she examined the device for a USB connection. Finding that, she connected the phone to camera and within minutes Bruce Martin was on You Tube informing the world of the true nature of the influenza outbreak. With that burden off of their minds the two friends, still exhausted from the events they had endured fell fast asleep; Martin on the little couch and Leah on the bed. When the golden light of a waning winter's day filled the room, Martin was roused from his sleep by a knocking on the door. Father Ryan had come to show Martin his accommodations. The priest led Martin along a narrow sand path that wound through a tangle of Mangrove trees that lined the bay shore. Father Ryan was an elderly man. His face was weathered and tan, in sharp contrast to a thick head of snow white hair. He was a tall man and he carried himself confidently. As the two men walked the priest spoke to Martin in a calm and soothing manner.

"Bruce, do you believe in evil?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what evil is?"

"Sure, it's the opposite of good. It's dark and it's, uhm...corrosive to the soul."

"What form does evil take Bruce? Have you ever seen the face of evil?"

"Yes...yes I have...its human."

"True...true. But it is something that is in us all. But when it has an accommodating soul it flourishes. Evil has a door, a portal into every human heart. If you invite it in, then it shall come. Evil has many forms and it will possess you if you allow it."

"You mean like a demonic possession?"

"There are many levels of possession. One can simply become self-absorbed and narcissistic or one can slip completely under the influence of an evil entity, a demon, if you will. Some who have been exposed to the evil acts of others are able to see, or more precisely, able to identify true evil. You, Bruce...keep your mind open and your soul fortified...there is a reason you have been chosen to inform the world of this evil thing."

"Chosen?"

The old priest stopped and turned to Martin. Martin could see the seriousness of his words etched across the Father's face as he spoke. "I had a dream about you last night Bruce. You were standing on a flat land and there was a mountain behind you. Over this mountain was a bunch of hovering helicopters and you were yelling at the top of your lungs that the entire world has fallen under the spell of the Beast."

"The Beast?" said Martin with half a chuckle. The priest looked intently at him and then turned and began walking once again. The old man returned to telling Martin about his accommodations as they left the Mangroves and walked out across an open field with a scattering of small and rustic cottages. Martin's cottage was a small building. The clapboards were white and weather worn. Here and there bare wood could be seen as well as brush strokes of light green algae. A coquina stone chimney stood on one end and a thin blue smoke twisted up out of it. The two men walked up three wooden steps onto a small front porch. The old decking creaked in protest under their weight. The priest opened the door. Martin instantly recognized that he would be comfortable here. The living room was small. A much worn couch sat on one side while an old rocker sat before the crackling and popping fire. On a little end table was a portable TV. The kitchen was similar to Leah's with only the most essential tools for cooking. There was a small bedroom and a bathroom the size of a broom closet.

"I stocked your cupboards with items from our food pantry and took the liberty to put some fresh chicken and pork in your freezer. There is a little hibachi grill on the front porch...feel free to use it, charcoal's in the pantry there" said the priest motioning to a curtain covering a closet. If there is anything you need, please feel free to ask. You are welcome here for as long as you need to stay. I would like to pray with you and Leah each morning if that is OK with you."

"It's OK with me...but I can't speak for Leah."

"Leah and I have already talked...she is very interested in the state of the world. She is intrigued by some of the priests here...by what we do."

"By what you do? I always thought that you were just...ya know, just priest. All the years that I've been coming here I never knew that you guys _did_ something. Just what is it that you do?"

"Well Bruce, we are experts in what you might call the supernatural. It's what the Church calls possession, evil. We support Priests in the Caribbean and Central America. They are much more in tune with the spiritual universe than Americans. You see Americans are blinded by the material world. We have our comfortable lives, filled with our _things_ and we hide behind our science, anything we do not understand we write off to ignorance and we scorn those who believe in these things. Evil is on the move Bruce, all must soon choose their course." Martin stood there blinking stupidly at the priest unsure of what to say. For Bruce Martin was, or rather had been, one of those of which the priest spoke. The press constantly assaulted and demeaned anybody who believed in spiritual things, including God himself. The Father broke into a broad smile and patted Martin on his shoulder. "I see you are not as receptive to these ideas as your friend...we'll all talk later. For now get something to eat and watch some of the news. I think that you will find it rather frightening."

Once the old priest had departed Martin turned on the little television and sat back to watch the noon news. The hospitals were overflowing with flu victims. The president was making an address at eight tonight. The rest of that day a restless Martin piddled around the little cabin. The weather began to turn gray and misty. When the temperature began to drop Martin retrieved wood from a pile along the side of the cabin to feed the fire. He watched the day turn to night wrapped in a blanket on the rocker on the front porch. After a meal of pot pie and rice he walked the bayside path back to Leah's apartment. Leah greeted him enthusiastically.

"We've had over a hundred hits on our video! People are really freaked out, their postings are crazy! One guy is even linking our video to his news site!"

"Cool! The President is going to speak tonight, it outta be interesting. Wanna watch it together?"

"Sure. Ya hungry?"

"No...I had me a little pot pie, some rice and tea....I sure miss my old life. Leah, I'm really sorry that I got you..."

Leah raised her hand to silence Martin. She glanced at the microwave to see the time. "President speaks in ten minutes." Leah walked over and turned on the T.V.

The President's speech was preceded by the usual talking heads. The President sat behind the Executive desk in the oval office and he began to speak: "Good evening my fellow Americans. Over the last several years the experts on global pandemics have been alarmed by the rise of an avian strain of Influenza known as H5N1, commonly called the Bird Flu. In the beginning this virus was only transmitted between a sick bird and a human by direct contact. Today it is my sad duty to inform you that this virus has indeed made the leap to human to human transmission. I'm sure that you have all seen the news reports about the enormous influx of the sick overwhelming the Nation's hospitals. While we cannot immediately attack this virus we are working on a vaccine. This process, however, is complicated and drawn out. It may well be nine months before there is a vaccine for this virus. Even if we succeed in acquiring a vaccine it may be of little use if this virus continues to mutate. While our weapons against this virus are limited there are things that we, as a Nation, and that we, as a global community can do to limit the awful impacts of this disease. I, as President of the United States, am immediately declaring a nationwide state of emergency and am directing that Martial law begin immediately. This, unfortunately means, that personal liberties will be temporarily suspended. The results of the November elections are also being temporarily suspended. Now is not the time to transition between administrations. Also beginning immediately all personal travel shall be halted. Passenger airlines will be grounded and the roads patrolled to enforce the travel restrictions. We are doing this to isolate and prevent the further spread of the virus. Commercial airlines, moving products will continue to operate as normally as possible. The freight trucks will also continue to operate as normally as possible with certain restrictions in place to protect both the brave workers and the general population. For instance, truck drivers will not leave their cabs while being loaded or unloaded and fueled. I am asking all Americans to shelter in place. Do not leave your house to go to work or school. Schools are closed until further notice. If someone in your house is ill with the flu please call the emergency services in your town. Medical teams will be moving through towns to assist the sick. Do not go to the Hospital. The Country's hospitals are overwhelmed. The National Guard will be in your neighborhood very soon to bring you water and food. Please constantly monitor your television and radio for further instructions. This pandemic may be over in as little as three months or as long as a year. Be assured that this Nation and your Government will do whatever it takes to insure that we come through this as a people and with minimal impact to our society. I ask all of your support and prayers. God Bless America and God bless us all."

"Well I guess that Colonel Davis was right on the money. That SOB is lying to the entire country...the entire world! The Colonel said that they would declare Martial law...I wonder if the Colonel and company are actually going to overthrow these guys", said Martin.

Leah looked at him with a look of anxiety upon her face, "I guess time will tell."

# Chapter Ten

The days passed slowly. Martin spent most of his day lying about watching the horror of the virus unfold on the news. His YouTube message had over five hundred thousand hits before it disappeared from the site without explanation. But this only fueled the internet blogs. The World Wide Web was abuzz with the news that the virus was not H5N1 but was, in fact, a terrorist biological attack. Martin became a worldwide celebrity while the very fabric of American society seemed to be coming unraveled. The government was nowhere to be seen. The promised distribution of food and medicine had not occurred. The press gave daily estimates of the dead. Over one hundred and eighty thousand succumbed to the virus in the first week. People were panicking and massive riots were happening daily. The frightened populace stormed stores, clinics and hospitals in frantic efforts to get what they could to survive. Roving bands of criminals terrorized entire towns. In many places, including Miami, the Police and Fire Departments had all but disappeared. And then one day the electricity went off and never came back on.

Leah and Martin spent most of their day together. They read books that Father Ryan brought them. They took walks along the bay. Leah collected shells and Martin became quite proficient at using the fire wood in the hibachi. The highlight of the day was the evening meal which now consisted of soups from the church's food pantry as well as bottled water. One evening Father Ryan came to visit and bring some fresh supplies. Martin and the good Father went out onto the porch so that they would not disturb Leah who was asleep on the couch. Martin set upon the rustic railing which framed the old porch while the priest plopped down into a weathered rocking chair.

"Thanks for the food Father."

"You're welcome Bruce,"

"You OK? You look really tired."

"I _am_ really tired. The times are so hard. We were able to bury the dead of our parish. But for the last couple of weeks nobody has come by....the curfew ya know. I don't know what they are doing with the dead. I'm sure the funeral homes are just like all other businesses...so many are dead or sick, nothing is working. How are you and Leah fairing? I think we are all so tired because of a lack of food. Oh, speaking of which there are ten gallons of water up at the maintenance building for you. I'm afraid that I wasn't up to hauling it back here. I have had to start getting it from the pump since the water stopped running. Father Gonzalez is back from his parent's. He will be able to help us some. "

"Thanks for the water, I'll go get it."

"Have you heard of what is going on out there?"

"No...nothing...Leah's laptops battery died a long time ago so we've been in the dark."

"Literally", said the Priest with a mild chuckle. "Literally and figuratively...these are very dark times. Evil is on the move...I'm sure there are forces for good out there, the Church, those gentlemen that you met up at McDill. I'm really curious to know what's going on."

"I've been thinking a lot about how it used to be, back when I had my old life. I long for those days."

"Those days were not days of innocence Bruce. Those days were what lead us to this. Shame on all of us for letting this happen. We sat there and watched the courts ruin our nation. We let lawyers destroy our religious heritage and national identity. Evil was gathering itself and we sat there, fat, dumb and happy and watched it all go down. Shame on us all! And to be perfectly candid with you young man, your profession was the mouthpiece for that dark force."

Martin sat there staring at the Priest fully aware that he was correct. Martin loved being a reporter when it was actually digging for a story. But so much of his profession was now slanted towards an anti-American bias that he had grown weary of all of the political correctness. But like all Americans he was comfortably indifferent. The Priest rose slowly and said, "I think that I'll go get me some sleep. Don't forget about your water. Have a good evening Bruce. I'll talk to ya later."

"Yeah, see ya later Father", Martin said hopping down from the railing. Just then Leah came out onto the porch. "What did Father Ryan want?"

"Oh, he brought us some food and told me that he had some fresh water for us up by the church."

"Oh. I'm going to go and get me some more sleep Bruce. I'm tired."

"Yeah, OK. I know I'm tired too. It's the lack of calories. I figure we're averaging about eight hundred a day. Night Leah."

Martin watched Leah walk down the path back to the convent. He stood on the porch wondering what to do. He couldn't take listening to the radio any more. Besides, each day there were less and less stations on the air. He walked aimlessly down to the shore of the bay. He wondered down the shell and sand path which snaked through green caverns formed by Mangrove trees and Sea Grape plants. Eventually the path mirrored the shoreline. Martin stepped down onto the narrow beach and looked out over Biscayne Bay. A couple of miles to the North he could see the causeway. He noted that not a single vehicle was on it. Normally at five-o-clock on a Tuesday afternoon rush hour would be in full swing. Beyond the causeway the high rises of Miami were visible. The bay was also vacant. Martin stood there half in a daze, while random thoughts lazily wafted through his mind, when he noticed a wall of dark clouds descending from the North. The storm moved rapidly across the bay. The closer it drew the more it became obvious to him that the clouds were furiously rolling and boiling. The wind suddenly picked up and drove the bay before it in a frenzy of leaping, angry waves. The smooth aquamarine waters turned violent and gray. The wind was very cold. Martin was half alarmed by the sudden cold and violence of the atmosphere. "Must be a cold front coming in", he thought to himself in an attempt to allay his fear. Martin began to turn away to head for the cottage when something in the clouds caught his eye. The roiling wall of black seemed to take a form, the form of men on horses. The motion of the clouds mimicked the galloping of horses flying across the tumult that had just moments before been the calm bay. There seemed to be four of them. Martin stared, no longer afraid but now dumbstruck. The vaporous equestrians swept low across the water. Martin strained to see the riders but their form was always shifting so that there were no details but only apparitions of riders. The wall of clouds swept over and past Martin. His body was knocked backwards by a mighty blast of ice cold air. Fear suddenly, once again shocked his body and Martin bolted down the winding path and across the grassy field, back to the safety and comfort of the little cabin. He stood panting on the front porch as the storm flew overhead and released its burden of rain in wind driven torrents. Martin turned and went inside. He lit a fire and plopped down in the worn recliner.

Martin sat staring into the fire, mesmerized by the flickering flames, hypnotized by the hissing and crackling. He was disturbed by what he saw, or thought he saw, in the clouds. Martin chalked it up to a hallucination brought on by extreme boredom and a barely adequate diet. True to his American upbringing it was not long before Martin became bored. He piddled around a bit before coming across a Bible. Martin reflected on his conversation with Father Ryan's belief that these may be the end times. So, Martin flipped through the pages until he came upon the book of Revelations. After reading for a while he came upon the four riders of the Apocalypse. He was keenly interested in the fourth rider: "When the lamb opened the fourth seal I heard the fourth living creature say 'Come!' I looked and there before me was a pale horse. Its rider was Death and hell followed. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague and by the beasts of the earth." Martin closed the Bible and sat contemplating how the virus fit into this. Pigs and birds initialized the virus nearly a hundred years ago. War spread it. The virus brought famine and it was certainly the greatest plague in history. Was this actually what the priest called "The End Times"? He stood up and tossed the Bible onto the well-worn recliner. Martin walked out onto the front porch and stared across the open field towards the bay. There was no moon and the darkness was nearly absolute beyond the shifting, shimmering glow of the fireplace. Once again Martin was disturbed by his "hallucination". This was Martin's church, the church of his youth. As an adult Martin towed the line of the press and never attended church. Bruce Martin viewed religion as a crutch for the ignorant and a tool of fanatics. Martin had been reflecting on his faith, what there was of it, since the beginning of the plague. Martin wondered if the horsemen that he saw so vividly in the clouds were those infamous riders released upon the world. Was it a hallucination or was it an actual religious event. His mind wondered through the topic. First analyzing it one way and then another. He contemplated whether the characters of the Bible were crazy or had actual visions. Even if the events of the Bible were tricks of the mind, it was real enough to those who saw it. Was this how God talked to humanity? Did God even bother with the trifle matters of man? Martin had never been much for religion or matters of faith. No, Martin was an obedient servant of the secular press. The topic of the end times was far too intense for the tattered mind of Bruce Martin. He sat down once again before the fire. The embers faded and so did Martin's consciousness.

In the following days Martin fell into a comfortable routine. He typically rose around eight and prepared himself a bowl of cereal, as this was pretty much all that was available. Every morning he walked along the bay to count the boats that had anchored there. Each day brought more boats. There was a virtual armada afloat on Biscayne Bay and every day brought new arrivals. Vessels of every description populated the bay. There were large motor yachts and small houseboats, one hundred foot schooners and twenty five foot sloops, charter boats, party boats, battered old coastal freighters and even a tugboat.

It became a morning ritual for Martin to take the twisting path along the bay. He sat on an old and weathered bench that looked out over the bay. He would count all of the boats to see if any new arrivals had come. It took a considerable amount of time but Martin had nothing but time. One morning Father Ryan was walking the shore. Spotting Martin he smiled and joined him on the bench.

