PlagueA Story by Lea SherynAfter the plague hits San Fransisco's LGBTQ community, it quickly spreads across the USA and the world. It is up to Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot to locate the source of the epidemic and stop it.
Plague by Lea Sheryn
Chapter
One
Waking up in a cold sweat, Ivy Masterson pulled her plaid quilt around
her. She rolled over in bed. It must be the flu, she thought to herself.
Coughing into her pillow, she ejected a blob of phlegm. The flu had been
spreading for several weeks. "Trouble
and bother,” Ivy thought through delirium. Her mind fogged. Roughly, she
snuffled her nose, feeling another globular flow down her throat.
Dealing with an illness had not been on her agenda. Sickness never
appeared on anyone’s agenda. For Ivy, it became the height of inconvenience.
Sure, she had a slow start getting her life together. However, since
moving to San Francisco, things suddenly turned upward. Yesterday, Ivy landed
her first job at a Union Square small but popular dress shop. She was supposed
to begin on the morning shift. Ivy
laid out her clothes in the bathroom. On the vanity counter, the panties and
bra sat neatly folded. Her new suit and white frilled blouse hung on the shower
rail. How could she call Maureen Tapper, the owner, to explain her
unavailability on this day of all days? It was impossible. It meant starting on
the job search again. Groaning, Ivy rolled onto her other side. A
big girl six feet five inches in height, two-hundred and seventy pounds, Ivy
was built like a brick. Her size and strength were intimidating for a woman.
The gruff quality of her voice turned people’s heads. Whether in the
relationship or career areas, it turned many prospects away. Although she put
tremendous effort into moderating her tone and making her shape a little more
appealing, landing a job became difficult. Any attempt at femininity was a
losing battle. San
Francisco opened doors for someone in Ivy’s position. It was the country’s
foremost all-inclusive city. Ivy
led an incredibly complicated life. In her younger days, no one understood her,
not even her parents or her younger brother, Oliver. It was all about
personality with her. Finding her place in the world led her to the City By the
Bay. Landing an interview in the dress shop was a huge step forward. Maureen
Tapper’s acceptance had boosted her self-esteem. Ivy’s jubilant good fortune
faded in a puff of smoke or, rather, a cough in a pillow.
Born Ivan Geoffrey Talbot, he realized he differed from the other boys
he encountered. He did not share any obvious resemblance with his brother,
Oliver, who was all boy from the very beginning. Ivan had no interest in
playing football or with trucks in the spacious backyard of his family's
multiple homes during his childhood. He longed for Barbie dolls and playing
dress-up in his mother's clothes and shoes. His
mother, Beatrice, worried when she caught him putting make-up on in the
bathroom. Calling him into his home office, his father sternly scolded him.
Oliver simply ignored him. His younger brother would not acknowledge the boy
who appeared at school wearing girl’s clothing. His parents did everything
possible to "normalize" Ivan. However, nothing worked. He wanted them
to come to grips with him being who he was.
Life could be difficult for Army Brats under normal circumstances.
Moving from pillar to post every three to four years meant a new base school
and a whole new set of friends. Occasionally the two Talbot boys would meet up
with children they had known in various places during their world travels. When
they did, rumors flew the moment they set foot in their new place of learning.
Being different in a military setting was challenging at the best of
times. Ivan endured a myriad of endless teasing, and not-so-funny pranks
repetitively played on him. Meanwhile, Oliver kept his distance. When he
reached high school, all he could think about was breaking away. He longed to
escape an intolerable situation and find a place where he fit in with similar
people. The
facts remained the facts. Ivan's father was too important a man to have a son
who wasn't a son. Retired General I. Jeff Talbot had a reputation to keep. His
life must remain without a blemish. While Oliver was the perfect replica of his
father, Ivan was the zit on the family's backside. Despite the prompting he
received from his father, it was apparent that he wasn't going to follow in the
paternal footsteps. Best leave that to Oliver, who was happy to plan for a
military career. Ollie fit in with the other boys and girls in his class.
Ivan had to transition into his own person. When he turned eighteen, he
settled everything for the family. He left home to attend Swarthmore University
in Pennsylvania with a view toward a liberal arts degree. Then, six months into
his junior year, he abruptly dropped out. There wasn’t anything wrong with the
school or his ability to achieve his degree. He needed time off to find
himself. He promised that he would return to school to complete his education
in time.
However, it remained impossible. Ivan’s inner conflicts became too great
to overcome. Without his family to support him, he drifted from place to place.
Picking up odd jobs, he worked his way south. In New Orleans, he discovered a
patron in Acatus Evergreen. His new friend understood him as no one had
previously.
Ivan met Acatus at the annual Pride Parade. The joyous day brought him
into contact with others who shared his fate. Linking arms with two male
companions, he skipped along the outer edge of the procession. Rainbow-colored
beads hung from his neck. He felt as though he were part of something big,
something exciting.
When the celebrations ended, his acquaintances asked him to join them
for drinks. He accepted with alacrity. However, as they headed toward the
nearest watering hole, a sleek black limousine pulled up alongside them. The
shaded window rolled down, and an emerging hand beckoned Ivan. Cautiously, he
approached. His companions waited on the sidewalk.
"Get in," a male voice invited, and the back door swung open.
“I’d rather not,” Ivan answered, stepping backward. “I
said, get in,” the voice reiterated.
“I’m not a gigolo,” Ivan returned, glancing toward his lingering
friends.
“I’m not looking for a gigolo,” the man calmly stated. “I have a
proposition for you.”
“Yeah, well, no thanks.” Ivan began to grow nervous. He knew better than
to approach a strange car.
“You’d rather be a woman, wouldn’t you?”
Ivan's back drew up, his shoulders squared. How did this stranger know
his deepest desire? Inadvertently, he stepped toward the limo.
“Get in.”
Throwing a look toward his nameless friends, Ivan waved them on. For a
second, it looked as though they wanted to intervene. Then, they grasped hands
and walked away. Ivan slid into the back seat. The
sixty-something man next to him inched close enough for their thighs to connect.
Behind eyeglasses as thick as old coke bottles, his nearsighted eyes ogled
Ivan. His bald head gleamed beneath the vehicle's doom light. Ivan placed a
little distance between them. Suddenly, the offer made him nervous.
"Acatus Evergreen at your service," the gentleman courteously
introduced himself. "I don't believe I caught your name."
"Ivan Talbot," Ivan responded. Instantly, Acatus lifted his
hand in a hearty shake.
"Ivan Talbot?" Acatus questioned. "Now, where have I
heard that name?" Leaning back in his seat, he racked his mind for information. “My
father is Gen. I. Jeff Talbot,” Ivan supplied.
Mirthlessly, his companion chuckled. It delighted Acatus to discover the
General's son mingling amongst the Pride celebrants.
"Well, now, Ivan Talbot, son of General Jeff Talbot, today is your
lucky day," his companion remarked, suddenly becoming serious. "I
intend to make you my special project. Your fairy godfather is going to make a
woman out of you." Moving into Evergreen’s massive mansion
became an actual turning point in Ivan’s life. Acatus laid out the course of
his life in stunning detail. For the first time, he freely expressed his true
sexuality.
Ivan underwent a sex change operation at age thirty-six with the
Evergreen fortune behind him. After undergoing hormone therapy, he changed his
name to Ivy Masterson"utilizing his mother’s maiden name.
Ivan remained Acatus Evergreen's protégé for the next seven years. The
older man delighted in their relationship.
Born in the deep south, Acatus grew up beneath the same prejudices that
haunted Ivan. In the long ago past, people did not accept homosexuality or
other such proclivities as natural. Acatus, the son of a wealthy father, carefully
hid his true desires. He dutifully married Maybelline Froman and gave her three
beautiful children. Although he cherished Allen, Tom, and Karen as a father
should, he couldn't keep himself away from handsome young men. He employed a
pimp who kept him freshly supplied with all he could desire. He also kept his
secrets well hidden.
When Maybelline died of breast cancer, Actus loyally held her hand as
she drifted away. Before she left him, she revealed her knowledge of his
clandestine life in a whisper. With his wife's passing, he openly became a part
of the LBGTQ community.
Ivy's happy days living with Acatus Evergreen abruptly ended. Suffering
a massive heart attack, his wealthy benefactor passed away. The old billionaire
neglected to leave her a legacy despite many promises. The
three surviving children swooped in, forced the mansion's sale, and left Ivy on
the sidewalk with her meager belongings. She found a small apartment in the
French Quarter and prepared for her next move. As soon as she was ready, Ivy
headed to San Francisco. The
City by the Bay! Ivy thrived in the nightlife. She met like-minded people who
understood her struggles and inner conflicts. However, she missed a meaningful
career. The arduous job search finally brought her into Maureen Tapper’s boutique.
She filled in an application and achieved an on-the-spot interview.
Maureen Tapper invited Ivy into her office. Surrounded by cartons of
newly arrived merchandise, she looked the new applicant up and down. The shop
manager knew the score right away but did not let on. She did not care who came
from where, or who they were before they arrived. In her business, she had
already seen it all. Maureen opened Che Boutique fifteen years ago with her lesbian
lover, Jackie Wentworth. The couple held meetings and organized rallies
promoting LBGTQ awareness after the shop closed. Behind the scenes, they worked
as political activists. Maureen had the mayor and a local senator in her back
pocket.
Surreptitiously eyeing Ivy, Maureen made a mental note to discover all
available information on the newcomer. If she could utilize a controversial
background to promote her agenda, Maureen would readily use it. Little did she
realize what was hidden in Ivy's past"a military background and a high-ranking officer
father. However, she knew people who knew people. And her people could dig up
plenty of dirt.
Dropping her horn-rimmed glasses from her forehead, Maureen studied
Ivy’s job application. Too many blank spaces greeted her.
"Where did you attend university?" she asked in a clear, calm
voice. She didn't wish to alarm her potential team member. Still, the required
information was necessary. Ivy
nearly said Swarthmore, then bit her tongue. If Ms. Tapper decided to check
references, she would discover Ivy Masterson had not enrolled there.
Furthermore, she would not request Ivan Talbot’s transcripts. Dejectedly, Ivy
shook her head and explained she hadn’t attended university. Nor had she ever
held down a job.
Maureen paused a moment for thought. Immediately, she noticed Ivy's
potential. References did not concern her. All she required was an ability to
run a cashier register and an outgoing personality. She saw both standing in
front of her.
Maureen hired Ivy on the spot.
"Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock." Employer and newly employed
shook hands.
Pleased with her new position, Ivy had her hair set at a nearby beauty
salon and treated herself to a new outfit. Happy to start the next day, Ivy
went home to her small apartment and prepared for her first work day. Ivy
laid out her new navy skirt and matching jacket. Her frilly white blouse hung
on the shower rail. A DDD cup bra and brief panties lay folded on the vanity
counter. Serviceable brown square heeled shoes waited on the floor.
Feeling a little woozy, Ivy stumbled into bed at one o’clock in the
morning. Brushing it off as the extra activity of the day, she thought she
would feel better in the morning. However, sometime in the night, she awoke to
a miserable feeling. Thinking it was the flu, she felt the deep disappointment
of having to phone Maureen in the morning. It devastated her to beg off from
work. Indeed it was not the way to start a new career. Ivy
tossed and turned in her blankets, racked with intermittent fever and chills
for five days. A small round bubble appeared underneath her left breast on the
sixth day. The next day, a second bubble appeared on her groin. At first, she
didn't understand. Then it occurred to her that it must be a side effect of her
operation. No big deal, she decided. Once she was well enough, she would see a
doctor and have it examined. In
her delirium, Ivy's mind wandered. Visions of her mother's worried looks
floated behind her eyes. Her brother, Oliver, kept his distance. Once again,
her father's sharp words cut into her heart. As
Ivan, he longed for acceptance. He loved his parents and his younger brother.
In that, he had no doubt. All his life, he questioned their love for him.
Re-emerging as Ivy, the past lay in the past. She moved forward without
a history, without a family. Acatus Evergreen held responsibility for her new
life. Ivy remained grateful to her benefactor. Eventually, Maureen might take
Acatus' place in her heart.
Tossing and turning, Ivy sweated beneath the plaid quilt. The bubbles
grew and throbbed beneath her armpit and in her groin. Her tiny apartment
pulsated as an incubator for the plague.
On
the seventh day, Ivy Masterson passed away. By
the end of the following week, the lead stories on all the San Francisco
newscasts declared that nine people, all a part of the LBGTQ community, had
died of the plague.
Chapter
Two
Plague. The
word hung in Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot’s mind. On the desk lay a classified memo.
It arrived early that morning. Picking it up again, he studied it in
consternation. The word “plague” stood out, stunning him. He believed the
eradicated disease finally disappeared around 1959.
Sitting at the edge of his chair, Lt. Col. Talbot considered his
knowledge concerning the malady. The illness consisted of three different
types: the bubonic plague that infected the lymph glands. It received its name
from the bulbous that grew beneath the armpits and on the groin. The bite of
fleas by regurgitation of infected blood into the veins transmitted the
pestilence. The Septicemic variety occurred when the lymphatics drained into
the bloodstream, causing clots throughout the body. And finally, pneumonic
plague occurs when the lungs become infected. In
1347, the bubonic plague first appeared in Europe. Also known as the Black
Death, it carried away nearly twenty million lives in the course of five years.
Throughout history, it continued to appear, most notably in 1665. Its sudden
reemergence took many by surprise. The
news broadcasts around the world grew alarming. The plague rapidly spread
through San Francisco. Causing the death of nine people, it first appeared in
the LBGTQ community. Swiftly, it moved into the general population. In
the City by the Bay, the pestilence took thirty-three lives. Another hundred
and fifteen remained quarantined in local hospitals. In the United States,
additional plague cases began appearing in New Orleans, Seattle, and Key West.
From the world perspective, Liverpool, Lima, Marrakesh, and Hong Kong counted
further victims.
Unofficially, hushed voices spoke the word Pandemic behind closed doors.
Soon, John Q. Public would begin muttering it on an everyday basis. If the
disease continued its speedy spread across the globe, world panic might set in.
What had suddenly caused the unexpected occurrence of the Plague? It was
a question the Intelligence community grappled with during the weeks since the
disease commenced.
Beginning with a port of entry in San Francisco, it apparently arrived
on an incoming flight from Tokyo. At
first, fingers pointed toward the Japanese as the source of the epidemic. However,
the theory swiftly terminated as the trail led back to Bangladesh and Ethiopia.