"How's it going this morning Father?"

"Oh, about as well as can be expected.

"Every day there's a few more boats out there", said Martin as he motioned towards the bay. "I figure that it's a self-imposed quarantine, well kind of like a reverse quarantine ya know, trying to get away from the bug."

"Yeah", said the Priest "it's actually pretty smart, away from the bug _and_ all of the mayhem and crime, not to mention fresh food, fish, shrimp and such. Do you fish Bruce?"

"I used to, all of the time when I was a kid."

"Back in that old barn, ya know the one out by the cabins, there is a bunch of poles and I think some tackle and an old beaten up kayak. Ya can use them if ya like", said the Priest as he rose to his feet.

"Cool! Thanks", Martin said smiling.

"Just don't forget us when ya bring your catch home", said the Father, slapping Martin on the back.

Martin spent the next two days busy in the old barn. He stripped the reels of their old and rotten fishing line and replaced it with some new line that he found in a tackle box. He gathered old and rusting spoons and battle worn jigs. He drug the kayak out onto the grass and cleaned it up. On the evening of the second day he loaded his little craft with all that he would need on his fishing trip.

The next morning broke clear and chilly. Martin drug the little boat down to the water's edge. He waded out into the bay, the water shockingly cold on his bare legs as he floated the boat into Biscayne Bay. Clambering in Martin awkwardly arranged himself and fumbled for a bit with the paddles. But in a few minutes he had mastered the propulsion of the Kayak and it swiftly slipped across the glass smooth water. He made his way towards a distant shore thick with mangroves. The sun was climbing into the sky as Martin approached the trees. He slowed his pace and approached the shoreline with a stealthy paddle so he would not spook any fish in the area. The water before him was a kaleidoscope of shifting, shining diamonds. As he slowly drifted closer to the mangroves the smell of the saltwater mixed pungently with the heavy odor of mud. It had been decades since Martin had been fishing. In his childhood he was an excellent fisherman. Now all of the old skills and knowledge, so long locked in the deepest of memories, came rushing into his mind, thrilled by the familiar smells, sights and sounds that surrounded him. All around him the water was disturbed by swimming fish. The occasional pop of fish at the surface told him that they were feeding. Martin slowed the boat and quietly paddled towards what appeared to be a creek mouth. Suddenly the water erupted with a silver curtain of finger mullet leaping over one another in a panicked escape from some unseen predator. "Yes!" Martin said to himself. As he edged slowly towards the trees a great egret was disturbed by his presence. The large white bird took to the wing, croaking a protest as it glided over its mirror image on the water. The bird panicked the mullet. which once again exploded from the shallows in an eruption of silver twisting bodies. The fleeing bait excited larger fish to pursue them. The still water was transformed into a churning writhing mix of fish and foam. Martin was awestruck by the abundance of fish. He quickly grabbed his rod and reel from the bottom of the boat. He snapped a rusty spoon onto the leader and cast past the action. He slowly retrieved the lure. There was the unmistakable tale tale wake of a large fish following the spoon. Martin worked the spoon. He felt a violent jerk on the line. He set the hook and instantly the line on his reel began to pay out.

He played his quarry for several minutes before landing a large redfish. The thing flopped across the bottom of the kayak with loud thumps, its golden body shining in the morning sun. Martin removed the spoon and cast to the same spot once more. Nothing. Again he cast and retrieved only the spoon. He decided to try his luck a little further down the shoreline. He cast toward the trees over and over to no avail. He then turned his attention to the open water before him. He could see the bottom had white sand with large areas of Manatee grass. He switched his lures and used a top water plug. The very first cast with his new lure he saw the white flash of a fish rising from the grass for the lure. It knocked the lure up off the water's surface. Martin paused, letting the lure sit motionless for a moment before working it again. This time the fish hit the lure and pulled it below the surface. Martin began to reel the fish in carefully. He soon had it in the boat and saw that it was a nice sized sea trout. In the expanse of an hour Martin had two more fish in his boat. He strung them onto the stringer and allowed it to pay out behind the boat as he made his way back to the shoreline of his sanctuary.

The paddle back brought him very near a large yacht. "Good morning!" the greeting startled Martin. He looked up to the yacht's deck, bracing his eyes against the brilliant white hull illuminated by the sun. "Good morning", returned Martin.

"Any luck?" asked a man who was little more than a silhouette in the blinding light.

"Yeah, actually. Got a red and a couple trout."

"Great! If you go over there, in the shallows there are tons of oysters that I've been collecting. They're actually quite good." The man now came into a clear view as he had moved onto the vessel's stern and Martin had paddled aft to see him better. He was around sixty years old Martin guessed. He had brown curly hair with graying temples. The man was deeply tanned. The Bermuda shorts and polo shirt, along with his confident manner and very large yacht conveyed to Martin that he was most probably an executive.

"My wife and I came out here to get away from the insanity ashore. I was a banker. The banks collapsed of course, along with everything else. Once the panic set in people started roaming the more affluent neighborhoods looking for food and revenge. Bankers, lawyers, journalist all were targeted as traitors. Our neighbor was ruffed up. That along with the flu scared us, so here we are. Wish I had a sailboat I'd get out of here and head for the islands."

"I hear ya, thanks for the tip."

"Sure. Take care of yourself."

Martin nodded to the man as he paddled off in the direction that the stranger had indicated all the while mulling over in his mind what the man had just said. "Journalist were targeted? Geez, I wonder if Dave and everybody is O.K.". Soon he was floating over a large oyster bar. He reached down and pulled several clumps up into the boat. He paddled back towards the church property, glancing around to make sure that he was not being watched. Satisfied that nobody had monitored his movements he quickly pulled the kayak ashore and dragged it up onto the grass.

Martin worked feverishly cleaning the fish and oyster clumps. He started the hibachi, using oak and some orange wood. Martin ran into the woods behind the cabin and began pulling shoots of palmetto up from the black dirt. He washed them, diced them and threw them into a skillet with some olive oil and a few scallions from a victory garden that the priests had grown. Finishing all of that, he proudly marched down to the parsonage to invite the good Father to dinner. He did the same with Leah and Sister Loretta. They all followed Martin back to his Cabin where he served them his "Cracker dinner." His guests complimented him repeatedly on his skills of fishing and culinary prowess. The rest of the evening was spent very pleasantly with them all sitting around a roaring campfire, drinking wine and reminiscing of the "old days". The terror that cast a shadow over the world seemed a million miles away.

# Chapter Eleven

The days wore on, one seamlessly melting into the next. The isolation of the church's enclave was complete, with the exception of Martin's visits to the yacht. Supplies were dwindling rapidly and it was left to Martin to gather what food he could. Each morning Martin cast off from the little beach and made his way across the bay. The weather determined the menu. On calm days Martin could venture out onto the flats. Here he caught trout and redfish. He gathered oysters and clams and crabs. When the wind was blowing and the bay became angry he was forced to cling to the calmer waters protected by mangroves or he fished in the sheltered creeks. These areas produced sailor's choice, sheep head, snook and stone crab. Each evening the little band, thrown together by fate, enjoyed the day's meal and each other's company.

"Bruce these Stone Crab claws are delicious! It's my understanding that you are only allowed to harvest one claw per crab. I hope that you obeyed the law!" chuckled the old priest.

"Oh definitely", smirked Martin. Leah giggled.

"Father", she said, "I believe that starvation trumps the law."

"Definitely" injected Father Gonzalez as he poured water into his glass.

Suddenly two very large explosions shook the ground and rattled the little cabin's windows.

"What was that?" exclaimed Martin as he jumped to his feet. Leah rose slowly.

"It came from that direction" said Leah pointing.

"That's the airport" said Father Gonzalez.

The friends sat listening intently when an eruption of small arms fire exploded around their sanctuary. Martin doused the fire.

"I think that we should all get back to our places" said Father Ryan.

The next morning as Martin dragged his kayak down to the water he met Father Gonzalez pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with three buckets of water.

"Morning' Bruce", he called cheerily. Here's your water for the day. Think you'll have any luck today?"

"Hope so", replied Martin.

"Well. I found some macaroni in the pantry so I'm gonna make macaroni salad for tonight" said the priest, his voice hinting at a trace of pride in his resourcefulness.

Martin responded somewhat distracted as he surveyed the bay, "Cool. The water is pretty glassy, feel like some more crab? I know where there are a lot of Blue Crabs. That would go nicely with some pasta, huh?"

"Excellent Bruce! Looking forward to it. Sad really isn't it?"

"What's that Father?"

"That we have nothing else to look forward to in our isolation except some meager meal."

"I think that perhaps these are the end days Father. I mean who would have ever thought that it would come to this?"

"Pray, my son, pray. I'll set your water in the kitchen for you", said the priest as he continued on the little shell path, water sloshing out of the buckets as the wheelbarrow bounced along.

"Thanks Father!" Martin cried as he hopped into the kayak and began paddling off across the mirror like bay. The sky was hidden behind a veil of high clouds, marbled in varying shades of gray. The absence of the sun meant an absence of a glare upon the water, making it easier to spot fish below the surface. Martin came upon his favorite flats and began fishing. It wasn't long before he had a fish on the end of his line. As he reeled his catch in he saw it was a large Ladyfish, flashing its silver flanks even in the subdued light of an overcast day. "Crap" he said as he continued to bring the inedible fish in. Suddenly, from Martin's right there was a rushing of water and a large dark shape shot past the kayak. There was a hard pull on the line but only for an instant. A shark had rushed in and sliced the struggling fish in half. Martin was at first amazed and then a little worried as the attack happened so quickly that Martin was not sure just how large the beast was and Martin sat very low in the water. The dorsal fin broke the water a few yards in front of the vessel. From the dorsal fin and the eddies created by the tail, a couple of feet behind the dorsal fin, Martin estimated the shark to be around four or five feet long. His mind went back to his youth when his uncle would take him and his cousins shark fishing at Sebastian Inlet. He recalled how the shark meat was unlike any other fish he had ever tasted and that it had no bones, allowing his uncle to cut the flesh into steaks. An idea began to form in Martin's mind. If he could pull it off, they would eat like kings tonight. Martin reeled in what was left of the lady fish and snatched his tackle box from between his legs. He twisted three wire leaders together and taped them up and down their length with some electrical tape that was, for some unknown reason, in the bottom of his tackle box. He then placed a large and rusty treble hook on the leaders. He hooked the Ladyfish on and began searching for the shark. He could no longer see it. Just as he was giving up hope a school of mullet exploded across the flats. Martin still did not see the shark but he surmised that it was the cause of the mullet's panic. He slowly and gently paddled his boat nearer to the sight of the commotion and cast out to where the water was still frothy from the rush of fish. He waited for some ten minutes before reeling it back in. Half way back to the boats it felt as if he had become snagged on something. He pulled hard and the pole double over but he could not free the line. He pulled again and then, much to his delight, the line began paying out and causing the reel to buzz as it spun faster and faster. It wasn't long before Martin began to worry that all of the line would be pulled off of the reel. He pulled as hard as he dared, for fear of breaking the line, and reeled in twenty feet before he lost thirty again. It went on like this for over an hour. First the shark would peel line off of the reel and Martin would retrieve most of it before it paid out again. Eventually an exhausted Martin had an exhausted and very angry Black Tip shark alongside his kayak. Martin was wondering how he would kill the shark when he remembered that he carried the pistol given to him by Robbie. He fired one shot into the shark's head and tied it to the back of his boat and headed towards shore busting with pride.

It took Martin a couple of hours to clean the shark. He cooked it over orange wood. When the others arrived for the nightly ritual of dinner and Martin told them the story of his battle with the shark, they were astonished.

"Bruce, this is the best fish I have ever had!" declared Leah.

"I second that!" concurred Father Ryan.

"Thanks, but it's probably because we are all half-starved", responded Martin.

The friends were startled by three loud explosions in quick succession to one another.

"What was that?" asked an obviously anxious Leah.

"Dunno", countered Father Ryan, "It came from the direction of the airport."

The explosions were quickly followed by a chorus of small arms fire. The friends sat around the fire silently listening as the gun fire slowly spread around the surrounding city.

"I wonder what this is all about." Martin said as much to himself as anyone else. The familiar thumping sound of approaching helicopters prompted Martin to toss a bucket of sand on the fire. The group watched as several white helicopters flew low over the bay in the direction of the city.

"I think that we had all better retire for the night. Something is obviously going on. Are you going to be alright out here all alone Bruce? You're welcome to come to my place if you like", offered Father Ryan.

"Thanks but I'll be OK it was a busy day so I think I'll just turn in. Maybe after a few hours of sleep I'll wake up in my old apartment and this whole nightmare will be over", quipped Martin. The priest smiled at him as he patted him on the back. Martin watched as his friends filed down the path along the bay.

The next morning Martin, having taken his boat out and secured the evening's meal, paddled back towards the yacht of the banker. He could see the man sitting on the stern.

"Morning!" called Martin. But the man just sat there staring down into the cabin. "You alright?" Martin asked. The man slowly turned and looked at Martin. At first he seemed not to even comprehend that somebody was speaking to him. But then, as though waking from a dream, the man slowly came to his senses. The former executive displayed none of the self-assurance of the previous days. His hair was disheveled and he appeared to be exhausted. The man kept fidgeting with something in his hands unseen by Martin. The man spoke, devoid of any emotion, all the while staring down into the cabin.

"She's dead."

"What?" Martin inquired, not sure of what was going on.

"My wife, she's dead. She wasn't feeling well yesterday. Last night she got really sick and had trouble breathing. This morning she died. It's the flu." Martin sat in his little kayak bobbing next to the large white hull of the yacht. Bracing his eyes against the glare Martin asked, "Can I help you in any way? Do you need anything?" The banker just shook his head. "Don't just sit here all alone. I know some priest. Come ashore with me", as Martin spoke his mind couldn't believe that his heart had taken command of his voice. There was something of a logical panic stirring in his mind's recesses as he heard the words that he spoke. The man obviously had been exposed to the flu. If he came ashore with him and brought the body of his deceased wife they would all surely catch the virus but what was he to do? He could not leave the man sitting there alone with the corpse of his wife.

"Go now. Please go and leave me alone."

"Isn't there anybody else? Can I try and contact somebody for you?"

"My daughter and her family are gone; they are on their way to the southern Bahamas. They came by three days ago to say good bye. I'm sure they all are sick too." Then the man stood up suddenly. Martin was alarmed to see that he was holding a pistol. He started waving his arms and as he spoke his voice cracked under the enormous grief that he carried.

"My family is all dying or dead! The whole damn country is falling apart! The whole world has lost its mind, this is the end! My God where are you? What have you done?" The man fell back onto the bench on the transom as his voice drifted off into sobs. "What have you done?" The man resumed his previous posture leaning forward onto his knees and staring down into the cabin. Once again his voice was devoid of emotion as he asked Martin to leave.

Not knowing what else to do Martin reluctantly paddled away from the yacht. "I'm going to go get help! Don't do anything stupid, I'll be back in just a little bit!" Martin called over his shoulder. He dug his paddles deep into the chilly waters as he sped his little craft as quickly as he could back towards his little beach. Then his stomach lurched as he heard a loud pop. He stopped and looked back at the yacht. The man could not be seen. For a moment Martin contemplated going back. He soon came to the conclusion that it was futile. The man was either dead or dying. There were no hospitals, no doctors to save him. The man wanted to join his wife in death. Martin began to wonder if that was not such a bad thing in the current state of the world. Slowly he paddled back towards his sanctuary and for the first time in a few weeks the violence and despair of the world had come back to him. Martin wondered how it would all end. Would it ever end?