Finally, a trajectory concluded in Iran, where the strain originated. Then,
clandestinely, it purposely spread into the LBGTQ community of San Francisco. Lt.
Col. Talbot and his highly trained team stood ready to storm the facility. They
awaited the final directive to arrive from the Pentagon.
Team Leader of Delta Force Squadron G, the
Clandestine Operations Group, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot, commanded an elite team.
It consisted of Major Alberto Gonzalez and Master Sergeant Emil Hollister.
Sergeants Bud Cassidy, Tyrone Jones, and Carl McMillian rounded up the group.
Recently recruited from the Rangers, McMillian joined the team as the newest in
the group. Capable and determined, they were warriors focused solely on their
duties.
Receiving training at Ft. Bragg, a member engaged for Delta Force must
be twenty-one years of age and a US Citizen. An officer achieving the rank of
Captain or Major must accomplish twelve months of successful command, complete
advanced courses and be a college graduate with a BA or a BS. With four years
of minimum service/2 years of active duty remaining, NCOs must rank as an E5-E8
sergeant and receive a passing SQT score in primary MOS (Military Specialty)
with a minimum GT (General Technical) score of 110. Furthermore, they must pass
a HALO/SCUBA physical, have Airborne Qualifications, and pass security checks
with no history of disciplinary action. A rigorous physical fitness test rounded
out the qualifications.
“Plague, that’s a tough one,” Major Gonzalez’s voice broke the silence.
He burst unannounced into the space Talbot used as a temporary office. Sgt
Jones entered on his heels. No
matter how many missions they accomplished, the waiting seemed the most
challenging part. Major Gonzalez showed his impatience. Each step in their
formulated operation received approval from the Pentagon. However, they could
not proceed without the support of the President. Until the final call came
through, they waited in an undisclosed location.
“Does anyone know someone, a friend or family member, who has it?”
Tyrone Jones asked.
They concurred on a negative response.
Trained to keep their private thoughts out of their assignments, no one
entailed further details. What they were about to do would not affect anyone
personally. Oliver felt relieved.
However, an incoming text message turned Lt. Col. Talbot’s attention to
his private life.
"Hank arrived at 1340 hours,” his mother announced.
D****t! Oliver chucked his personal cell phone onto the desk. It
clattered noisily. It
occurred every time a crucial assignment arose. Where had Elizabeth gone this
time? Why did his wife feel free to disappear with her clique of girlfriends?
However, his mother had sense enough to inform him of his son’s whereabouts.
Continually, Oliver found himself in similar situations. In the face of
an imminent deployment, his wife forced him to halt his activities to locate
his only child. Was Hank with one of his grandmothers? a friend of Liz's? or
was he with an enlisted man's wife? His spouse knew how to wheedle favors. On
her worst day, she could sell snow to Santa Claus.
Spending precious time searching for the whereabouts of his child did
not top his priority list. Finally, after finding Hank in the care of an
enlisted man’s thirteen-year-old daughter, he put his foot down.
“PFC Rodrigez had transfer orders, Liz,” Oliver confronted his wife. At
the time, fury filled him. “What did you think Inez would do with Hank? Was she
supposed to take him with her?”
“She could have remained behind. I paid her enough,” Elizabeth
petulantly responded.
“What?!” Oliver advanced on her. For a moment, he believed he would
strike his wife. Then, he stayed his upraised hand. “Are you out of your mind?
Inez is thirteen.” For
the first time in their marriage, Liz held her tongue. “If
you have to play truant,” Ollie patiently stated, “Hank goes to one of his
grandparents and no one else.”
Frequently, his mother messaged him far too often.
From the beginning, the marriage failed. The second of General Thomas Amberley's
three daughters, Elizabeth Ann pinged his parents' radar. Highly suited as the
wife of an upcoming Army Officer, they pushed for a relationship between their
son and their long-time friend’s daughter. However, Oliver feigned interest.
Someone else appeared in his sights, someone equally as qualified.
Beautiful and charming, Nicola Prescott had a calming personality.
Oliver Talbot fell head over heels in love. Meeting by chance on the
Champs-Elysees in Paris, they instantly hit it off. On many occasions, they met
in different European settings. He enjoyed biking through the Cotswolds with
her and skiing in Switzerland.
Nicola provided a breath of fresh air. Joyfully, she took him away from
his everyday life. Military concerns weighed him down. He grew up an army brat
and, as an adult, transitioned into an officer's position. A graduate of West
Point, service to his country flowed in his blood.
Oliver required the occasional distraction. During his leave time, he
wished to forget the Army. Nicola planned fantastic excursions for him. When he
left her, he felt refreshed, alive. Finally, Ollie made up his mind to propose.
However, before he finalized his decision, he planned a family introduction.
"Mom, Dad, this is Nicola Prescott," Oliver introduced,
stepping up to his waiting parents. Deplaning at Dulles Airport, the couple
brimmed over with joy. Entwining their hands between them, they stood
hip-to-hip. The
Talbots arrived at the air terminal to greet their son. Inadvertently squeezing
her husband's arm, Beatrice worried her lower lip. An unexpected companion
unnerved her. In her mind, she counted ten. Then, she held out her hand to
Nicola. They exchanged warm, friendly greetings.
“Pleased to meet you,” Nicola remarked, smiling pleasantly. “Ollie
speaks highly of both of you.”
"Thank you, Ms. Prescott," the mother curtly responded. She
nearly added, "Funny, he never mentioned you." However, a swift
glance from General Jeff Talbot halted her tongue. Cordially,
the Talbots accepted Nicola’s presence. However, other thoughts filled their
mind. Beatrice intended for Ollie to marry a woman well versed in Army life.
The one in front of her arrived with no apparent connections. Oliver’s rigorous
life required an experienced protégé. In her mind, Liz Amberley appeared as a
much better choice.
“She’s unsuitable,” Beatrice hissed to Oliver when they were alone.
Once his mother hooked onto a subject, she didn't let off. For a
thousand reasons, she urged Ollie to give Nicola up. First and foremost, she
had no military affiliation. More than likely, she would not understand the
rigorous lifestyle. Moving from place to place would become a chore. An
inexperienced young woman would bog him down. Upheaving children and placing
them in new schools presented difficulties. And so on and so on.
Finally, Oliver agreed. His mother won her argument. With a heavy heart,
he informed Nicola that the marriage was off. He took the coward’s way out; he
emailed her. Then, he blocked her.
Taking his parents’ advice, Ollie courted Liz and proposed to her. He
chose a romantic setting: Honolulu. The couple, brimming with joy, made the
announcement. Immediately, his fiancée planned a huge ceremony. They took their
vows and exited the church beneath an arch of swords.
Within six months, the newlywed Talbots’ were expecting their first
baby, a boy. His wife christened the child Duff, utilizing her mother's maiden
name. Since Ivan or Oliver traditionally appeared in the generations of the
Talbot family, Ollie anticipated naming his son accordingly. Then, while he
completed a mission, Liz gave birth. His mother-in-law's following text message
shocked him. In his heart, he knew she did it for spite. Lt.
Col. Talbot flew home as soon as his mission ended. He discovered Liz snuggled
up in bed with the baby at her breast.
"Never Duff," Oliver roughly stated. He refused to greet his
wife, and he did not kiss her hello. The long flight home provided him plenty
of time to incubate his anger.
Over the course of Liz’s pregnancy, the couple discussed names at many
junctures. The name Duff never appeared in any of their conversations.
“It’s my mother’s maiden name,” the new mother countered. “I always
intended to name him Duff.” Her temper rose to the occasion.
“You never mentioned it,” Ollie flatly mentioned.
“Why should I?” Liz pertly responded. “I carried this thing in my womb
for nine months. I suffered and bloated up like a whale. Under the circumstances,
it’s my choice.”
Sure, Liz bloated up. She spent six out of the nine months in bed. Under
cover of supportive visits, her girlfriends kept her supplied with
chocolate-covered cherries. Oliver confiscated gallons of Rocky Road ice cream.
She refused all activity, claiming her pregnancy as an excuse.
Ollie kept long hours. Finding every excuse, he remained in his office
long after everyone had left. He went home only when he had to.
"You keep your Duff," Oliver finally conceded, "but, from
now on, we use his middle name, Henry."
After a time, Henry became Hank. The
marital relations between Oliver and Elizabeth Talbot ceased after the birth of
Hank. While Ollie put all his energy into his career, Liz plotted a separate
course. They shared a home and a child, but a thin line remained between them.
Oliver's heart raced when he bumped into Nicola Prescott in a DC hotel
elevator. Following several dinner engagements, they renewed their old
relationship. After completing challenging assignments, the couple met up in
clandestine places. Nic arranged a rendezvous when he texted the code words
‘Elysian Fields’.
Dear sweet Nicola! Patient and kind, she never questioned him or
expected the impossible. Oliver Talbot wished he had pledged his life to her.
Instead, he shamefully caved to his parent’s wishes and linked himself with
Liz.
Once he completed the current assignment, Ollie anticipated a flight to
Naples. Nicola arranged her transportation and rented a villa.
Firmly ensconced in the military life, Oliver led an exceptional life.
He attempted to keep his outstanding officer image as clean as possible.
However, he found himself a fallible human being. He had needs and desires.
Emotionally he felt attached to Nicola Prescott. Cold-hearted Liz could never
comprehend his strong passions. Nicola
understood him. As his marriage worsened, Oliver realized how much he required
her. He longed for their clandestine meetings. They thrilled him as much as his
military missions.
“Colonel?” Master Sgt. Hollister broke into his personal thoughts. “Yes,” Lt. Col. Talbot responded, dropping
his feet to the floor. He sat up straight behind his desk.
“The European Union enforced a travel ban. No one in or out of any EU
nation for the duration of the epidemic,” Hollister exclaimed. “A similar ban
effective for the US by the end of the day. This thing is spreading and
spreading fast.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Talbot stated, his tone dismissive.
Without a word, Hollister departed. Gonzalez and Jones, who stood by
ready for orders, shadowed him. Oh
dear God, Nicola, Oliver thought, leaning back in his chair. He templed his
fingers beneath his chin. Lt.
Col. Talbot hoped his lover had not reached her Italian destination. The
declared EU travel ban would trap her on foreign soil. It would kill him if
anything happened to her. In his most hidden places, he felt guilty for the
distress he caused her over their breakup.
Liz’s name never entered his mind.
Chapter
Three
"Death to America," Arastoo Mazanderani muttered under his
breath. "Death to America." His
white lab coat swirled as he turned away from his chemistry lab. Arastoo held a
beaker in each hand. Success lay within his grasp. He had concocted the form of
the plague currently surging in San Francisco, California, USA. In his mind, he
viewed himself as a hero. In his hands lay the destruction of the Muslim
world's long-time enemy.
Arastoo aimed to destroy those who openly flaunted the words of the
Quran.
"If two men among you are guilty of lewdness, punish both of them.
If they repent and amend, leave them alone" (Quran 4:16).
Bile rose in Arastoo's throat as he thought of the PRIDE parades in
major American cities such as San Francisco. News broadcasts of the
celebrations irked him. A white fire rushed through his blood. The
sins of America railed against all the sacred teachings of Mohammad. Instead of
repenting, the American people created a festival for those who exhibited their
vulgarities. They deserved a horrific punishment. Allah provided Arastoo with
the brains to concoct such a retribution. His strong willpower would rebuke
those who disregarded Allah's holy word. If his concoction destroyed more than
those he aimed for, all the better.
Arastoo Mazanderani did not view himself as a fanatic. His goals, he
believed, were perfectly sane. In his dreams, Allah spoke to him. If he
succeeded in destroying the LBGTQ community, his name would appear on every
true Muslim's lips. Arastoo would become venerated as a true prophet of Allah.
He imagined the praise Ayatollah Ali Khamenei would bestow upon him. For
three long years, he worked on a new strain of the Plague. Shut up in a
laboratory deep within the mountainous Takht-e-Soleiman range, he perfected his
concoction. His assistant, Zeeba Bahrami, remained isolated with him. A
solitary outpost perched across the way containing four guards. They did not
suspect the presence of the laboratory. Arastoo and Zeeba remained well
concealed. No one could discover their hidden lair among the maze of natural
tunnels within the mountains. Amongst many blind alleys, only one clear path
led to their hideaway. However, no one would think to look for them in
Takht-e-Soleiman.
Other than Zeeba Bahrami, no one knew his location. His father, Gulzar
Mazanderani, believed he worked on a secret assignment. He allowed the family
patriarch to believe he received orders from the Ayatollah himself. However,
that was not the case. Arastoo took his orders only from the Prophet Mohammad
and, ultimately, Allah.
"Allahu Akbar," Gulzar exclaimed when Arastoo gave him the news.
Although the father was not as fanatical as the son, he firmly believed in the
teachings of Mohammad. He did not understand how the Ayatollah chose Arastoo
Mazanderani for such a divine purpose. However, the honor pleased him.
Gulzar raised Arastoo in the teachings of the Quran. As long as his son
followed the correct procedures, Allah assured him a place in Paradise. Five
times a day, they knelt facing Mecca and prayed. Fajr (at dawn), Dhuhr
(following midday), Asr (during the afternoon), Maghrib (sunset), and, finally,
Isha (nighttime) marked their days. Arastoo did not mind locking himself away
from civilization for a long duration. Believing his delusions of grandeur, he
bent to his holy work. The separation from his family in Bandar Abbas did not
bother him. Although he did not fully understand, his father, Gulzar
Mazanderani, believed his work was necessary. Anahita, his mother, placidly
accepted his absence, and his wife, Yasmina, had no say in the matter. A true
believer, she lived solely by her husband's rule. It never occurred to her to
question Arastoo's actions. His sisters, BahAr and Mahasti, obeyed their
father. ******
“Allahu Akbar,” Arastoo exclaimed as a form of greeting.
Zeeba Bahrami entered the laboratory to begin the day. She covered her
knee-length black skirt and white blouse by donning a white lab coat. Her
bespectacled brown eyes met Arastoo’s, and she repeated his pronouncement. For
a brief moment, they grinned. Then they turned solemn.
Zeeba was brilliant. If she had not shown potential, Arastoo would have
passed her up. He did not particularly like to work closely with women. He
believed in the inferiority of the opposite sex. However, his female companion
provided an exception.