Reaching his beach Martin pulled his boat up onto the beach and tied it off to a little mangrove tree that he always used to secure his boat. He hauled out a cooler full of protesting crabs. He noticed that the weather was changing. Low gray clouds were torn by a cold north wind. Martin stood beside his little craft deep in thought and greatly disturbed over the suicide of the man when the familiar deep thumping sound of helicopters jarred him from his dark thoughts. Five white helicopters flew low over the bay towards the beach. The aircraft had barely disappeared behind the tree line when a barrage of gunfire erupted. A loud explosion and a fireball rose over the tree. Martin made haste towards the cabin. After dinner that night a driving rain arrived. Martin started a fire and sat in the rocker staring into the fire as he used to gaze at his T.V. in the previous times. He wondered what was going on beyond the relative safety of the old coquina walls. The U.N now seemed to be in the U.S. and playing a malevolent role. Martin went out onto the porch and watched the raging storm gather itself. The only sound was that of a driving rain and a cold howling wind. The bay was whipped into a tempest. Martin noted that he had not seen it this angry before. Suddenly a sick feeling swept over him. The kayak! "Damn it!" cried Martin as he leapt off the porch and dashed out into the storm. He raced along the path, his bare feet splashing in chilled puddles. Arriving at the spot where the kayak had been he saw that it was no longer there.

"Son of a bitch!" he screamed, spinning in a circle and thrashing at the air in a display of complete frustration and anger. Not only was the kayak gone but so was the little tree and several feet of shoreline, so fierce was the storm's fury. Martin raced up and down the beach; pulling his pants up as the weight of the water they were absorbing pulled them down. Not finding the boat he sank onto a log and sat in the pouring rain dejected and despairing. After several minutes of sitting in the maelstrom Martin eventually returned to the warmth of his little bungalow. Stripping off his wet clothes he slid into his bed. There he remained for the whole of the next day, depressed and listening as the storm continue outside.

The next morning the storm was over and left in its wake a topaz sky. Martin lay in bed gathering the motivation to rise when he heard voices from the woods just behind the little cottage. He leapt from his bed and peered out the dirty window just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of two men moving quickly through the dense undergrowth. He retrieved the pistol from the closet and slipping it into his waistband he ran out onto the front porch, hoping that the men would continue on past the cabin. Standing there on the front porch his senses were heightened. He strained to hear anything. He was startled when a young man walked around the corner holding an armful of broken branches. The young man was also startled at the sight of Martin.

"We were just gathering firewood"

Martin said nothing but only stared at the young man. He was angry that the sanctity of his sanctuary was violated by the stranger when yet another young man stepped around the corner. This man, however carried himself very differently than the first. Martin innately perceived his body language as a threat. Martin's anger grew within him.

"You're trespassing'" said Martin.

"That so?" responded the second man. The man stepped up onto the porch where Martin stood and walked passed him, defiantly staring at Martin as he casually walked into Martin's cabin. The anger was now a rage boiling within Martin. Martin glanced at the first young man who stood there, obviously surprised by his friends actions. He began to glance around nervously before calling out to his friend, "C'mon Calvin! Whatcha doin' man? Let's get the hell outta here."

Calvin walked back out onto the porch. "Hell no Denny! This is a sweet setup man! C'mon in man and check this shit out."

Martin spoke, barely able to control his rage. "Get the hell out of my house."

"Your house? Yo ain't you heard boy? It's the fittest survive and your lil white ass ain't gonna do shit!" responded Calvin as he pushed Martin down the steps of the porch.

"What the hell you doin Calvin? You lost your damn mind?" cried Denny.

"Denny, shut up!" demanded Calvin. "Whata you all scared about? This candy assed white boy ain't gonna do shit!"

Without thought Martin pulled the pistol out of his waistband and fired a single shot into Calvin's chest. Calvin stood for a moment stunned and looked down at his chest in shock. He looked up at Martin in disbelief. Denny leapt up onto the porch, hand raised in surrender.

"C'mon Mister, we're out of here."

"You get the hell off of my land and if you come back again I'll kill you" said Martin in a deep, measured and menacing voice. Denny help the crumpled Calvin down off of the porch and they disappeared back into the woods from which they had appeared. Martin dashed back into the cabin. He bolted the door and fell onto the couch. "Oh my God", he repeated over and over. He stood and paced back and forth, sick to his stomach. He did this for the entire day. When darkness came he feared starting a fire or turning on his lantern for fear of broadcasting his location to anyone who may be seeking retribution. He went back into his room and slid down the wall under the window so that nobody could attack him from the window. He sat there, pistol on his lap and emotionally drained until he eventually drifted off to sleep. The next day he awoke, stiff and sore but elated that there had been no retribution. Martin rose and gazed into the woods, watching and listening for indications of anybody in there. Satisfied that he was safe he walked out onto the front porch. There on the grass in front of his little cottage was a stark reminder of the horrors of yesterday. It was the piles of wood that the intruders had dropped. Martin picked up the wood and tossed it into the woods, ridding his sanctuary of any indications of the shooting. Staring off across the bay it occurred to him that none of his friends had come by last night. So Martin set off down the trail towards the parsonage. Wandering along the path he noticed that many of the boats had left the bay. Arriving at Leah's door he knocked. There was no answer so he knocked again. Sister Loretta's door opened and the nun stepped out. For the first time she did not wear a habit. Martin was struck by her form without the concealing and flowing habit. The good sister was a big woman. She was as tall as Martin and very masculine in her build. She had a thick head of gray hair pulled back into a pony tail. "Leah is getting water with Father Gonzalez" said the nun.

"Oh, I was just concerned because nobody came by last night", Martin explained.

"We didn't want to expose you. You see God has delivered a sick child to us. A young woman who was orphaned by the flu. Unfortunately she is very ill with the flu. Father Ryan found her unconscious at the sanctuary's front door. We were working in shifts since the night before. Pray for her Bruce, she is deathly ill."

The first thought that passed through Martin's mind was a reflex of the old Bruce Martin, they must be insane to bring a sick kid into the church, and they would all get the flu now. But just as quickly as the self-absorbed thought entered his mind it was replaced by the full knowledge that as a human, a Christian and a fellow American, there was no other alternative. After all, you could not leave a sick child to die alone on the steps of God's house. Martin nodded and assured the nun that he would continue to forage for food for the group. Then he had a very lonely stroll back to his cabin. Along the way he heard only the chatter of waves upon the bay, the song of a Mockingbird and the cry of a gull. The clanging of the empty flag pole brought back memories of that cold night when he and Leah were saved by the good Father. He made up his mind right then and there that he would do whatever would be necessary to help his friends, even if it cost him his life. The new resolution put a little spring back into his step and he retrieved his pistol and wandered into the woods to see what he could shoot for dinner.

# Chapter Twelve

Martin shot and killed three squirrels. With some difficulty he managed to clean them and roast them on his grill. Fresh broccoli and scallion from the garden completed the dinner. Martin brought the dinner to Leah's door and knocked. He stepped back, off of the walkway and into the grass. Leah opened the door. Martin was appalled. The once beautiful face was sallow and pale. The brilliant green eyes were now framed by dark circles.

"Thank you so much Bruce. Are you doing OK?"

Martin wanted desperately to tell her of the attack and how he was forced to defend himself but it seemed trivial now. Leah was obviously exhausted and maybe even sick.

"I'm OK, you doin' alright?"

"I'm not feelin' real good. I'm afraid that I might be coming down with it."

"Well, that is squirrel and some veggies. Eat, if you're getting sick you're gonna need your energy to fight it."

Leah nodded her concurrence and thanked Martin again as she closed the door. Martin stood there staring at the closed doors. He felt very alone.

The next day Martin walked up to the sanctuary to fill his buckets with water. He went to start the generator so he could operate the pump and was shocked to see that the generator was gone. He was panicked at the realization that they may no longer have a source of fresh water. Martin returned to Leah's apartment to see if they knew of the generator's disappearance. When he knocked on the door it slowly drifted open. The apartment was dark and stuffy. Martin stood at the door and called out to Leah. The only response was the barking cough that the world had come to dread. "Oh God, please help me", Martin sighed, resigned to the fact that his sanctuary had finally come to an end. The virus would kill his friends and himself after all. Martin stepped into the room. The virus' presence could be felt in the air. The atmosphere was hot and heavy. The only sound was a rhythmic heavy breathing that ended in a wheeze. It came from Martin's left. Moving in that direction Martin strained to see in the darkness. He could make out Leah slumped in a recliner. Over on the bed was another person and yet another on the couch. Moving over to the bed he saw that it was a young teenaged girl. The ashen complexion and deep purple around the jaw line told Martin that she was dead. He went over to the couch and saw that it was Sister Loretta and she too was deceased. Martin smoothed the girl's hair as best he could and then he brought the sheets around to enshroud her. As gently as possible he drug her off of the bed and laid her upon the floor. He pulled the comforter off of the bed and laid it out on the floor next to the couch and pulled the nun down onto it. He wrapped her body as well. Next he returned to Leah and lifted her out of the chair. He cradled her in his arms and staggered under her weight over to the bed. He laid her down on it. He went to the bathroom and soaked a wash cloth in a little bowl of water. He wiped Leah's face with it. Her skin was hot to the touch. He brushed her hair back. She opened her eyes and whispered, "Water." Martin was relieved when she closed her eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness. Martin knew that he must find fresh water as soon as possible.

Moving as though he was in a daze Martin retuned to the tool shed and retrieved a shovel. He went into the cemetery looking for an area to dig two graves. He could find no such space. Martin resorted to an area under a massive old oak tree just outside of the cemetery's old coquina wall. He dug two graves. By the time he finished burying the young woman and the nun it was twilight. Exhausted Martin slumped down, back against the oak. He was very thirsty but there was no fresh water. Martin returned to his cabin and grabbed a pillow case. Going back to the shed he took a bucket and went to the pond in front of the sanctuary. He filled it with the tannic, stagnant water. He placed the pillow case in another bucket and filtered the pond water through it. He lugged this bucket back to his cabin and placed the water in a pot and boiled it for a full twenty minutes. After it cooled he finally had his first drink in nearly twenty four hours. He returned to Leah's apartment, praying to God on high that she was still alive. Entering the dank apartment he went up to her and lifted her head. He placed the cup of water to her lips. She took a sip and closed her eyes again. Once he was sure that Leah was sleeping again he went down the breeze way to the priest's apartment. He opened the door and walked in. He heard a feeble voice whisper, "Help me Bruce." Martin walked in the direction of the voice and he came upon Father Gonzalez lying on the couch. His face was a bluish gray and he had dried blood around the corners of his mouth. He tried to lift himself as he spoke in a barely audible voice. "Communion" was all he managed to utter before he fell back down onto the couch. Martin dashed from the room and over to the sanctuary. Going into the back room behind the alter he found a bottle of wine and a bag of communion wafers. He was so weak from dehydration and malnutrition that he could only manage a brisk walk back to the parsonage. Entering the apartment he spoke to the priest to let him know that it was him. He located a glass and poured the wine into it. Going over to Father Gonzalez he knelt down beside him. The priest opened his eyes. Martin made the sign of the cross over the wafer and helped the priest to raise his head. Martin placed the wafer in the priest's mouth as he spoke. "Take, eat, this is the body of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, given into death for your sins." Then Martin took the glass of wine and made the sign of the cross over it and placed the wine to Father Gonzalez's lips and said, "Take, drink, this is the true blood of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, shed for your sins." Standing beside the priest Martin made the sign of the cross over him and said, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May he make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May he lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace."

The priest stretched out his hand towards Martin. Taking the good Father's hand Martin knelt down beside him and held his hand until the priest breathed no more. Martin felt as though he should weep but there was nothing left, he was emotionally depleted.

Even though he had been exposed to the virus Martin continued to hope against hope that he had escaped infection. Not wishing to leave his friends unattended he constructed a bed in the grass just off of the walkway that ran in front of the apartments. He lay there staring up at the stars, all the brighter in a sky not polluted by the artificial light of civilization, lamenting how he loved the Earth and had no desire to depart from this magical place. He marveled at the majesty of the cosmos and the brutality of the occupants of this little orb. He also realized that he must find both nourishment and fresh water if he and his friends were to survive.

The next morning he rummaged through what was left of the food pantry which was pretty much a couple boxes of noodles and a jar of beef bouillon cubes. The cubes would suffice for now. They would provide both sodium and liquid, both sapped from the body of the infected. Martin stirred a cube into the disgusting pond water and gave it to Leah and Father Ryan. He felt that he was flirting with disaster with the pond water. The boiling had killed any microbes but he was unsure of the continued use. He resolved that for the benefit of his friends and himself he would have to venture into the city. He decided he would strike out that night.

For the first time months Martin left the safety of the church grounds and slipped into the dark streets of Miami. He trotted along dark streets of the business district. He passed burned out buildings, their gaping empty windows bore mute testimony to the violence that had erupted. The streets were totally silent. Martin saw no sign of life at all. The smell of smoke wafted through the cold night. Martin came upon a group of cars that had been abandoned in a parking lot. Each of them had their gas tank hatches open as if somebody had scavenged gas from them. Martin sat down next to one of the cars. He leaned back against it and looked around nervously. He felt a fear of the virus. His friends had been infected, even in the relative safety of their sanctuary. Martin could almost feel the virus, out there, invisible and waiting. His skin crawled. Thoughts of his friends inspired Martin to his feet once more even though he was tired and his body was terribly weakened by an inadequate diet. He pressed on passing abandoned vehicles of all descriptions. Store after store sat vacant with shattered windows. Martin noticed something unusual about some of the buildings. They were not stores but offices. Curious as to what commodity an office could offer he approached one. It was an Attorney's office. He stepped through the shattered glass doors. His sense of smell was immediately greeted by the strong odor of smoke. The glass crackled under foot. The office had been set on fire. Martin continued his quest looking for someplace that was not obviously vandalized that might have some food and water. Along the way he stopped and a half dozen other law offices, all had been looted and set afire.

Martin pressed on though he could feel what little energy he had left quickly waning. The sidewalk suddenly became illuminated. Martin looked up to the sky to behold a massive fireball streaking across the sky leaving a broken necklace of glowing orbs behind it. At first he was amazed but then fear set in as he wondered if this was a nuclear missile. Suddenly he heard voices very near to him.

"What the hell was that?"

"Don't know. It's definitely something different. Never saw anything like that before."

"It's a sign, ya know from Revelations, its Wormwood."

"It's what? Whoa! Contact! Contact at twelve-o-clock!"

Martin was immediately illuminated in bright lights. He could see ethereal figures moving through the light and coming towards him.

"Down on your knees. Lace your fingers together behind your head", boomed a command from the light. Martin did as he was commanded. A tall black man dressed in civilian clothes but carrying a military assault rifle stepped forward. His face was hidden behind a surgical mask. He roughly grabbed one of Martin's arms by the wrist and spun it around behind his back. Martin groaned with discomfort as yet another armed civilian stepped forward and did the same with his other arm before tying them together with a ty-rap. Then the two men each grabbed him by an elbow and yanked him to his feet. He was frisked. His wallet was removed from his back pocket.

"He's clean."

"Well, well, well...let's see what we got here."

A shorter and older man stepped forward as the light dimmed and they were now only illuminated by little flashlights with red filters. He was surprised to see a half dozen heavily armed men, all of their faces hidden behind surgical masks, standing next to an old Ford pickup truck. Three of the men had their weapons pointed at Martin. Another stood behind a fifty caliber machine gun that was mounted in the bed of the truck. The men, though civilians seemed to Martin to have been battle tested. Some wore ammo belts across their shoulders while others had grenades. One of the soldiers, their apparent leader stepped forward. Martin's wallet was tossed to the leader. He flipped through the wallet and suddenly stopped and looked up at Martin.

"Fellas, looks like we've caught us a member of the press", said the leader. Martin was surprised to find himself remaining so calm. The whole scene seemed almost unreal. Martin was hustled into the bed of the truck and it sped off. Within a few minutes the vehicle rolled to a stop. Martin was escorted across a dark parking lot and into a square concrete building that he recognized as the National Guard armory. He was surrounded by the men who had captured him as he was hustled through dark corridors dimly lit in a faint green light from glow sticks hanging from the ceiling. They entered a large room that was well lit with kerosene lanterns. They shoved Martin before a Colonel in the National Guard sitting behind a large wooden desk. The officer looked up at Martin. The platoon leader stepped forward and tossed Martin's wallet upon the desk.

"You're Bruce Martin?"

"Yes."

"You're a reporter with the Biscayne Sun?"

"I was before the plague."

"You have guts Mister Martin. Most of your kind are sniffling cowards and deny that they were with the press. Guess you're not afraid huh?"

"Afraid? Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of what?" laughed the Colonel. "You been livin' in a cave? Many of the press have been in imprisoned with charges of conspiracy of treason. Some have been hanged."

Martin stood staring dumbfounded at the Colonel. He had lost contact with the world over the last six weeks. "Colonel..." Martin turned to see a young soldier step forward.

"Yeah Dodge?"

"Colonel I think that this is _the_ Bruce Martin....ya know the reporter that was on the internet warning that the flu was a terrorist attack. Remember? Nobody knew what had happened to him....I think that this might be the guy."

The Colonel walked around from the desk and stood before Martin.

"That right? Are you the reporter who alerted us? "

"I'm Bruce Martin. I had a video on the internet where I told all that I knew about this flu. I warned people in chat rooms. But they took my site down. I couldn't come out of hiding, they were after me."

"Who was after you?"

"I really don't know...some kind of government agency. A Colonel Davis sent help."

_"The_ Colonel Davis? One of the Liberty Coalition?"

"I don't know anything about a Liberty Coalition. The Colonel Davis I'm talking about was the man that I went to initially to tell them about what I knew concerning this virus. He told me that he and others were already moving to take control from the current government and attack the virus and the terrorist that did this."

"Colonel Davis is the acting secretary of Defense. The Liberty Coalition is a group of civilian and military leaders who are running the government. The President tried to nullify November's elections by manipulating Martial law. The Congress and Justices have fled; others have been arrested on treason charges. Twelve are awaiting appeals of death sentences. Those appeals won't even take six months...things have changed dramatically...most think the change is for the better. But the Nation has suffered tremendously. The flu has had a horrible impact on us. On the whole world."

"My friends are starving...they're sick and can't find food or water."

The Colonel looked slightly puzzled. "You're neighborhood Marshal isn't distributing food and water? You're friends have the flu?"

"I don't know anything about a neighborhood Marshal or what that is...we were hiding, on our own."

"Of course. Mister Martin we can help your friends. There are drugs that won't cure but they can help and survival chances are much better if you take these drugs. Where are your friends? We will take supplies to them and bring a doctor to those who are sick. The hospitals are only used for emergency surgery and trauma. The flu is treated at home. You're looking a little puny", said the Colonel suddenly eyeing Martin with an apparent apprehension as he took a step back from him. "Have you had the flu?"

"No sir,"

"How long ago did your friends come down with the flu?"

"A few days ago."

"What's a few days? It's very important...I need to know exactly how many days ago they became ill."

Martin stood staring at the ground concentrating. "It was two, maybe three days ago. I don't really know, everything is kind of blurry."

The Colonel motioned to a soldier behind him, all the while not taking his eyes off Martin. The soldier handed the Colonel a surgical mask which the he then gave to Martin. "I'm afraid you'll have to wear this Mister Martin. The incubation period is ten days, give or take." The soldier cut Martin's wrists free. Martin took the mask and put it on.

"Now son, where are your friends at? We'll get them the help they need, some good food, some fresh water and medical attention."

"I would prefer to take the supplies myself" said Martin in a defiant tone that surprised everyone, including Martin.

"Ahhh, don't trust us? Very well, I can understand that. But Bruce, may I call you Bruce?" Martin nodded. "Bruce Your friends need real help fast. I need to know where they are if they are going to make it, Sergeant Pratt!"

"Yes sir!", replied a middle aged woman stepping briskly forward.

"Now Bruce you tell Sergeant Pratt where your friends are." Martin realized that he had to gamble on trusting the soldiers if Leah and the Father were going to make it. Martin relented. The Colonel spun around and looked at Martin compassionately. "Our medics will help your friends. Mister Martin, when was the last time that you had a decent meal?"

"It's been a little while."

"Milton!" the cook came trotting into the room from the glowing hallway. "Got any of that pork from dinner?"

"Yes sir."

"How about fixing a plate for Mister Martin here. Martin, you seem to have been out of the loop. Why don't ya have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I'm sure that you have some questions about what's been going on, huh?" Within minutes Martin had been served a plate full of meat and fresh vegetables. The Colonel sat across from Martin studying him intently as Martin leaned over the plate and eagerly shoveled food into his mouth. Martin looked up and spoke through a mouth full of food, "This is delicious!"

"Good huh? The pork is feral hog. Hunter teams from the different neighborhoods go out into the glades and hunt hog and deer, even gator. The vegetables came from farms out there. The neighborhoods each have their own vegetable plots. Everybody pretty much chips in these days."

"It's been almost six weeks since the first full blown outbreak. We hear over twenty million have died in the U.S. alone. Our count here in Dade County is forty five thousand. More die every day. The government pretty much collapsed after the people figured out that those bastards in D.C. were selling this country part and parcel for profit instead of doing their job and protecting the citizens. Ya know those SOBs even tried to call in the UN? The UN agreed, saying that the U.S. was too important to the global economy to risk a people's revolt. Can you believe that? The rest of the world thinks we're their personal bank and police force. To hell with the rest of the world!"

"They sent a U.N. plane here to Miami and several helos! Those socialist bastards didn't even get off the plane before we tore their asses up! We sent them home in body bags!" said a young soldier, his face contorted with a seething anger.

"Anyhow, most of the politicians tried to run overseas or to Mexico", the Colonel continued, "Some made it; others are on trial for high treason. Still others were cornered like rats and killed themselves."

"No great loss!" said another young soldier, drawing the Colonel and Martin's attention to his sudden outburst.

The Colonel half smiled at the remark. Turning back to Martin he continued speaking, "Ya see the animosity the country has for the old government. Not our constitutional government mind you, but the perversion of it by the former leadership, especially the judiciary. I wouldn't want to be an attorney these days." The Colonel said with a mocking chuckle.

Martin suddenly halted his frenzied eating, fork frozen mid-way between plate and mouth. He looked up at the Colonel and gulped down the food in his mouth so that he could speak. "I saw a lot of attorney's offices burned and ransacked."

"A lot? Try every damn one. Most of the nation's woes are traced back to those low lifes! Kids couldn't go out and play like free children! Citizen suing citizen for every little damn thing they can! Millions and millions of kids and full grown adults murdered or missing. Our kids and women raped and dumped in ditches like so much garbage! And what happens to the criminal, they let them go! They defend them...ohh he was an abused child. They register them as a sex offender and tell them 'behave yourself'. The courts twisted and perverted the law, almost everybody on Capitol Hill are lawyers. Lawyers have destroyed this nation and what it stood for. Well, we have finally awakened and took back what was ours! For the people ya know." The Colonels volume dropped slightly and he looked down at the table as he brushed some crumbs aside, "I don't know, this flu, maybe in a weird sort of way is a good thing, maybe that's what we needed to wake us up out of our fat, dumb and happy stupor...I don't know."

Martin finished his meal and pushed himself away from the table. "Had enough to eat Mister Martin?"

"Yes, thanks very much, perhaps I ate too much too fast, I feel a little queasy."

"Please put your mask back on, we've only had two of my men come down with the flu, like to keep it that way." Martin dutifully pulled his mask up over his face. "It's normal to feel a little puny after eating when one has been on survival rations. I would like to show you a few things tomorrow Mister Martin, after all you are a national hero and one of the few reporters that people trust. Your profession has fared only slightly better than the lawyers. The press empowered the crap coming out of Washington and many of your colleagues are imprisoned or dead. But I think that what you'll see tomorrow will blow your mind. I think you've had enough for today. There is a lot more news that you may not know about. Why don't you get a few hours of sleep. The first thing I want to show you takes place early, at dawn. Sergeant Pratt will escort you to the barracks. Sound good?"

Martin was worried about his friends but he was exhausted. He also needed the help of these soldiers if he could trust them. He resigned himself to stay the day tomorrow and head back to the church in the afternoon. Martin thanked the Colonel for his hospitality and informed him that he would like to accompany him in the morning. Martin followed the sergeant along the dark hallway, lit only in the glow of the chemlights. The soldier took Martin to a vacant officer's quarters. Martin entered and fell onto the bed and fell into unconsciousness.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Rise and shine!" were the words that roused Martin. He rolled over with a groan. Through sleep encrusted, half closed eyes, he looked about the still dark room to see who it was awakening him. He could make out the Colonel's silhouette in the eerie glow of the chemlights. Martin strained to sit up. He felt so tired that his body actually ached. Martin slowly gained his feet.

"This way Mister Martin...have fresh eggs and some hash for breakfast. The cook forked some of last night's pork with diced potatoes....gotta use everything we have these days ya know." Martin walked towards the door when the Colonel reminded him to get his mask. The two of them walked into the mess hall which was lit by kerosene lamps. The soldiers were already eating their breakfast. Their chatter was half drowned by the loud hissing of the lamps. Martin sat down before a plate of fried eggs and hash. He ate a little before pushing the plate away from him

"Not hungry? That's unusual for someone who has been barely eating. Ya feel alright Mister Martin?"

"Please, call me Bruce, I'm just really tired. By the way, what time is it?"

"Five thirty."

"Five thirty!"

"Yeah Mister, er, um Bruce. I told you we would have an early start. There is an event that takes place at dawn, I wanted you to see. As a matter of fact we better get going." The Colonel stood up and barked "Romeo, let's go!" The mess hall emptied out in an instant. Martin and the Colonel walked out into a very foggy and chilly morning. The first vestiges of dawn were just beginning to illuminate the mist with a slate blue light. The soldiers were all gathered in an open court yard. They all now wore their battle attire of flak jackets and helmets. All were now armed. The Colonel moved towards a gate on a tall chain link fence topped with spirals of razor wire. As the Colonel moved the soldiers formed an elongated circle around him in an almost unconscious manner. Two soldiers, armed with assault rifles stepped from a little shack next to the fence. Through the fog Martin could make out the dark form of a machine gun nest, constructed of sand bags and occupied by two additional soldiers. Martin had been in a well-fortified fortress without realizing it; he had not seen the security when he was brought in the night before. Where ever they were going, it was now apparent that they would be traveling by foot.

As they walked the Colonel and his men seemed very at ease. "Are the streets dangerous? I saw nobody when I was walking yesterday."

"They are pretty darn safe. In some parts it is safer now than before the plague. This airport area used to be pretty high crime. You can now walk without fear. It was really bad the first three weeks or so. People were panicked, basically rioting, storming stores and gas stations, just trying to survive. But as the plague became worse and bodies were literally lining the street, people wouldn't even venture out. We still are getting some supplies. Patriots all across the country are sacrificing, trying to keep this disaster to a minimum. Truckers bring whatever is being made or harvested. They have armed escorts, most of them ordinary citizens. When they unload, nobody is allowed to leave their vehicles. We have people who work in pharmaceutical plants and refineries; living there in isolation in order to keep from getting sick and to keep the fuel and food and medicine coming. Other countries around the world are completely collapsing. But the American spirit has served us well."

"Speaking of other countries, whatever was done about the perpetrators of this attack? My sources said that elements of the Chinese government and Peruvian and Columbian rebels along with Al Qaeda are to blame."

"It has come to light that World War Three was only narrowly avoided. Our new government called China out and they basically threatened war. We actually dropped a neutron device on the Guandong. The Chinese responded by hitting Taiwan with a nuke. Our country hit them; I believe it was a sub base, two more times. Our acting President told them, if this is the end of the world, then so be it. He sent word to them that we are governed by _real_ Americans now and we will live free or die. The Chinese backed down real quick; I heard the speech on the radio describing what had transpired. Columbian and Peruvian rebel bases were hit with nukes and the entire western half of Pakistan no longer exists. President Hamilton, who by the way is the great great great grandson, or something like that, of Alexander Hamilton. Any way he also announced to the world that there would be no more economic aid or military aid to any nation. He said the U.S. is not the world's policeman or bank, we are a sovereign nation. Ahhh here we are."

The platoon approached a large wooden gate of sorts. Before the gate a large bon fire burned in a cinder block lined fire pit. Hanging from the high cross braces of the gate were two large metal objects that resembled bird cages. Two people were crammed into the cages. They were huddled against the back and covered with green military blankets. Each cage had a sign attached to it. The first sign read "I profited from human misery." The second sign read, "I perverted the law for profit." The Colonel noticed Martin staring at the cages as they moved slowly through the chilled fog. "Lawyers" said the Colonel disdainfully. Two armed soldiers stood on each side of the gate and saluted the Colonel and company through. Martin could smell smoke which was mixing with the fog to produce a thick and soupy atmosphere which stifled the growing blue light of dawn. Before them was yet another bon fire, much larger than the first fire at the gate. This fire roared and crackled and occasionally produced a loud crack which sent dancing glowing embers up into the air. As they drew nearer Martin could hear voices emanating from unseen bodies moving through the mist.

Approaching the voices, he could see the form of a gallows materializing through the fog and drifting veils of brown smoke. The Colonel walked up behind Martin and placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is what I wanted you to see. You're a reporter, right? This is the new no nonsense law in America. There will be ten executions by hanging this morning. These people have had a speedy and fair trial by a jury of their peers. They had speedy appeals, by a judicial system that is streamlined and back to what it was meant to be, justice for all, including the victim."

"Hanging? Isn't that barbaric? What's the rest of the world think of this?"

"Are ya forgetting what I told ya? No more foreign aid, we have nuked four countries, the rest of the world be damned! The judiciary has had fifty years to screw this nation's courts up; we are determined to get order restored. Those two in the bird cages are fully visible to all who pass by. Others today will be sentenced to wear sandwich signs declaring their crimes. They will go through the town with an escort, ringing a bell and calling out for all to hear what their crimes were. We have reinstated shame. People, especially the elite, had no shame. Think about the way it used to be, the most famous leaders of business were those on trial, the most famous movie stars were those going to jail or rehab, politicians were famous for scandals....no shame man...no shame."

Martin noticed an excitement in the Colonel's voice that he had been hearing over and over. People seemed ecstatic that there had been a change, that America had founds itself once more. The soldiers milled about for nearly an hour while Helios and steeds raced across the sky, exorcising the vapors from the land. The day had showed itself and it was a glorious one. Martin heard a chorus of voices behind them. Turning around, he saw many armed civilians entering the gate and lining up against the tall chain link fence that surrounded the open court yard. Each man had a different weapon. Some carried small rifles, other had what were obviously assault rifles of one type or another and still others carried shotguns. The Colonel noticed Martin staring at the strange assortment of people and weapons. The Colonel leaned over to Martin and said in a low voice, "Neighborhood militia, responsible for the security of the neighborhood. We," he said, motioning with a wide sweep of his arm to indicate the platoon, "are national guard, here to supervise and assist the militias of Florida, just the way the founding fathers envisioned!"

Soon after the militia had taken their places a long line of what were obviously prisoners came into the courtyard and assembled before the gallows. These men and some women wore the black and white stripes of the traditional inmate garb, but Martin noticed that they were chained together at the ankle so that when they walked they created a rolling clinking sound reminiscent of Marley's burden.

The Colonel leaned towards Martin and spoke in a low voice, "Chain gangs...miserable existence nowadays...no more prisons with cable and weight rooms, led by gangs...these days you live in tents out somewhere where there is work to be done. If they try to escape you are shot dead. From what I hear there have been several who tried it and they were shot. Crime has real consequences these days. The legal system is here to protect the public...we will never allow it to be so broken as before. In a few minutes you will see ten men pay for their crimes. I think there are some murderers and a couple of rapists. But there is a child rapist who had raped a five year old last year and was released on an obscenely low bond. Turns out the very next week he raped and murdered a little girl coming home from school. The judge was aware of his previous crimes but still chose to cut this creep loose. What an insult to the victims huh?? Anyhow, the judge is going to hang today as well. Seems this type of thing has occurred several times in his court."