Similar to Arastoo, Zeeba received her chemistry degree at Oxford. They
shared many classes there and became acquainted through their common interests.
When he felt he could completely trust her, he filled her in on his zealous
plans. She immediately concurred. Fanatically
against Western Civilization, Zeeba cast a critical eye on the Brits. Her
first-hand experience confirmed her beliefs. It strengthened her faith in
Allah, Mohammad, and the Quran. Alone, in the evenings, she spoke to Arastoo
about her misgivings. The lewdness of the American people troubled her.
"Without them, the world would be a safer place," Zeeba firmly
declared. Someday soon, she believed, Sharia Law would replace their evil
practices. Muslims would overcome the Christian-run countries.
Arastoo heartily agreed.
Together, they planned to annihilate the LBGTQ community in San
Francisco. It presented a beginning. If their theories concerning the plague
worked, they planned to move on to other cities, such as New Orleans and Key West.
They never counted on the virus swiftly spreading by itself in their simple
minds. Shut off from the rest of the world, Arastoo and Zeeba naively planned
further attacks.
However, the epidemic sent its tentacles forth. Whole populations sicken.
Multitudes died. Continuing its journey across America, unsuspecting travelers
carried it to Europe and Asia.
Leading scientists remained baffled by the new strain of the once
eradicated disease. They had no means to fight it immediately. President
Abraham Q. Morton ordered America to shut down. Working people obeyed the order
to return home and isolated. The economy slid to an instant standstill. All
over the world, travel bans appeared. Civilization focused on stopping the
spread. However, once it started, it became impossible to stop.
“Here’s to success!” Zeeba announced, raising a beaker. Arastoo grabbed
one and clinked it against hers.
Absently, she pushed her thick-cut glasses back on her nose. They
constantly slid down, irking her.
“Death to America,” Arastoo practically shouted. His voice eerily echoed
back from a deep tunnel. “Death to America.”
Fortune played a part in bringing them to the Takht-e-Soleiman range.
Arastoo believed Allah cloaked their journey. Stealthily under the dark of
night, he and Zeeba moved their equipment into the caves. The climb proved
treacherous. However, they succeeded wonderfully. Even the guards across the
way had no idea they hid there. Allahu Akbar indeed.
Arastoo felt Zeeba's eyes on him. He smiled pleasantly in her direction.
Other than a working relationship, he did not find her attractive. Deep in his
heart of hearts, he did not like women. Dutifully, he married his wife,
Yasmina, through an arrangement. But demons possessed him. While he studied at
Oxford, he felt drawn to London. In the nights, an unseen force set his
footsteps toward Soho. Convincing himself he wished to leer at the gay men, an
alien pulsation throbbed in his groin. His desires awakened, and he fled. Back
in Oxford, Arastoo prostrated himself before Allah. Chastised, he solemnly
promised to annihilate lewdness from the earth. Cleansed by faith, he concocted
his plan to develop the plague and spread it into LBGTQ communities.
Zeeba Bahrami, on the other hand, deeply loved Arastoo. She entered upon
his fanatical plan to get closer to him. The severe young woman rarely felt
passion. Her mind flowed with chemical equations, not romance. Even as a
youngster, she remained an outsider amongst her schoolmates. In America, nerd
or geek described her perfectly.
Short and slim, Zeeba kept her dark hair trimmed and serviceable. Her
thick glasses caused a googly appearance in her eyes. Young men avoided her.
Defensively, she declared she hated them. She looked at Arastoo differently.
Arastoo ignored her 'come on' glances. Zeeba held back her desire to
advance the situation. She did not realize Arastoo viewed her only in the
professional sense. They shared a love of chemistry and conversed on that
topic. Other than chatter, she meant nothing to him. The
mountain laboratory reeked of sexual tension. More attune than Arastoo, Zeeba's
emotions rose. Lacking male attention in her youth drew her to reckless
behavior. A declaration of love hung on the tip of her tongue. The right look
or word from Arastoo would set her off. She felt sure he would reciprocate.
Arastoo and Zeeba continued to refine their new plague strain. As soon
as they unleashed it on New Orleans, they would become lovers. Success would
drive Arastoo into her arms. Zeeba believed it.
Hidden in their mountain hideaway, Arastoo Mazanderani and Zeeba Bahrami
innocently laid their devious plans. A half a world away, the foremost American
Intelligence Agencies zeroed in on their location within the Takht-e-Soleiman
range. Working around the clock, they quickly tracked the origin of the plague.
The Pentagon formulated a mission to reconnoiter and destroy the secret
laboratory. Congress's approval and the President's signature were the last
necessity.
Headed by Delta Force Squadron G, Lt. Col. Talbot prepared his team to
move at a moment’s notice. Lt.
Col. Oliver Talbot hated waiting; his men felt the same impatience.
Chapter
Four
BahAr Mazanderani felt awful. Sweat beaded her forehead, dripping into
her eyes. Her cheeks, resembling maraschino cherries, glowed red. Hurriedly,
she crossed The Embarcadero and headed toward Jefferson street. Her hotel, The
Radisson, loomed before her. Stumbling inside, she hunted in her handbag for
her room key.
When her brother, Arastoo, offered the trip to San Francisco, she
thought he was joking. Then, he surprised her by producing plane tickets. He
only required one small thing. Neatly wrapped in her luggage, ten small vials
hid. Each contained four to six fleas. If she could spread them around, he
would pay all her expenses. BahAr found the prank amusing. Readily, she agreed.
Fourteen days prior, BahAr arrived in California. Departing from Tehran,
she traveled to Addis Abba, Ethiopia. Then she changed planes for Dhaka in
Bangladesh. Deplaning in Tokyo, she hastily abandoned her hijab. She boarded
her next plane to San Francisco wearing skinny jeans and a crop top.
BahAr Mazanderani adored Western Culture. Along with her sister,
Mahasti, American sitcoms and pop music enthralled her. Even in Iran, blocked
internet sites were not obstacles. Topping her list of favorite pop groups, she
admired the Yum-Yums. The three young women, wearing tiger-printed leotards,
strutted across the stage and sang provocative lyrics. Then, they shimmied up
long dance poles.
BahAr dreamed of becoming a pole dancer in a Las Vegas club. When she
arrived in California, she deleted her return ticket. Once she reached the States,
she knew she would never re-enter Iran. The
city enthralled her. BahAr walked to Fisherman's Wharf every morning. Through a
morning mist, the Golden Gate Bridge soared. Alcatraz Island sat across the
channel. The harsh bark of the sea lions filled the area. Taking a deep breath
of fresh air, BahAr hugged herself and twirled. America meant freedom. Freedom
from hijabs and calls to prayer. In
the afternoon, BahAr shopped. Wandering through Union Square, she spent
lavishly. Gathering several garments, she locked herself in fitting rooms. Once
or twice, she released a vial of fleas. Arastoo cautioned her to let them go a
few at a time. Imagining the next customer getting bit, she chucked. Her severe
brother thought of the funniest games. BahAr
met Ivy Masterson in a coffee shop restroom. A tall figure stood beside her as
she washed her hands in the sink. She'd never encountered such a muscularly
built woman. At first, the young lady believed a man hovered next to her.
“Have you been in San Fran long?” Ivy asked, turning toward the hand
dryer.
BahAr's languid brown eyes roamed upward along with her companion's
husky figure. The grey skirt and paisley blouse convinced her. In the states,
women appeared in all shapes and sizes. Relaxing, she continued to soap her
hands.
“Only fourteen days,” the Iranian responded. “My brother’s treating me
to a vacation.”
"I've been here a month," Ivy remarked. She took her time
beneath the warm blowing air. "I have to get a job soon. My funds are
beginning to run low."
“Yeah, well, good luck,” BahAr cheerfully answered. Although heavily
accented, she spoke perfect English. Taking a swift glance behind her, she
emptied a flea vial into Ivy’s opened handbag.
“Good luck to you too,” the former Ivan Talbot called. Snapping her bag
closed, Ivy slung it over her shoulder.
Nonchalantly, BahAr dug in her bag for a lipstick. She applied her
make-up and exited. She did not notice the open vail or the four fleas that
crawled amongst her belongings.
BahAr Mazanderani and Ivy Masterson never crossed paths again.
******
Three days later, BahAr felt a chill, then a fever. Passing it off as
excitement, she crossed the Embarcadero and entered Fisherman’s Wharf. At the
Codmother, she ordered a fish and chip lunch. She left a balled-up napkin
containing six fleas by way of a tip. Believing she emptied the tenth one,
BahAr mentally patted herself on the back. It finalized her obligation to
Arastoo. New
plans filled the frivolous Iranian's head. Freedom beckoned her. In her mind,
BahAr imagined her sleek olive body unrestrained. Wrapped around a tall silver
pole, she slithered. The cascades of black hair enveloped her near-naked body.
Music pulsated around her; green, pink, and yellow lights flashed across the
dance floor.
Frequently she had practiced belly dancing in her Iranian bedroom. When
her father caught her, he harshly whipped her. Gulzar Mazanderani did not
tolerate lewdness in his daughter. Angrily BahAr resented his cruelty. Amongst
her peers, she railed against injustice toward women. She viewed her insipid
mother as intolerably weak. Her sister-in-law, Yasmina, fell within the same
category. Longing to escape, she used her brother’s offer as a path to
freedom.
“America!” BahAr shouted at San Francisco. Spreading her arms wide, she
ran down the sidewalk. Then, a sudden flash of heat throbbed beneath her
glistening skin. Skidding to a stop, she held her trembling hands out to steady
herself.
After a moment, the feeling passed. Slowing her step, BahAr crossed Jefferson
and approached the Radisson hotel. The cool air-conditioned lobby froze her.
Goosebumps appeared on her arms. Reaching into her handbag, she searched for
her key. Something pricked her finger; she ignored it.
Stumbling over her feet, BahAr fell into the opened elevator. Pressing
the third-floor button, she slumped against the back of the car and slid to the
floor. A
strong arm forced the elevator door open, and a man stepped in. Kasra Anvari
knelt beside his best friend's sister. Covertly, he kept an eye on her since
her arrival in San Francisco. Arastoo would not appreciate his report. He
abhorred her lewd behavior. Dressed in Western garb, BahAr flaunted her
sensuous body. He noticed roaming male and female eyes traversing her petite
form. Hot, angry blood pulsated in his veins. Many times, he stepped forward to
intervene. Then, remembering Arastoo's words of warning, he remained
unobserved. He'd kept his distance until he spied her staggering gait.
Luckily, no one else noticed the two Iranians. Kasra managed to drag
BahAr into her room. Carefully he placed her on the bed and covered her. For
three days, she tossed and turned beneath the blankets. He bathed her forehead
with a wet cloth and kept vigilance. She lost consciousness and never awoke. A
bubble appeared on her armpit; another formed on her groin.
Kasra wrapped her in the hotel bedspread when his friend's sister died.
He felt no emotion toward her. Dutifully, he cleaned up the room, removing all
traces of the young Iranian woman.
During the silent overnight hours, Kasra Anvari dragged her downstairs
and out a side entrance. Borrowing a boat, he took her out into the treacherous
waters surrounding Alcatraz Island. After lowering her into the Pacific, he watched
the makeshift shroud bob. It sank beneath the hefty anchor tied to her ankle.
The unpleasant business behind him, he returned the boat to its moorings.
Hidden in the shadows, he re-entered the hotel. No one suspected his midnight
activities. In the
morning, Kasra Anvari settled BahAr Mazanderani’s
bill.
"The young lady went ahead to New York City," he casually told
the hotel clerk. "I plan to join my sister in a few days. I still have a
little business to attend in San Francisco." The
clerk hardly paid attention. He never listened to the guests’ chatter or
explanations. After working at the reception desk for twenty-five years, the
multiple check ins and outs became routine. Dismissing the Iranian patron, he
smiled at the young couple waiting patiently behind him.
Chapter
Five
"This is the life!" Elizabeth Talbot exclaimed as she raised
her Mai Tai glass. “Jamaica, Mon!” On
either side of her, two bikini-clad women perched on barstools. Middle-aged,
they retained a youthful appearance. Glanced at from afar, they fooled many a
roaming eye. Smiling happily, they tapped their glasses in agreement. “No
worries, Mon," Gayle Murray responded with a giggle. She had accompanied
Liz on many previous jaunts. Adventurous by nature, she followed her friend
into mischief.
Allyson Michaels buried her laughter by pressing her napkin over her
mouth and nose. When she began to snort, she felt her nostrils fill. Fearfully,
she imagined snot blowing across the bamboo-decorated pool bar. Dutifully, her
mother taught her never to spread her germs in public places. Her instinct set
in. Containing her the mucus, she glanced timidly at her friends. Already three
sheets to the wind, neither noticed her swift movements.
“Where did Karsyn get off to?” Liz asked, referring to Karsyn
Crane. The
fourth and youngest member of their little party had not appeared.
"Beats me," Allyson responded, rolling her shoulders in a
shrug. Swaying on the barstool, she raised her glass in the bartender's
direction.
Understanding her request, the bartender nodded. Swiftly, he prepared
three fresh rounds.
Allyson could not resist the opportunity to wink. Flirting with the
widely smiling Jamaican came naturally.
Muttering a tune to himself, Davy cheerfully replenished their drinks.
He had a proposition for Allyson if he caught the little sweetie on her own.
Nevertheless, he hardly cared which one he singled out"he would proposition any
of them. In the past, many young women crossed his path. He invited several to
his lodgings. They were putty in his hands when he tipped something special
into their drinks. As long as he succeeded, he continued to do it. No one
complained, at least not yet.
"Karsyn said she had a headache this morning. She intended to stay
in bed for a while. When she feels better, she’ll meet us later this
afternoon," Allyson informed the group.
Allyson shared a hotel bungalow with Karsyn Crane. Next door, Liz and
Gayle occupied a similar one.
"When we woke up, she looked like death warmed over,” Allyson
continued. Casually, she sipped her cocktail. “We were all pretty drunk last
night. When we rolled in from that last disco, Karsyn complained. She said she
felt woozy."
“We’re still pretty drunk,” Liz exclaimed. Lifting her third Mai Tai to
her lips, she gulped it down. Slamming the empty glass on the bar, she ordered
another one. “I
sh…sh…sheckoned that,” Allyson slurred, swaying in her seat. Her companion had
a habit of suddenly falling off her barstool. Gayle caught her arm.