"The judge is hanging? What was his crime, I mean besides being a complete uncaring idiot."

"Neglect of duty resulting in the death of a citizen."

"There's no such crime."

"There is now. We have to be severe in order to get this society back from the brink of collapse. The judicial system was an enormous contribution to the woes of America. Here they come now."

A parade of guards stepped out from a long building that looked as though at one time it was some sort of store. The guards were in two rows and walking in between them was another row of men, the condemned. Two other men brought up the rear. One of them seemed to be a minister; Martin was not sure who the other was. The condemned prisoners walked to the back of the gallows. One at a time they walked up the steps to the platform. Guards maneuvered each one to his position under a rope with the characteristic noose. Some of the men were obviously nervous. The man who Martin could not figure out stepped before the gallows and read the condemned's name and crimes; as he did so a guard slipped the noose over his head. One prisoner would not or could not stand and wept bitterly. The guards had to actually hold him up while he was fitted with his noose. It was the judge. He began to scream, "No! No!" and he cried hysterically. The other prisoners glanced at him nervously. The minister then said a prayer. Next the chain gang brought in a cart drawn by an old horse. They positioned the cart in front of the gallows. Then the chain gang formed a line and sang the hymn Amazing Grace. When they had finished a guard underneath the gallows looked at the man who was presiding over the execution. That man nodded to the guard. The judge, seeing that subtle gesture cried out but his panic was cut short as the ten men suddenly fell to their deaths. The bodies twisted slowly for a few minutes. It was deathly quiet save for the prayers of the minister. After several minutes the chain gang climbed the steps to the platform and removed the condemned. They carried the lifeless bodies to the cart. Without ceremony the horse and cart were lead from the compound. Martin and his escorting platoon followed them. The strange convoy maneuvered down streets lined with houses. Martin guessed that they were somewhere around the Liberty City area of Miami. Eventually they came to a large field that looked like an abandoned ball field. At the front was a large stack of lumber situated like a large bonfire. The bodies of the dead prisoners were tossed upon the wood. Martin had to turn away as the wood was lit. The Colonel walked over to Martin.

"Look over here Bruce. This is why those criminals were burned. This is our burial grounds. To put them in here would be desecration of hallowed ground. This is a common grave of all of those who died from the flu. When this thing is over a wall will be built alongside this grave with all of the names of the dead. These people are considered by the nation to have died in war. In this one grave there are three thousand bodies. Every neighborhood has one or two grave sights."

Martin stood and looked across the freshly turned dirt. He walked along the length of the grave, never taking his eyes from it. Until now the flu was an unseen danger, almost not a real thing. But now it hit Martin hard on just what the cost of this attack had been. This park which had once seen baseball games played and echoed with cheers and laughter was now silent, save the crackling and hissing of burning wood and the flesh of corrupt souls. This was only one grave in one neighborhood in one city. This very same scene was in every part of the Nation.

The Colonel led his platoon away from the somber scene. They walked in a relaxed stance that told Martin that they were very comfortable with their current surroundings. I am taking you to Paw Paw street in Liberty City", said the Colonel. "Familiar with the area?" Martin nodded. "Black communities have suffered the most from the games of the courts and politicians. But this neighborhood has really found its roots again. Crime is almost completely wiped out here." Martin raised his eyebrows. The Colonel continued, "Oh, I know, no crime in Liberty City is like an oxymoron but it's true. Their community wardens have really organized the people and the churches have been a tremendous influence. They had a problem with a gang of young punks marauding the area. The local police caught them. They were held in an old store front that serves as a jail here around Paw Paw Street. Well these punks were so emboldened that some of their gang members came to spring them. There was a shootout and not a single gang member survived. The two police officers defending the jail that night were wounded. Know what happened to the punks being held? The neighborhood took them, since there were no cops left and tarred and feathered them right in the middle of the street. Yup tarred and feathered them! Can you believe it?" said the Colonel with a chuckle. "Know what? Nobody has seen those punks since. In case you're wondering why I'm bringing you here, I just wanted you to see how things are now that the American people are back in charge of their own lives and communities. And this neighborhood has the best fruits and vegetables around."

As the platoon walked down the street Martin began to see more and more people out in the street. Some, like him, wore masks. Some of the people came over to the soldiers and greeted them warmly. The soldiers responded likewise. The streets became alive with children playing in the street. Martin could hear music playing as they rounded a corner. In the middle of a large intersection was a fifty five gallon drum that obviously had a fire burning in it. A group of people, mostly black, were sitting around the drum. Two men sat on lawn chairs and played a game of checkers on a picnic table. Several men and women stood around watching the game. Another group sat in chairs next to a barbecue grill.

"Well look who it is. How are yall? It's been a few days Colonel...yall smelled my cookin' didn't cha?" said a laughing middle aged man with graying hair and an engaging personality. The man seemed to know each of the platoon members. The Colonel greeted him with a warm handshake and a slap on the shoulder. The Colonel called him Sam and Sam Called the Colonel Mike. Martin half smiled when Sam addressed the Colonel as Mike. The application of a named seemed to drop a tough façade and illuminate the man that was "Colonel." The soldiers began to relax and they slung their guns over their shoulders and began to chat with the locals.

"Who have we here?" asked Sam.

The Colonel extended an arm towards Martin inviting him to step forward as he was introduced to Sam. "This is Bruce Martin. He was a reporter for the Biscayne Sun."

This caused Sam to raise his eyebrows. Martin became keenly aware once again that the American population had acquired a keen dislike for the press. But the Colonel quickly interjected a calming addition to the introduction. "Mister Martin was the first to alert the country as to what was happening. The government tried to off him so he went into hiding. He has some friends who are down, hence the mask. I was braggin on yall's vegetables. Ya think you could hook us up with some green stuff there Sam?"

Sam looked at Martin through slightly squinted eyes as though he were taking aim at him. "I reckon we could give him some good stuff", said Sam hesitatingly. Then he seemed to conclude that Martin could be trusted and his demeanor quickly changed. He reached out and grabbed Martin by the arm and led him towards the grill. I'll give ya some ribs too! My ribs are a lot better than those white boy's!" he said laughing. "Hey Martin, ya know how I know that Adam was a white man?" Martin looked uncomfortable and shook his head, indicating that he did not know. ""Cause ain't no black man gonna give up a rib!" said Sam slapping him on the back and laughing heartily. Sam's neighbors all smiled at Martin's obvious awkwardness. "Relax young man." said Sam warmly. "Things are different now. We have all lightened up. We know that there are differences between the races, that's what makes life so interesting. It's not a bad thing; it's something to be celebrated and embraced. I love you for who you are!" Then Sam suddenly took on a serious air, "We work hard at it these days because the politically correct thing was a way to scare people into silence. It is a dangerous thing Bruce."

Sam escorted Martin over to the grill. The people turned and smiled at Martin except for one whose back was turned to Martin. When she stood she turned to face him. She was a small woman, tiny in height and bony in frame. She wore her hair in long coarse gray braids. Bangles of gold and rope and beads adorned her wrists. She wore a heavy chain of gold around her neck with what appeared to be some sort of old antique key attached to it. She dressed herself in a simple white blouse and skirt separated from one another by a length of crimson cloth about her waist. Martin guessed her age to be somewhere around sixty. She looked at Martin with a piercing glare. She stepped towards him and pulled his mask down seemingly without fear. Martin looked at her and then nervously glanced at the others surrounding him. They seemed to share his uneasiness. All who had been seated now stood and stepped back from Martin and the old woman. She raised a bony finger and pointed it at Martin as she spoke in a thick Haitian accent.

"You...you Bruce Martin...you ahr one of Gabriel's trumpets! You...you ahr chosen...but you ahr too blind to see tis...but you have seen him...oh yes I know...you have seen him, as I have."

The other people were now staring intently at Martin. Martin took a step back from the strange women invading his personal space but she only stepped towards him again.

"Who?" asked Martin, "Who have I seen?"

"The fallen one. Did you not recognize him? Perhaps it was as I. It took me a long time to see him for what he was. Beautiful in appearance, alluring, seductive just as the trappings of this world. Sometimes he is a man, other times a woman. Think...you know...the one who you thought was strange but couldn't put your finger on it...yes, yes you know."

Martin stared at the woman; he knew what she was talking about. Martin's mind raced back to all the times that he noticed someone who seemed somehow different. He was suddenly jolted from his thoughts by Sam's voice.

"That'll do Miss Michele...you're gonna give our new friend here the heebee geebees.

Miss Michele is something of a prophet...she sees things" explained Sam.

"She's Haitian" observed Martin.

"Yup" replied Sam, "But she's Christian. She says that the end times have begun and that the anti-Christ is here. She sees Satan and believes that the shadow of evil is growing across the world. Apparently she thinks that you have seen evil too. Believe it or not she's usually right on" said Sam now eyeing Martin half suspiciously once more. Martin's response was a half laugh as he nervously reviewed the times that he saw a person who just seemed different. He knew instinctively that he had seen evil incarnate but his mind refused to accept such a thing.

Sam escorted Martin, who was now pushing a wheelbarrow, through the community. The platoon stayed behind. Sam pointed out a school, newly painted and landscaped. The neighborhood warden drew Martin's attention to the flag pole. A strange yellow flag flew between the American and Florida flag. Martin had seen it before in his school days. The yellow field had a coiled rattlesnake in the center with the words "Don't tread on me" emblazoned in bold black lettering.

"It's a Gadsden flag, from the revolutionary war days. All government facilities fly them now. It's a warning to the world; America is back and as strong as ever. Our kids, like all American children say the pledge every morning once again. They also sing God Bless America every day as well. Oh I know that some of that old secular liberalism that the press loved so much is still ticking away somewhere in you. But this nation has found itself once more. This broad liberal interpretation of the constitution will stand no more! The constitution states only that congress shall pass no law mandating a single state religion. Nowhere does it state that religion is to be abolished from government or everyday life. A poll before the plague showed that eighty three percent of American considered themselves Christians. The truth is that this is a Christian country. We, as bound by the constitution, shall not persecute other religions and others are free to practice theirs, but so are we! Religion and culture are the threads that have bound the fabric of this nation together. Ya wanna know something that really pissed me off? Remember last year when the Supreme Court was hearing the arguments for gun control? Those wimpy assed lawyers were saying that it only applies to militias. Nowhere does it say that individuals have a right to be armed. Well, what infuriated me was the hypocrisy! Show me where in the Constitution it says that you are not allowed to display religious symbols! When it's convenient for them, they interpreted the constitution literally, when it was inconvenient all of a sudden you had to make these broad assumptions of what the founding father's actual intent was. But that was last year...bastards won't be making any rulings against the citizenry anymore!

"Rulings?" Martin inquired.

"Like....for instance their crazy interpretation of imminent domain. They can take your property and give it to some rich developer because he will pay more in taxes than a single person! That's just insane! One of the cornerstones of this country was the opportunity to own property! Ah, but enough of my rambling, here we are...the garden."

Martin and Sam stepped through the gate of a low chain link fence and into a large field with row upon row of vegetables of every description. Over the next half an hour the two men picked several bags full and placed them in Martin's wheelbarrow. Then Sam took Martin down the street past an old abandoned church.

"See that ol' church? That's our new school for office management and secretarial skills. Come on round back and check this out."

They walked around to the old two story church's back. There was scaffolding erected across the entire building. Young men were moving up and down it. Some were mixing stucco; others were applying it to the walls. Older gentlemen were obviously instructing them.

"This is one of several schools that we...this run down, neglected neighborhood got together and created this to help those ladies who would have been on drugs or whatever this time last year. This gives them skills and their children skills. We also have free housing for them, with mentors. No more Gestapo kicking in the door and dragging children away from their families and handing them over to god knows who. What kind of country does that Bruce? What kind of nation gives billions to people overseas but neglects its own citizens? The government has really abused the black community. Illegals did the jobs that traditionally young poor black and poor whites did. That served a purpose, to motivate people to better themselves. But when you had a bunch of foreigners working for peanuts and poor Americans sitting on their asses and being paid by welfare there was no motivation to better themselves. But now the borders are closed..."

"They're closed?" asked Martin.

"Yup the troops from Germany and Japan and Korea are home and patrolling the borders. The open borders that the government ignored is why there have been millions of deaths...it's on their heads."

"What were you Sam? I mean what did you do before the, the plague."

"I was a school teacher. I was also the union president. I was a Kool Aid drinker, like you. Like so many of us were. It's a cryin' shame that it took this to wake us up...a cryin' shame. Shame on us all!"

As the two of them walked back to the barbecue they talked of life before and after the plague.

"Mind if I rest a minute Sam? I'm feeling a little puny. Maybe its lack of food and too much excitement today", said Martin as he sat down on the curb in the shade of a Ficus tree.

"Sure, son. Say you're not looking real good. You're really pale." Sam reached down to pat him on the back in reassurance. "Bruce, you are burning up. Come on let's get you to Miss Susan, she's a nurse and it's just round the corner here."

Martin was panicked by his symptoms. "I'm comin' down with the flu Sam. My friends had it and now I do too. Ya better just stay back." Martin noticed that as he spoke tears were rolling down his face.

"Come, come now Bruce, it's going to be O.K.", said Sam in an attempt to calm Martin.

Martin looked up at Sam, his face shining with tears. "I don't want to die Sam. I really haven't done much with my life. I want to live! I want to accomplish great things." Martin looked exhausted and totally defeated. He sat on the curb a conquered man, defeated by the microbial enemy he had feared for so long. Sam felt pity on the man and spoke to him in a calm and reassuring tone.

"And you're going to Bruce. Just because you have the flu doesn't mean that you're going to die. I had the flu! So did Miss Susan. Now come on, let's get you to bed. I'm going to take you to Miss Susan's house, that's our little flu hospital." Sam extended his hand to Martin. Martin took it and slowly rose to his feet. The effort forced another barking cough. "It's going to be alright son, c'mon now" and Sam lead Martin down the road and up to a nondescript ranch style house with a large Mango tree in the front yard. "This is Miss Susan's house here."

# Chapter Fourteen

Sam led Martin up to a yellow house with a very large Canary Palm in the front yard. The house was a classic style from the late fifties or early sixties. They walked up the driveway and onto a carport. Sam knocked on the door. It was answered by an elderly woman with a head full of curly white hair. "Miss Susan, 'fraid I've got another one for ya. This here is Mister Bruce Martin, something of a celebrity these days." Miss Susan looked suspiciously at Martin. "A celebrity?" she inquired. "Yes mam, he was a reporter who discovered the virus and how it got here. He is _the_ reporter that alerted the country as to what happened, at risks to his own life mind you."

"That so? C'mon in. I'm Susan, Mister Martin.""

"Alright then Bruce, I have a room back here", said Miss Susan stepping back from the door in a silent invitation to the men to enter. Sam and Martin walked into the house. It was immediately apparent that Miss Susan had a love for Japan. Martin was standing in a dining area. In front of him was a china cabinet filled with Japanese figurines and porcelain. Over to the right was a kitchen and past that, through a sliding glass door, was a Florida room with a large and dormant television. Through the windows of the Florida room Martin could see a large pool. Miss Susan led them through a comfortable living room and into a hallway.

"Here's a room for ya" said Miss Susan gesturing for Martin to step into the room. In the room was a single bed with a dresser over against on wall. On the dresser was a small flat screen television. White curtains fluttered in the breeze allowed in by a large window. Martin fell onto the bed. The effort produced the dreaded cough. Martin glanced around to see that nobody in the room reacted to the cough. His face must have betrayed his surprise at the lack of reaction as Miss Susan felt compelled to explain, "We've all had the flu. You are a late comer Bruce. A few weeks ago we had people two to a room and out on the couches and on the floors. You have it all to yourself with the exception of me and my niece. I lost my son to this damn thing. But good news for you, the virus seems to have lost some of its punch over the last few weeks. But make no mistake Bruce, it's gonna be a long, hard slog here, but we'll getcha through it."

Martin thanked her and slid further back into the bed and fell back. His eyes began to close but he forced them opened and half sitting up, he addressed Sam. "Sam can you please check on my friends at Saint Mary's?"

"Sure will, but I'm sure they're gonna be just fine, those Army medics are some of the best."

Martin laid his head down upon what seemed to be the softest pillow he had ever felt. He closed his eyes, already he could feel his chest tightening and his breathing was slowly becoming labored. He drifted off into a sleep that seemed to last for days. He had strange dreams of giant bouncing red balls and enormous, sweating glasses of ice water. Sweet water, he longed for it even in his sleep. Occasionally he saw specters, moving as shadows against brilliant shimmering light. Martin could hear voices calling his name. He opened his eyes to see a young woman looking at him. She spun around and ran to the room's door calling out to Miss Susan. Martin lifted his head and whispered in a harsh voice a single word, "water". Miss Susan whisked into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Martin. She slipped her hand under his head and lifted it slowly while putting a glass of water to his lips. With his head off of the pillow Martin could feel that his hair was drenched in sweat.

"Easy now, nice and slow. Looks like you beat it Bruce", said Miss Susan as she lowered Martin's head back down onto the pillow.

"How long?" Martin croaked.

"How long you been sick? Today is the sixth day. You've been pretty much out of it for six days. You rest now; tomorrow we'll help ya take a little stroll around the pool. Moving helps beat the pneumonia that can come after the flu. You've still got a couple of weeks before you're back up to speed, so you just rest." Martin nodded and closed his eyes. Just the brief interaction with Miss Susan had exhausted him. He breathed deeply and as he did he could feel his chest burn.

The next day, true to her word Miss Susan and her niece drug a reluctant Martin from his bed and helped him feebly shuffle around the pool. The brilliant sunlight of a glorious early spring day assaulted the sensitive eyes of Martin. While the fresh air burned his battered lungs, it felt refreshing, almost as though it infused life into a half dead man. The routine continued for over a week until Martin was able to walk by himself. He would sit on a little concrete bench and watch the shifting patterns of light dance in the aqua water of the pool, reflected onto the shadowed wall behind him. Martin rejoiced at being alive. The song of moving water, the sounds of kids playing and birds singing, the wind stimulating wind chimes to ring in random harmonies, all brought a great joy to Bruce Martin. He had conquered his enemy! One warm and sunny afternoon Miss Susan came out and announced that Martin had visitors.

Miss Susan stepped out of the house, a broad smile on her face. Coming out behind her was Leah and Father Ryan. Martin's heart leapt within his chest. His vision became blurred with joy as tears spontaneously welled within his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Leah walked briskly over to him and embraced him. Father Ryan, wearing a broad smile also embraced him.

"You look great Bruce", Leah said, still smiling, "a little thinner, but good."

"You too. How are you guys doing?" inquired Martin. His eyes eagerly swept over Leah, she was just as beautiful as ever, a little thinner and paler but to Martin she was the Madonna.

"We're O.K. Thank God for you Bruce, the corpsmen came to us and after that it was only a couple of days before we were out of the woods", said Leah.

Father Ryan told Martin that they knew that he had taken care of them and buried their companions.

"How awful that must have been, all alone and sick," observed Leah.

"God was with you Bruce", said Father Ryan as the three friends sat down at a round little picnic table under a large white umbrella.

"Ya think Father? I believe he was, he gave me courage and strength. Not just when the flu came to us but before. I cannot believe that I have been able to do the things that I have done. I thought that religion was just a tool to control people but I have seen things and kind of, kind of knew things. Father does God move in our lives, I mean on a daily basis, individually? I mean, I believe that he has moved in my life and has guided me, or was it just delusions?"

"Hasn't that always been an ongoing question? Was Christ delusional? John the Baptist? Joan of Arc, Martin Luther King? I mean it's a question of faith. Either you believe in God and his majesty and power or you believe that it's all mumbo jumbo. It comes down to faith."

"Then I guess I have faith! I never knew it before, but I do believe in the power of God and that he does have an interest in us."

"Amen! God has moved in our lives and I believe he has helped our country!" declared Leah. Martin looked at her, a little surprised for she had never been outwardly vocal about any religious beliefs that she held. But Martin surmised that the events of the past months was enough to either solidify one's faith or to utterly destroy it. He smiled at Leah.

"When are you leaving here Bruce?" inquired the Priest.

"Well, I guess that I never really thought of it I guess that I could leave any time now, I feel really good, I get tired easy, but I feel good."

"Well", said Leah, "Your friends at the armory wanted us to bring you by to see them. They said that they would give you a ride back to your old apartment since it's quite a distance from here."

"My old apartment," mumbled Martin. His mind did not find comfort in the thought of returning to his old home. Just then Miss Susan burst from the house, her arms extended in the air over her head.

"Lord God almighty!" she cried, "The electricity is back on!"

"Wow" chuckled Leah, "after all this time, how weird this is going to feel."

Father Ryan stood up, "I heard that it will be rolling black outs. Most neighborhoods will have electricity from noon to ten in the evening, every other day."

"I heard that our friends the French helped us out tremendously. They say that Turkey Creek nearly had a meltdown because most of their technicians were either sick or had died. Since we were hit first and the flu hadn't really gotten up to speed yet overseas the French sent their nuclear technicians. God bless them, they helped us in the beginning, then we helped them in World War Two and now they have returned the favor once again."

"Yes, the flu is only now getting to be as grim in Europe as it is here, strange."

Martin stood and turned to Miss Susan. "Miss Susan, I want to thank you for what you have done for me. I mean how can I ever thank you enough, or repay you? You saved my life."

"Bruce" returned Miss Susan, "I did no such thing. I just nursed you. If the good Lord wanted you, then you would have gone home, but it looks like you still have some work down here."

Martin walked over to the nurse and embraced her. "I think I should not impose on you any further. I think it's time for me to go home now."

Miss Susan just looked at him with a broad smile and nodded her concurrence. Martin and Miss Susan walked with Leah and Father Ryan out onto the carport. The two climbed onto bikes.

"Where did you get the bikes?" inquired Martin.

"Bought 'em. It's the only way to get around. There is no gas and most all of the batteries in the cars are dead since they've sat for so long." The two friends bid Martin farewell and rode off into a brilliant spring day. "Come by when you get a chance Bruce, I'm back home!" called Leah. Martin nodded and waved. A young boy of ten or so came riding by on a bike when Miss Susan called out to him.

"Hey you! Boy!"

The boy rode his bike over to Miss Susan. "You one of the messengers in this neighborhood?" Miss Susan asked.

"Yes mam" the boy replied.

"Then I'll tell you what, here is five bucks. You go over to the armory and tell them that our celebrity here is ready for his ride home. Got that?"

"What celebrity is that?" inquired the boy.

"Why Mister Martin here", Miss Susan responded.

The boy looked suspiciously at Martin through squinted eyes. "Don't look like no celebrity to me", retorted the boy.

"You just do as I asked young man. Now go on, I don't have all day!"

The boy took off on his bike, slowly careening back and forth across the road until he gained speed and then shot off, straight as an arrow down the street.

"What is this messenger stuff Miss Susan?" asked Martin.

"Well there isn't any phone service. Not line or cell so some enterprising kids all over the city make money by delivering messages. Believe it or not it is a pretty reliable and efficient means of communicating."

Within an hour an olive drab Humvee pulled up in front of Miss Susan's house. The messenger hopped out of the front seat. A soldier handed him his bike. The boy knocked on Miss Susan's door.

"I got them here mam", said the boy.

"Excellent work son" complimented Miss Susan. The boy nodded all the while wearing a broad smile.

Several soldiers left the Humvee and walked across the brown crunchy grass that had, in earlier times been a lush green lawn. Martin walked out with Miss Susan to greet them. Martin saw that one of the soldiers was the Colonel. The officer extended his hand to shake Martin's, all the while smiling.

"Well, it's good to see you again Bruce. You were looking pretty rough the last time I saw you. How ya doin'?"

"I'm doin' good. I still feel a little puny but all in all not bad, considerin'."

"Great, great. You remember some of my men," said the Colonel motioning with a sweep of his arm towards the soldiers standing at the Humvee.

"Sure", responded Martin nodding and smiling to the men.

"Well, shall we go? If you'll just tell us where to go we'd be honored to give a national hero a ride back home", smiled the Colonel.

Martin climbed into the back of the Humvee with the soldiers. They immediately began to chatter excitedly amongst themselves.

"Man that is so cool that we've got some electricity again. I miss TV." declared a young soldier.

"How do ya know that they are even broadcasting?" inquired another.

A third soldier injected himself into the conversation, "They are! People are saying that they are showing old movies. I love some of those old black and white movies. Hey Colonel, you grew up here right?" The Colonel nodded in the affirmative. "Ya remember channel six's Night Owl Theatre with Big Wilson?" The Colonel spun around in the front passenger seat and draping his arm over the back of the seat he stared at the soldier in disbelief for a moment before speaking.

"Wow! Man, I haven't heard that name in years. Decades!"

"Yea, I used to love those Pink Pussycat commercials...remember those? They were pretty risqué for the seventies. I was such a weird kid."

"You grew up to be a weird adult!" joked the first young soldier.

"Yea, yea, have some respect for your elders junior!" laughed the soldier swatting his younger cohort on the arm. Martin felt his heart racing in his chest. As the vehicle drew closer and closer to Martin's old apartment, he grew closer to confronting what he once was. His anxiety increased as the distance to his old home decreased. The Colonel, perhaps sensing that something was bothering Martin, turned around once again.

"Would ya like world news update Bruce? Ya been kind of outta the loop for a while."

"Sure", responded Martin dryly.

"Well, Pakistan decided that the US was distracted and that it was a good time to go into Afghanistan again. That alarmed India who then massed troops along the border. Pakistan actually responded by hitting the border with a tactical nuke. Big mistake India unleashed and, well, let's just say that Pakistan doesn't exist anymore. There are skirmishes and wars starting all over the globe. Mexico was one of the key components of the U.N. forces that came into the U.S. We now have our army all along that border. Oh yeah, remember that big ol' meteorite on the night they found you?"

Martin nodded. "Wormwood!" cried one of the soldiers.

"Yeah, people started calling it Wormwood, ya know from Revelations, in the Bible. Anyhow that thing landed over in the Ukraine somewhere and really tore that place up. The thing exploded before hitting the ground and killed tens of thousands of people. Burned the towns, forest, crops, the water was contaminated by all of the acidic ash, a real mess. Oh here we are!" Martin hopped out of the Humvee and thanked the soldiers, shaking each one's hand in turn. "Ya need anything you let me know. Just grab a courier, all of the neighborhoods have them, I'll be here in fifteen minutes. You stay in touch O.K. Bruce?" Martin promised that he would. He stood in the parking lot and watched the Humvee until it was out of sight. He stood there staring at his old apartment building, not really wanting to go inside for he felt that to enter his old apartment would be like entering a portal into his past. Martin didn't like who he once was. The pandemic and mayhem had liberated him in a strange way. The pretenses of a convoluted society had somehow subdued his soul. The plague had freed him. As he begrudgingly walked towards his apartment he realized that he had no keys. He had fled with literally the clothes on his back that awful night. The memory of it made his heart race. He stopped, remembering that he had a car. He walked over to his old parking space and his car was indeed there. But the gas tank had been forced open. He tried the door handle and it was still locked. Martin walked back to the apartment building and up to his old door. He tried the door knob. It was locked. A familiar voice startled him.

"Eet's locked Meester Martin. I locked eet for yous." Martin spun around to see Rueben, the supervisor. Martin despised him. Rueben had a long history of stirring up trouble and was something of a bully, harassing the tenants while kissing up to the owners of the units. Rueben also detested Martin, only because he was a successful college graduate. It seemed to bother Rueben because over the years he had made several references to "privileged college boys." Rueben had come over on the Mariel boatlift. He was an ugly little man. He was as wide as he was tall. He had greasy, wavy, jet black hair even though he was in his sixties. He always wore a wife beater t-shirt and he always had the stump of a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. Rueben stepped forward and inserted a key into Martin's lock. He swung the door open and stood squinting at Martin as he spoke in his squeaky voice.

"Eet wahs a crime scene for a few weeks, until the flu. Theen everybody, they talk about you helping the country by warning on thee computers. So I keep an eye on your place for yous. You see!" he said gesturing with a sweep of his arm towards Martin's living room. There was lots of looters but I shoots at them."

"Thanks", said Martin. "Guess it was kind of rough here huh?"

Rueben nodded. "Almost all left the city after a couple of weeks, no electricity, no water. They left for the country. I tried to but the interstate was all blocked with abandoned cars. So I took off on foot down US1 but was ambushed. I hads to run for my life. Once the U.N. Soldiers came I just stayed here. Welcome back."

Martin walked into his old apartment and closed the door behind him. It seemed as if it was years rather than months since he had been there. It was musty smelling. Martin found his bedroom just as he left it, the laptop still open and laying on the unmade bed. Martin threw the lights on. There was electricity. He plopped onto the bed and plugged his in computer. He tried to access the internet in an attempt to get some news but there was no internet to log onto. He turned the TV. on. Flipping through the channels he found only static. The soldiers were wrong thought Martin, there were no old movies, and there was no television. Martin fell onto his bed. He thought of his cozy cottage at Saint Mary's. His apartment seemed as sterile and gloomy as the Dedlock's Lincolnshire estate. The little cottage on the bay burned as warm and inviting in his thoughts as Mister Peggotty's boat. Martin stood up and walked over to his refrigerator. He opened it to retrieve some bottles of water. The stench of the rotten food made him nearly vomit. He slammed the door closed. He retrieved an old thermos, some pictures of his family and some clothes which he tossed into a garbage bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out of his apartment and opened his car. Tossing the bag into the back he turned the key. The engine turned over!

The Volkswagen rolled out of the parking lot and out onto the empty streets of Miami. It felt strange after so long to be back behind the wheel. The car was yet another reminder of his previous life. Martin's life prior to his asylum at Saint Mary's made him extraordinarily uncomfortable. For the life prior to the plague was simply an existence, the condition of which was dictated by others. He felt ashamed that he had not stood on the principals upon which he had grown up, those instilled in him by his father and by his community. Martin drove past relics of the old Miami and evidence of the violence that had erupted during the flu. The veneer of civilization was extremely thin. Abandoned cars littered the road and Martin slalomed amongst the relics. Onward Martin drove progressing down empty streets, passing only couriers on bikes and motorcycles. Martin now came upon a large open area overgrown in weeds and knee high grass. He slowed his car, stunned as he realized that this was once a country club's golf course, now wild with neglect.

Unaccustomed to driving Martin suddenly realized that he had best check his gas. "Oh crap." He muttered to himself when he saw that the gas gauge read "empty." His only option was to press on until he ran out of gas. Martin turned on his radio in an effort to distract himself from the inevitable. There was only dead air on the FM band. He switched over to AM and was surprised to discover that there actually was a man reporting on a massive earthquake in Missouri and to Martin's astonishment he learned that the Arc had collapsed. "What the hell is going on with the world?" he muttered. He turned off the radio. He had no idea where he could find gas so he drove on. Looking up he was alarmed to see that the road ahead was blocked by a car and two pickups. He slowed the car as he approached the road block. His apprehension grew as he saw men hopping down out of the pickups and some were armed with shotguns. One of them stepped in front of his car and raised his hand to signal him to stop.

"How ya doin?" asked the man in the road.

"Alright. What's goin' on?"

The man leaned down to get a better look at Martin. He glanced over his shoulder at the others who were standing behind him. "Why this is the neighborhood road block. Ya know about the road blocks don't ya?"

"Well, not really, this is my first time driving in a long time. I was at my church."

"Oh, I see. Well pretty much every neighborhood will have a road block or two around the roads coming into the neighborhood. It's to watch for looters or punks but that has pretty much calmed down since the city and the communities have executed a lot of trash. Where you headin'?"