“Think I should check up on her?” Gayle wondered. Immediately she became
conscientious about her friend.
“Nah, Karsyn’s all right,” Liz responded with a lackadaisical shrug.
“She’ll find us when she’s ready.” Raising her glass toward the bartender, she
indicated yet another round.
“Shuttin’ down, ladies,” Davy Robinson exclaimed, rushing toward the
intoxicated women. A big white grin lightened up his dark face. Swiftly, he
reached up to roll down the bar’s security screen.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Liz imperiously demanded. At the
abruptness of the bar closure, she instantly sobered up. “No one, and I mean no
one, closes down this early in the afternoon. Not in Jamaica, not anywhere.”
“Orders, Mon…I mean mum.” Davy answered, still flashing his grin.
“Orders,” he jovially repeated.
"Whose orders?" Liz asked, her voice arrogantly rising.
"My husband is Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot, US Army; I'll have you know. You
can't shut down on us. We're all Army wives here. We know a thing or two…"
Davy swiftly shut her down.
"It's the plague, lady. Plague. Do you get it?" the bartender
remarked with a severe tone. “We're under mandatory orders to shut down.
Immediately. All guests will be ordered to their bungalows and told to stay
there. Best be shuffling off in that direction, mum."
"Plague? You must be kidding," Elizabeth Talbot scoffed.
Beside her, Gayle and Allyson nodded in agreement. Deferring to Liz as
their leader, they hovered uncertainly. Authoritatively, their friend took up
the argument for them.
"You have rocks in your head. There's no plague,” Liz coolly
stated. “Years ago, the medical field declared the plague eradicated, or
perhaps, centuries ago. There's no plague in the 2000s."
"Google it if you don't believe me," Davy responded. Rolling
his eyes, he disdainfully muttered about stupid tourists. Swiftly containing
himself inside the bar, he brought down the security curtain.
"Hey, yeah, it's real," Allyson exclaimed, her voice rising
with excitement. Turning her smartphone so Liz and Gayle, she forced them to
view the screen. "A plague outbreak appeared in San Fran a few weeks ago.
It's spreading like wildfire across the States and in Europe. Bellevue
Hospital, Kingston, Jamaica, confirmed six cases and two more possibilities are
waiting for confirmation in Baywest Wellness in Montego Bay.”
“Montego Bay?” Gayle questioned. “That’s us, right?” “Of
course, it was right,” Liz impatiently screamed at her friend. She considered
Gayle stupid and naïve. Allyson, too, for that matter. Although she disparaged her companions, Liz
Talbot kept them around. She enjoyed feeling superior. Resembling little
ducklings, they blithely followed her lead. She considered Karsyn her newest
duckling. Karsyn, the youngest of the group, recently came within her sphere.
Willingly she shadowed Liz’s every movement.
Liz"the perfect leader"judged herself the smartest and shrewdest of the
foursome. Using her father’s position as a General over them, she forced their
obedience. If they did not jump to her command, her temper flared forth. They
quelled and kowtowed to her demands.
“What are we going to do?” Gayle asked in trepidation. Her anxiety began
to show.
"Go back to our bungalows, then get outta here," Elizabeth
Talbot announced, grasping her smartphone. Fingers flying, she dashed off a
text message to her husband, Oliver. "IN MONTEGO BAY. GET US OUTTA
HERE!"
Sliding from her barstool, Liz determinedly marched toward her cabin. To
her left, the pool stood empty beneath the blazing Jamaican sun. Hastily,
bathers gathered their belongings. The irritated military wife rudely cut
between a mother and her toddler son, breaking their linked hands. Ignoring the
mom’s angry remarks, she strode onward.
Liz’s shoulder-length frosted hair jounced across her back. The strap of
her neon pink string bikini slipped down her arm. Impatiently, she swiped at
it. The matching bottoms stretched out of proportion and clung to her buttocks.
Liz continued to believe herself to be a perfect size four, although an eight
made a better reality. Oblivious about her appearance, she strode onward,
feeling she looked imperious.
Soberly her two companions followed her. Although hers fit less snugly,
Gayle wore a similar bathing costume. A red, white, and blue striped poncho
covered Allyson's navy one-piece suit. Swinging at her side, she carried a
straw catch-all bag. Both
women lacked their friend's confidence. Inwardly, they worried about the
plague. Their situation seemed dire.
Allyson called a hasty goodbye at her bungalow. Liz and Gayle continued
to the one next door. “So
what next?” Gayle asked, entering their shared space. With the plague spreading
quickly, she hated the idea of remaining trapped on the Caribbean island. “What
if we can’t leave?”
"We wait," Liz nonchalantly exclaimed. She dragged her
suitcase onto the double bed and flung her clothes into it. "It's up to
Ollie to get us off this stinking island." It
always remained up to Ollie to get her out of every mess she created.
"I sent him a text telling him to get us outta here,” Elizabeth
Talbot blithely continued. Her confidence surged. “He'll order an EVAC for us,
you'll see."
“What if he can’t?” Gayle moaned, falling further into her anxious state
of mind.
"He has to." Liz shrugged dispassionately. "Hey, don't
worry about it, Gayle." Suddenly, she noticed the worried look etched
across her friend's face. "I love you." Liz
and Gayle had been secret lovers for years. Folding her companion into a warm
embrace, Liz kissed the top of her head. Her warm, soft lips traveled to the
tip of Gayle’s nose. Finally, passionately, she captured her mouth and thrust
her tongue inside. A
loud banging sounded at the door, interrupting the fervent couple. Angrily
swinging it open, Liz scowled at Allyson.
"What do you want?" Elizabeth snapped, leaning impatiently in
the doorway.
“You better look at Karsyn,” Allyson stated, her voice rising to a
scream. Panic appeared in her usually calm blue eyes. “I think she’s got it.”
"Knock it off, Ally. Stop trying to scare us." Annoyed, Liz
began to swing the door closed. Allyson thrust her hand out to stop her.
"Seriously, girls. She's got this thing"like right here." The
frightened Army wife indicated a spot in her armpit. "It's
repulsive."
Nervously, the three friends crowded over the bed in the small, neat
bungalow. The damp, sweat-covered sheet clung to Karsyn's naked form. Her
vacant eyes stared at the ceiling.
Twenty-five-year-old Karsyn Crane never traveled without her husband.
Newly married, she clung to the young Lieutenant. Greyson meant the world to
her; separation from him left her lost and alone. Her friends claimed she would
become accustomed to his departures. Perhaps, in time, she would. However, her
loneliness during deployments left her depressed.
Feigning concern, Elizabeth Talbot befriended Karsyn. Swiftly, the
younger woman fell beneath her dominating presence. In short order, Karsyn
joined Gayle and Allyson in Liz's shadow. She became part of "The
Crew," as Liz called them.
When the Jamacia trip came up, Liz practically bullied Karsyn into
participating. She had not wanted to go. While her husband deployed overseas,
she believed she should remain at home. Her infant son required her attention.
She promised Greyson she would care for the child.
Under pressure, Karsyn finally relented. She left baby Gerald with Gayle
Murray’s sitter. Gayle’s three children"twin girls aged six and a boy around
Gerry's age--adored their caregiver. Her mind constantly drifted to the child
she left behind. She faked having a good time. In and out of consciousness, she
muttered her son’s name. Then, her thoughts became too muddled inside her foggy
head.