"My church, Saint Mary's."

One of the men leaning against a truck spoke, "I know where that's at. That's down by the causeway, by the bay."

The first man spoke, "You'll probably go through a couple more roads blocks. Don't stop for anybody on the road. There are still some bad seeds hiding out there."

"O.K., thanks." responded Martin. The man stepped back and Martin drove onward.

Martin had not driven very far down the empty roads when the car sputtered and gasped before the engine died altogether. Martin struggled against the now stiff steering wheel to guide it over to the side of the road to join the dozens of other abandoned vehicles which lined the roads of Miami. Martin stepped out of his car and surveyed his surroundings; he still had a ways to go. There was not another person to be seen. Martin grabbed his bag full of clothes from the back seat. He began to walk along the road, noticing mute testaments to the violence that had occurred. The death and cruelty that was ushered in by the virus now seemed to have retreated under the light of a new day but a day that was beginning to fade and Martin was still on foot in the streets of Miami. If he kept a steady pace he figured that he would arrive at Saint Mary's just before sunset.

Martin strolled down the middle of Biscayne Avenue, now devoid of the bustle and congestion and resplendent in nature. The evening sea breeze stirred the palm fronds in a rustling chorus accompanied by songbirds. Martin was startled by the sound of voices. He froze where he was, looking about in a panic for the source of the voices. He saw a woman talking to a young girl on a bike across the street from where he stood. Martin watched as the woman patted the girl on her back and said, "Be quick about it now. Off with you! Be careful dear!" The girl peddled past Martin, smiling as she passed him. Martin now saw the back pack on her and realized that she was a courier. The woman went to turn back down the street she was standing on when she noticed Martin. She walked towards him and Martin met her half way.

"How ya doin'?", she said with a broad smile. She was a short and chubby woman, obviously Cuban. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a bright floral shirt and olive drab Bermuda shorts with slip on white tennis shoes. "My name's Consuelo, everybody calls me Connie. I'm the neighborhood warden here", she said extending her hand.

Martin took it smiling as he said, "I'm Bruce. Bruce Martin."

"Pleased to meet you Bruce, where ya comin' from?"

"Miami Shores."

"Oh my, you must a been walkin' all day!"

"No, my car ran out of gas about three or four miles back."

"Where ya headin', if ya don't mind my askin'."

"I'm trying to get to my church, Saint Mary's."

"Is that the church on the bay just past the causeway?"

"Yea that's the one."

"Yea, I know that church. You still have a way to go and the day is getting on. Come with me Bruce and I'll getcha a ride."

"Wow! I appreciate that."

"No problem. Just up the street here are some of my friends at a road block. We'll get one of 'em to get ya to your church," she said looking up at Martin, her eyes squinting against the bright rays of a sinking sun. "I was a teacher before the flu. What did you do?" Connie inquired.

"A reporter," Martin responded. Connie stopped short, her whole demeanor changing. She stared suspiciously at Martin.

"Yea", continued Martin, "I worked for the Biscayne Sun. I stumbled upon the story of the flu while doing a story on the Coast Guard. It came into the country in cocaine ya know. I tried to warn people, I put everything that I knew on YouTube but the government came after me. I went into hiding."

"Yea, yea I've heard of you! You're the reporter that alerted everybody to what was going on, even when the government was feeding us the typical bunch of crap. You are something of a celebrity ya know." Connie's defensive posture melted away as she spoke. "We're almost there, c'mon just a little further." The two walked a little further down the road until they came upon several trucks blocking the road. A dozen heavily armed men and women milled around the trucks.

Connie raised her hand to greet the people. They responded in kind. Connie introduced Martin to the group. They too were gathered around a radio. Connie explained to Martin that Saint Louis had been devastated by an earthquake. She went on to explain that they were all also praying for Eastern Europe.

"What happened in Europe?" asked Martin. Connie looked at him in disbelief. "You kiddin' me? The asteroid!"

"What asteroid?"

"You're serious. The Ukraine area was hit by a big asteroid. We all saw it streaking across the sky at night, a few weeks ago."

"Oooh! Yeah, I remember seeing that!" exclaimed Martin realizing that he too had witnessed the asteroid the night that he had ventured into the city and was captured by the National Guard.

"Yeah," continued Connie, "it threw so much dust into the atmosphere that it contaminated most of the lakes and rivers in Europe and most of Asia, crazy times huh? A lot of people swear that it is the end times. Just watch the sunset, the sky seems to be on fire. They say it's because of all of the dust in the sky."

"I've heard several people comment on the comet..."

"Asteroid!" injected Connie.

"Asteroid," continued Martin, "calling it Wormwood from the book of Revelations."

"Who knows? If they're calling it Wormwood then it is Wormwood! Strange and frightening times," said Connie.

"Speaking of the end, it's nearly the end of the day...we had better get you to where you need to be before it gets dark. Enrique, can you please give Mister Martin here a ride down to the causeway. Do you know Saint Mary's, the old Catholic church down there?"

A tall elderly Hispanic man with curly salt and pepper hair hopped down out of the bed of an old truck. Martin recognized him instantly as classic Little Havana, a white t- shirt, faded jeans and leather sandals.

"Yes, I know the place", he said while seizing up Martin. The man motioned towards his truck, inviting Martin to get in. The truck was an old truck, a very old truck but in pristine condition. Getting in Martin felt as though he had just entered a portal into nineteen sixty nine. "Nice truck." commented Martin.

"Thanks, I restored it all myself." said Enrique with obvious pride. "This used to be my job."

"What do you do now?"

"I work with the community redevelopment workforce; I'm a heavy equipment operator...that is when we can find enough diesel."

"Community workforce, what is that?"

"Local governments have volunteers, well some are volunteers, some get paid, mostly in food or something else, money isn't worth a whole lot right now. But anyhow there are groups organized to kind of redo the city. Miami is all sprawled out but now the different neighborhoods are tearing down old apartments buildings, strip malls that kind of thing. Even the Pork and Beans neighborhood is into this. You haven't heard of this?" Martin shook his head. As the truck rolled along the shadows of late evening interrupted the golden light here and there. "Yea," Enrique continued, "I heard that they are over by the old port tearing up roads and digging canals where the road used to be. Eventually they will open it up into the bay so it floods with sea water. These are going to be aquaculture. I know that an old rundown apartment building that we ripped up is a farm...Miami is changing! What do you do Mister Martin?"

"Nothing as constructive as that. Actually nothing. I used to be a reporter." Enrique's eye brows raised in surprise. "I know, I know," explained Martin, "that people hate reporters and with good cause. They had become not much more than propagandist, but it was me that first stumbled on the flu and went on the internet to warn everybody."

"I have heard of you, not by name but of a reporter that tried to warn us all but we heard that the government had killed you."

"They tried, I had to hide out and then my friends all came down with the flu."

"They tried to get anybody who did not submit to them and when that was pretty much the whole country they called their commy friends in the U.N. The U.N. actually sent troops, mostly Mexicans, but the people gave those wimps a real quick shellacking'! Man, I'm a marieleeto and I mean to tell ya that I never thought that once I got out of Cuba I would be havin' the government come after me again! Crazy Times!"

Martin nodded his concurrence. Enrique turned off the road onto a side road and slowed as the rolled up to what looked to be a park. "Look, see!" said Enrique pointing into the park. Martin chuckled at the sight of a white armored vehicle and a white battered helicopter. "U.N., both caught by local militias."

"What happened to the soldiers?"

"They were sent home."

"Dead?"

"As door nails" said Enrique as they continued on. "We took the vehicle and chopper and turned them into a memorial for those who died fighting the globalist."

"How many?" asked Martin.

Enrique shrugged, "Don't know, I think like a dozen or so."

"It's a sad time we live in", commented Martin. "I've seen a lot of memorials but mostly of the flu victims."

"Yes, I lost my wife to the flu. My son and his family live in Virginia so I do not know how they are. How about you?"

"I have no family. My Father passed away years ago and my mom bailed on me."

The old truck rolled up to the Saint Mary's parking lot. "Here you go Mister Martin, safe and sound."

"Thanks Enrique, good luck to you."

"There is no such thing as luck, only what we make of our situations and God's blessings."

"Then God bless you Enrique", said Martin with a smile as he shut the door. The old truck rolled on into the long shadows of late afternoon. Martin turned and walked back towards the gate. The sun was falling rapidly. It's brilliance filtered by the dust of Wormwood. Once again Martin marveled at the bipolarity of Earth. Before him was a beautiful sunset created by an event that brought death to millions. Slipping through the gate he walked into the darkness of the oak hammock. He came upon the old coquina wall surrounding the graveyard. The graves that he had dug were adorned with fresh flowers. Martin walked up to father Ryan's door and knocked.

# Chapter Fifteen

The door slowly opened to reveal Father Ryan. "Bruce! This is a surprise, is everything alright?"

"Yea Father I was, uhm, well I was wondering if I can stay in my old cabin out back."

"Well sure but what happened to your place? Oh my, was it looted?"

"No Father, it just reminds me of how it used to be, of how I used to be. I'm different now and it just seems, I dunno, weird, it makes me uncomfortable, ya know?"

"I'm sure that many people feel that way these days Bruce, we've all changed, everything has changed. Come on in and I'll get the key" said the Priest as he opened the drawer of the small table next to the couch. "Here ya go Bruce", said the clergyman as he handed Martin the keys to the cabin. Martin bid him a good night. He walked along the familiar path back to the warm and safe shelter of the little cabin. The reflections of lights now danced upon the water of the bay. Arriving at the cabin, he opened the windows, a warm breeze flowed into the little house, the wind carried the scent of the sea. He tossed his backpack onto the threadbare couch and rummaged through it to pull out several books. He sorted through them before selecting one, the Lord of the Flies. Martin read deep into the night.

Dawn of the next day found Martin already up and sitting on the front porch. There was a symphony of the early morning ringing all around the little cabin. Birds sang in the trees. Choruses of cicada celebrated the warm summer air and off in the distance the deep resonant barking of dogs. Martin rocked slowly in the weathered old rocking chair while contemplating how he should make a living in this new world.

"Mornin' Bruce!", a familiar voice called out.

Martin looked out across the grass field still sparkling with dew in the warm early light of a summer morning. He focused on a lone figure strolling along the path; it was Leah. Standing, Martin waved to her.

"Hey, Father Ryan said you were here. What's up?? Everything OK?"

"Yeah, I just couldn't stand being in my old place. I dunno, it's weird, like I didn't like my old life, or even who I was back then, ya know? I just sat there thinking about that terrible night when those cops came for me and how you and I barely got away and I dunno, this place just seems calm and peaceful. Like I said, it's weird."

"Yeah, I can see that", Leah said as she hopped up onto the porch railing. "We've all changed a great deal. I mean, nobody is the same as before all of this happened. Listen, you're gonna need some food. Father Ryan and I are going to the neighborhood co-op, ya wanna come?"

"The what?"

"The co-op, you know the neighborhood co-op, it's like a farmers market from the neighborhood farms and peoples gardens. There's also meat there, mostly game. Got any gold?"

Martin shook his head to indicate that he had none. "Back home I have some rings and stuff."

"I'll buy this time. They also do a bartering system, food for labor or whatever you have to offer. Money isn't worth much these days."

"The dollar wasn't worth much before the attack either", chuckled Martin.

"Got any of those plastic shopping bags lying around?"

"Yea I do!" Martin retired to the cabin interior and returned a moment later with a handful of bags.

"Great! You'll need 'em. Ready?"

The two friends met the Priest and together they left the sanctuary that was Saint Mary's and strolled down the streets of Miami. Before long the streets became busier with people, bikes and even the odd truck loaded with produce. After a half hour's walk they arrived at Bicentennial Park. Tents and canopies were scattered all across the park. The breeze off of the Bay wafted the smells of cooking food through the swirling crowd. The air was bustling with the voices of barter. Moving through the crowd was soldiers, carrying weapons slung over their shoulders. It was the greatest crowd of people that Martin had seen in many months. Leah stopped at one tent that had loaves of bread scattered across long tables.

"What's that loaf there?" Leah inquired, pointing to a loaf of bread.

"Country, white" replied a robust, red faced woman brandishing a broad smile.

"How much?" asked Leah.

"A link, if ya have it."

Leah dug out of a little change purse a single link of a gold chain. She handed it to the lady who then inspected it closely and bit it.

"Very good then, 'ere ya go", said the lady as she bagged up the loaf of bread and handed it to Leah.

As the three friends wondered through the milling crowd Martin began to realize that he was witnessing something special. It was that quintessential American characteristic of self-reliance. Instead of American society crumbling the communities came together. There was a real sense of community and respect for one another and a display of patriotism, as flags flew everywhere. Talking to people in the crowd Martin got a sense that they were proud of the fact that they had taken their country back from the "elites" as they were now referred. It soon became apparent to Martin on just how he would support himself in the revitalized Miami; he was going to start a newspaper, one reporting unbiased straightforward news. Martin's thoughts were shattered by the sound of a train coming into the park's station. People began moving in mass towards the station; something was going on.

When Martin and company arrived in front of the station he could see a middle aged man standing on something that elevated him slightly above the crowd. He wore a blue dress shirt with no tie and the collar unbuttoned. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and the shirt was darkened here and there by perspiration. The man held a hand aloft to signal silence. The crowd complied with his mute request. "I am the interim secretary of Transportation of this great nation of ours", he began. "Now is the time to reshape our nation and it has fallen to us to repair the decades of neglect by those who occupied Washington prior to this horrific attack. But, being Americans we shall rise to the challenge as we always have and we will improve our nation in the form that our fore fathers envisioned and dedicate ourselves to the principles and morals which has made this nation great. I am calling upon all of you to serve. President Kennedy said it best all those years ago, 'Ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you can do for your country.' Your country needs each and every one of you and so does your fellow citizens. Take a look around you. Look into the face of your fellow citizens standing here with us today. God has ordained that we should survive this horrible plague. Why? I believe it is upon us to rebuild the greatest experiment in the history of humanity; a nation governed by the people and for the people." The crowd burst into a thunderous applause. The Secretary continued, "I urge all of you to employ the skills you have to improve your community and to help all of us attain the same..." the Secretary halted his speech and dropped his head momentarily as though searching for the right words,

"..Make that, a higher standard of living than we had before. A better life, one closer to our God and our environment and our community, our families and one another. I am here to recruit any who have construction experience. All levels of experience from engineers to laborers, all are needed and just as important as the next, for without the strong backs to implement the vision of an engineer, the project cannot happen. Your nation is working on a new interstate system, rail system, dams and much, much more.

For some of the specifics on pay, boarding et cetera, we have some handouts here. If you are interested we can certainly use you. If not on a national level, I urge all of you to serve in your communities any way you can; your country and your neighbors need you!"

The Secretary continued to speak but his voice was subdued by Martin's thoughts. Bruce Martin realized that he was living through one of humanity's most momentous events. This was history and it presented an extraordinarily unique opportunity to participate in these events. He had been a journalist and was a very good journalist but had always been suppressed by the agenda of the press. He now knew how he would support himself in the new America; he would start a newspaper, a real newspaper. This paper would be filled with real news and actual facts unlike the papers of yesterday. The excitement ripped through him as he became conscious of Leah's voice.

"You ready to head back Bruce? I've got everything I needed for dinner. Father Ryan has a guest, another priest, coming."

The three walked back to Saint Mary's, Martin mulling over his plan in his mind while Father Ryan and Leah chatted about the projects the nation and towns were undertaking. "OK, see you later Father. Dinner will be around five."

Martin was surprised that they were already at the back of the church. He was so deep in thought that he scarcely remembered the walk or any of the conversation. Entering eah's apartment he sat down at the table and began to jot down ideas for the name of his paper. Leah pulled out some venison that she had bought at the market.

"Bruce could you be a dear and pick me some Blackberries that are growing behind your cottage. I hope they are still there."

Martin stopped his scribbling and looked up. "Yeah they're still there. What a ya gonna do with berries? You making a pie?"

"No, it's for a sauce that goes with the venison. It's from a recipe I saw once on the old cooking show Two Fat Ladies."

"Oh yeah, I remember them. I enjoyed that show even though I'm not much of a cook. How many berries do ya need?" he asked laying his pencil down.

"About half full", she said handing him an old Easter basket.

"OK but aren't you starting dinner early?"

"Oh no, just trimming the venison and prepping, we have a guest tonight. Father Ryan has a new priest who just arrived from somewhere in the Caribbean. He is being recalled to the Vatican but they are not quite sure how he is going to get there."

"Being recalled? Is he in some kind of trouble or what?"

Father Ryan said that the Holy Father has asked for him. Apparently the Holy Father has the flu and of course that is not good."

"The Pope is sick with the flu? What is this guy, some kind of doctor or something? That's kinda weird; I mean to have the flu at the Pope's age. This flu hits mostly young or middle aged people." Leah just shrugged and with that Martin departed heading back to the woods behind his cottage to pick blackberries.

Martin soon returned with the basket full of Blackberries. Opening the door he was greeted with the delightful aroma of frying venison and baking bread. Leah was standing over the oven, wooden spoon in hand, tending to a skillet full of sizzling medallions of meat. "Oh, thanks Bruce, just set them there", she said pointing to the counter. Leah walked over and dumped the berries into a colander and began rinsing them. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Martin asked. "No, I'm good, we should be eating in a half hour or so", said Leah. Martin responded, "Think I'll go wash up, it's pretty warm and I was sweating in the woods."

Martin returned to Leah's just as the sun began its descent towards the western horizon. The dust which was thrown into the atmosphere by Wormwood filtered the light so that the sun became persimmon red with each dawn and sunset. He politely knocked on the door and was greeted by a smiling Leah.

"Bruce, this is Father Ryan's guest, Father Dlugozima." Martin walked over to the priest and shook his hand. The priest was rather tall with sweeping white hair. His eye's, which were framed by glasses, were deep blue and seemed intense to Martin but the man's demeanor was very calm, laid back. " Nice to meet you Bruce." Martin extended his hand then the four sat down to dinner. As they ate the conversation turned to Martin and his attempts to alert the nation to the attack.

"So Bruce, may I call you Bruce?" Martin nodded his approval. Father Dlugozima continued, "I hear that you are quite a rare breed of journalist. I heard that you actually warned the country that the flu was, in fact, a biological attack."

"Yes", responded Martin as he slid the bramble jelly off of the venison before cutting it.

"It started out as a story on the Coast Guard."

"Speaking of the Coast Guard, did you ever find out what happened to the Courageous? "Leah inquired.

"No. Nobody seems to know a thing about them. They just disappeared."

"Most likely eliminated would be my guess", said Father Dlugozima.

"Well, now", interjected Father Ryan, "Let's hope not. Perhaps they have been deployed somewhere. Nothing is as it should be in these hard times ya know. Leah the food is heavenly and I should know, I'm a priest", chuckled Father Ryan.

"That's bad", remarked Father Dlugozima. Father Ryan seemed a little put off by the other priest negative comments. "You must forgive Father Dlugozima. His job has exposed him to the evil in the world and I'm afraid it has jaded him."

"You are probably right" replied Father Dlugozima.

"Oh, what is your job Father?" Martin inquired.

But before the priest could answer Father Ryan responded, "He is something of a specialist among priest. What is this meat Leah? Like I said it is great"

Martin's curiosity was not put off by Father Ryan's clumsy attempt to divert attention away from Dlugozim'a specialty. "So Father, just what exactly is your specialty?"

Martin noticed that the question had stopped Father Ryan's fork mid-way to his mouth. The two priests exchanged nervous glances before Dlugozima sat erect in his chair and looked Martin squarely in the eyes and answered, "I am an exorcist"

"Wow!", exclaimed Leah most unexpectedly. "You mean like in the movie? That must be fascinating. Do tell me more. How many have you performed? Where? Here in America?"

"The Caribbean most recently but all around the world. Evil manifest itself everywhere Leah. Your curiosity surprises me" said Dlugozima. "And no it is not as in the movies, it is nowhere near as dramatic. Evil often manifests itself in very subtle ways, although some demons are very aggressive, but let us speak of more pleasant things." Leah persisted, "Forgive me Father but I think that I have seen something, or someone...I don't really know who or what but I keep seeing this person, I can't tell if it is a man or a woman but it is beautiful." Martin was cutting his meat and stopped in mid stroke, keen to hear Leah's description of what he himself had seen. "Oh really?" asked Father Dlugozima skeptically.

"Oh yes", continued Leah. He or she, or whatever is very alluring, very sensual. It's like I said, I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I see him here and there, just a glimpse", said Leah turning to Martin. "The first time was the night the Sun burned down, I saw him in the crowd as we drove by. He looked right at me and smiled."

Martin just sat there, staring at Leah as if he were struck dumb. Father Dlugozima noticed Martin's reaction. "You have seen him too?" Martin blinked. Then Father Dlugozima turned to Father Ryan who was happily stuffing venison down his throat. "Well Father Ryan, it seems that God has delivered two of his treasures to you."

Father Ryan stopped eating, "this is what you believe? Do you really think that they can see Satin?"

"Yes," responded Father Dlugozima as he pushed himself away from the table and stood. "The end times are near. The forces of darkness move across the world, becoming more brazen with each passing day. Just look at what has become of the world man! You are sitting in the ruins of a once modern city. Wormwood has fulfilled the prophecies and decimated a third of the planet. Plagues and wars are everywhere."

"You are the expert; I am but a parish priest".

Father Dlugozima turned to Martin, "You are a journalist. It seems that you have favor with God. You too Leah. Would the two of you care to join me on my trip to the Vatican?"

"Why?" asked Martin. "I mean, that's very generous of you but why do you want us to go?"

"There is a story there, one of the greatest ever known to humanity. The Holy Father is ill and has summoned me. I leave in two days."

"How? There are no flights, are you going by ship?"

"No, a Vatican jet is being sent for me."

"But what about the travel restrictions?"

"I would love to go!", exclaimed Leah. "Bruce isn't this exciting? Come on Bruce, say you'll go!"

"I can't, my paper, it's just getting off the ground. I really couldn't."

"Oh come on Bruce", coaxed Leah.

Father Ryan set his knife and fork down and after wiping his mouth with his napkin he announced, "Well Bruce, this was supposed to be something of a surprise but I am afraid that I must inform you before you go off to Italy. They are planning on having a big Fourth of July bash in your honor, here at Saint Mary's! There will be a barbecue, fireworks and a plaque recognizing your cabin as a national historic site."

"Wow Bruce! That is so cool!" chirped Leah.

"Yeah but you were right there with me, it was you who knew how to get it on the internet", Martin protested. Leah just smiled at him but Martin was not smiling.

Martin had enjoyed the shelter that his little cottage had provided. He felt rather betrayed by Father Ryan. After all, he had sought sanctuary and now his sanctuary was to be thrown open to the world. Finishing his dinner Martin rose to his feet and thanked Leah for a nice meal. He bade the two priests a good night. Father Ryan, oblivious to Martin's distress continued, "What? So soon? We were going to watch the Wild Wild West! Channel Six is showing all the old shows."

"No thanks Father. I'm pretty tired. I think I'll just head home." Arriving at his cottage Martin plopped down onto his worn and comfortably familiar couch. He turned on the TV. and watched the Wild Wild West.

For the next two days Martin occupied himself by roaming the streets of Miami seeking out stories. But for Martin, who happened upon one of the greatest stories in history, writing about the new face of Miami was less than thrilling. On the afternoon of Leah's departure he wandered back towards Saint Mary's with a heavy heart. The Priest and his friend were scheduled to depart at seven thirty. Martin wandered along the path that they had walked together so many times. He sat on his seat which overlooked Biscayne Bay. The flotilla of every sort of vessel imaginable had disappeared, even the banker's boat. Martin wondered what had become of it. He wondered what had become of the Banker's children who he was so worried about. He wondered if his mother had survived the plague. She would now be in her sixties so he guessed that the virus had probably skipped her as it targeted the young and healthy. He wondered about all of the people he had encountered in his life. He wondered what would now become of Leah. He wondered what would become of him? Martin was lost in deep thoughts when he noticed that the air had assumed a golden glow, that light which heralds the approaching nightfall. He twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. He had a sickening feeling of sadness and profound loneliness when he saw that it was now seven fifteen. He rose and strode through the mangroves which arched over the path standing on bundles of spindly legs. The air became cool, almost chilly. The world was no longer the same. The summer evenings, even as far south as Miami, now carried a chill, as all of life seem to be devoid of warmth.

When Martin arrived at the little row of apartments he saw that the two priests were already putting luggage into the trunk. Leah, tall and slender was standing off to the side. She seemed to sense that Martin was there. She turned and smiled at him, the chilly breeze sweeping her hair across her face. She pulled her hair back and approached Martin. He stood still, his senses seeming to have abandoned him. He was unaware of anything but the vision of Leah walking towards him, seemingly in slow motion. She spoke, "Well my dear friend, I am not going to cry because I am not going to say goodbye. I'll be back." Martin managed a feeble smile. "Ya OK?" she inquired. Again Martin smiled weakly and said, "Yeah. I sure am going to miss you Leah." and he stopped short, daring not to say more for fear of his voice cracking and betraying his anguish. He looked into her eyes as green and warm as summer grass. She leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek. Father Dlugozima stepped forward and shaking Martin's hand bade him farewell. The car slowly turned and drove down the dirt road towards the old gate. The scene became blurred under a welling of emotion in Martin's eyes, only to become clear once more as the emotions breached his eyelid and flowed across his cheeks. He turned and walked back towards the bay. He sat at his spot overlooking the water and watched as the west reveled in veils of swirling and shifting pink and gold and orange. The blue to the east steadily became darker and darker as it flowed ever westwards chasing the lights, pushing them closer and closer to the horizon. The gentle lapping of the waves was suddenly disrupted by a strange sound. A sound that would have been familiar enough just six months ago but this noise had all but disappeared; it was the sound of a jet. Martin rose to his feet and turned to watch it climbing up into the darkness. "It's gotta be Leah's jet", he thought. He watched until the sound was overwhelmed by the crickets and the blinking red lights of the plane were consumed by the night. Martin walked back to his cabin completely alone in the world.

On the morning of July the third Martin was awakened by the sound of hammering accompanied by voices. Still half asleep, he walked across the tiny living room and out onto the front porch, shielding his eyes against the brilliant morning light. All across the field was groups of workers erecting tents and tables. Next to the shore they were building a wooden stage. After a breakfast of a grapefruit and tea, Martin grabbed a ring that had belonged to his mother and set out towards the city.

Martin was going to an old car lot that was now selling bicycles. The cars were still there, unattended to and rusting useless hulks as gasoline was still a rare and precious commodity. The bikes, now more valuable that the cars were kept inside on the showroom floor. Martin entered the show room and began walking up and down the rows of bicycles when a man approached him. "In the market for a bike?" he inquired with a broad smile. Martin nodded, "I like this one", he said pointing to a mountain bike. "My job", he continued, "will take me all over the city. This will be perfect."

"Old job or new job?" asked the salesman.

"Pardon?" responded Martin.

"Are you still doing what you did before the flu or have you reinvented yourself like most have."

"Same, well a little different. I was a reporter and now I have started my own paper."

"Without bias I hope."

"That is what the whole premise of my paper is based on."

"Well that's good. I am in a similar situation. I used to own the car dealership, well still do, I guess. Ya see nobody wants those cars out there. Detroit no longer exist and the property is mortgaged but the banks are all gone, so who knows what is going on. But I figured that people still need to get around so I started gathering and reconditioning bikes and have done alright."

"Good deal, ya gotta be flexible these days huh?" said Martin.

The salesman nodded his concurrence as he rolled the bike over to Martin. Want to take her around the salesroom, see how ya like it?"

"Sure."

After a quick loop around the showroom Martin rolled up to the man, brakes squealing him to a stop. Throwing his leg over the bike Martin dismounted and thrust his hand into his pocket to produce his mother's ring. "That should cover it. That is a carat emerald there and 24 carat gold."

"That's way too much", said the man. "You could buy three bikes for that much. Let me go get my scales and some chain and we can strike us a deal I'm sure."

"No, no need. It's a ring from somebody I really don't much care for. Thanks and good luck in your new business."

"Ok if you're sure", said the man waving.

Martin rode the bike all over the city. He watched the work going on along the old cruise ship terminals where crews were digging up roads and turning them into canals for fish farms. Martin watched as parks were turned into communal farms. By the time artin returned to Saint Mary's that evening he had rode many miles. Parking his bike on his front porch he plopped down on his couch and fell asleep.

The next morning Martin was awakened by a rapping on his door. "Morning Bruce", grinned Father Ryan. "What time is it Father?" Martin asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Seven thirty. I made breakfast for us. It's your big day, ya know." Martin enjoyed a large breakfast of eggs and fried bologna. Father Ryan and Martin visited as they had in the beginning of the nightmare. Martin rather enjoyed the Priest's company and found a solace that he had not felt for some time. When the noon hour arrived the two friends made their way along the path with dozens of strangers, all moving towards the field and Martin's little cabin. Martin felt very uncomfortable with so many intruders in his sanctuary.

Arriving at the stage Martin experienced a wave of anxiety when he saw a couple of hundred people scattered across the field. After the mayor and acting governor made their obligatory speeches they beckoned Martin to join them on the stage. They handed Martin a silver plaque which read, "In recognition of the selfless bravery and patriotism exhibited by Bruce Martin, journalist. In the finest tradition of true journalism and at great risk to his personal safety, Bruce warned his fellow Americans that a great influenza pandemic was, in fact, an act of terrorism. This was in direct contradiction to the official explanation of the corrupt government officials." Martin managed a feeble smile and a wave to the cheering crowd. He scampered down the steps of the stage and was besieged by a swirling crowd of well-wishers. As he moved through the crowd his hand was grabbed and shook, his back was slapped in a congratulatory gesture. Martin saw on young man push his way up through the mob. He reached down and grabbed Martin's hand and began shaking it vigorously.

"So you Bruce Martin?", asked the young man anxiously. Martin nodded.

"So you live in that little house over there by those woods?" Martin nodded again. The young man tightened his grip on Martin's hand and yanked him towards him while simultaneously punching him in the stomach. Martin was confused. He felt the dull ache that such a blow produces. He looked into the young man's eye. He looked back into Martin's. Martin felt something warm and wet running down his legs. He looked down and saw the black hilt of a large butcher knife protruding from his stomach. At the same time he heard screams and yells. As he swooned and fell to his knees he was jostled by people rushing past him to subdue his assailant. Martin could hear the young man screaming, "He killed my brother. He shot my brother." Martin could hear other cries for paramedics. He saw Father Ryan's face leaning over him as the priest eased him onto his back, while cradling his head in the crook of his arm. Martin was now experiencing intense pain when it was suddenly swept away by the arrival of a realization. The boy must be the brother of the man Martin had shot months ago. Martin now feared for his soul. He had killed another human being. He lifted his head to look at the young man. He saw him being drug away, kicking wildly and still screaming, "He killed my brother." Martin wanted to ask the priest for absolution but his mind became a jumble of thoughts and emotions. His head dropped back down. He could feel paramedics working on him and moving him but he heard and saw nothing. He felt an intense cold creep steadily into his body. He managed to ask for the priest.

"I'm right here Bruce."

"I shot his brother", Martin whispered. "They tried to take my cabin. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Forgive me, forgive me Christ. I'm afraid to die." Exhausted, his breathing became labored and shallow and he closed his eyes. He felt the Priest touching his forehead as he administered the last rights. Martin opened his eyes and took a long deep breath. Father Ryan leaned over Martin and saw that his eyes were devoid of life. They stared blankly up at a flawless blue sky. Bruce Martin had left this world. He would come to be considered lucky.