"What are we going to do?" Allyson whispered, wringing her
hands. Along with her companions, she hovered over her sick friend’s bed.
“Nothing,” Liz coolly responded, shaking out her shoulder-length hair.
Abruptly, she headed for the door. “She’ll get over it.”
"What if she doesn't?" Allyson whined, feeling the tears begin
to well in her eyes. In a flood, they flowed down her cheeks and dripped from
her chin. "It's the plague. I don't think people get over it."
"How would I know?" Liz snapped, grasping the doorknob.
"Are you coming, Gayle?"
“You’re not going to leave me here?” Allyson practically shrieked,
rushing to stop her friend.
“Why not?” Liz coldly stated. “You’re already exposed.”
“Well, so are you and Gayle,” Allyson countered, grabbing her friend’s
hand. “She’s probably been walking around with it for days.”
“Ollie will get us out.” Liz swung the door opened and stepped outside.
“I told him to.” As
soon as Liz and Gayle disappeared, Allyson sank onto the bed's edge. Burying
her face in her hands, she sobbed for her sick friend. ‘How was this going to
end?’ she questioned to the still room.
They traveled to Jamaica for a bit of fun. Their husbands’ absence
permitted a little VaCay of their own when the men went away. According to
Elizabeth Talbot, they deserved to have a good time.
“Life is here for the taking,” Liz frequently exclaimed.
Allyson and Gayle happily obliged. Karsyn voiced her misgivings but
joined in nevertheless. For once in her life, they might have listened to the
voice of reason. A multitude of past incidents flashed through Allyson’s mind,
warning her. The plague caught them off guard. How was this thing going to end?
Biting her lip, she stared at her sick friend.
Straightening her back, Allyson picked up the phone and called for
emergency assistance. Her friend lay desperately ill; someone had to help her.
If Karsyn entered the hospital, she had a chance of survival. It was not a
wait-and-see situation. Within moments, a siren wailed in the distance. Allyson
flung open the door and allowed the two Jamaican EMTs inside.
“What have you done?” Liz screamed, barging inside. “I told you Ollie
was going to evacuate us. I told you to wait.”
“Karsyn couldn’t wait,” Allyson countered, taking control. “She’s sick,
Liz.” “So
you send her to a civilian hospital? Great.”
"Shut up, Liz," Allyson responded, sudden command entering her
voice. Honestly sick and tired of her friend's commandeering attitude, she
stepped up to the plate. The
friendship skidded to an abrupt halt. Allyson would never again fall under
Elizabeth’s thrall. Her participation in Liz’s extraordinary schemes ended. Her
eyes hotly flared as she made her stance.
Elizabeth grabbed ahold of Allyson's brown bob and pulled her companion
to the ground. Allyson poked her fingers into Liz's steely blue orbs. Both
women rolled on the floor beside Karsyn's sickbed. However, before the fight
commenced any further, the authorities arrived. Roughly pulling the aggressive
women apart, Police Officer Lamont Bolt roughly pulled them apart. Dragging
Gayle Murray from the next-door room, he informed the three women to remain in
quarantine. Then, warning them to linger, he forced them into the other
bungalow.
"Your friend is dead," the uniformed Jamaican informed them.
Firmly he closed the door upon the three women and posted a guard. At
the abrupt announcement of their companion’s demise, Allyson Murray and Gayle
Michaels burst out in tears. As they mournfully wailed, Elizabeth Talbot glared
at them disdainfully. Steely-hearted, she felt a glimmer of emotion barely. Her
friends' show of weakness revolted her. Liz
drew out her smartphone. Using all the expletives in her vocabulary, she
demanded Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot respond to her immediately.
As far as Ollie was concerned, she could
stay there. From the moment he married her, Liz became a thorn in his side from
the moment he married her. Sure, daddy rescued her from all her follies as a
child. She expected her husband to continue the practice. Previously, he jumped
at her command. However, he must draw a line in the sand somewhere. Mentally,
he envisioned a sandy Jamaican beach and, harshly, drew that imaginary line. The last thing he needed was yet another
distraction. Elizabeth provided a wealth of distractive possibilities. A strict
lesson hovered on her horizon. Frustrated, Oliver prepared to provide her with
one. Time and again, he explained the situation
to her. Dramatics did not occur in his life. In his line of work, he must
remain at the top of his game. It became a matter of life and death"not only
for himself but also for his colleagues. A disruption during a sensitive
mission could result in loss of life. Although he made it clear, Liz continued
on her self-destructive course. Too often, he found himself jumping in to save
her. “Any news yet, sir?” Major Gonzalez
questioned from the doorway. “Not yet,” Major,” Talbot responded. His
irritation peppered his voice. “Unless finding your wife quarantined in Jamaica
is news.” Rarely did he bring his personal life into
a military surrounding. However, this time, he spoke without consideration. "You gotta be kidding," Alberto
Gonzalez breathed. Then, he whistled through his teeth. “Do I look like I’m kidding,” Lt. Col.
Oliver Talbot smartly responded. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he pushed his
hands through his bristled brown hair. “Jesus Christ.” As Alberto turned away, Oliver’s private
smartphone buzzed again. Glancing down, he received the news of Karsyn Crane’s
sudden demise. The following message revealed the illness of Gayle Martin. His
wife’s expletives halted. The subsequent texts contained only straight
information. “Did you know Karsyn Crane?” Lt. Col.
Talbot abruptly asked. “Can’t say so, sir,” Alberto responded,
his flat voice emphasizing the negative. “She died of the plague,” Talbot flatly
stated. His professionalism rose to the surface. “Sorry to hear it.” Gonsalez returned,
equally as flat. “Gayle Martin is sick.” “Damn.” Major Alberto Gonsalez knew Gayle Murray.
During a Gulf War tour, he'd worked closely with her husband, Major Willis
Murray. It remained an unspoken fact that Gayle was Elizabeth Talbot's secret
female lover. The known fact remained deeply hidden from the Lieutenant
Colonel. However, in the same way, Oliver kept his knowledge private. The truth
dawned on him many years ago. Something Hank said clued him in. A slow, grim smile crept across Oliver
Talbot's face. Leaning back in his chair, he dismissed Major Gonsalez. He
picked up his regulation phone and began making calls. Once again, his wife
dragged him feet first down the rabbit hole. He felt forced to coordinate an
EVAC for his wayward spouse and her simple-minded group of girlfriends. Behind his
temples, a slow staccato beat. Then, Oliver snapped the cell phone
closed. Tossing it on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. Mentally, hands
reached out of the earth and grasped the sides of the rabbit hole. A head and a
set of shoulders rose above the short grass. The insanity had to stop
somewhere. Throughout her life, Liz’s father rescued
her from her folly. Closing the door on the enabling, Lt. Col. Talbot decided
to pass the buck back where it belonged. The Amberley’s spoiled their three
daughters. His wife received the worst of it. Moving from place to place
created a lack of discipline within the household. Chaos reigned as June
Amberley grappled to keep her family in check. In the meantime, the General
allowed the girls to run all over him. It had been dissimilar to the Talbots.
Considering Ivan's difficulties, Jeff and Beatrice worked together to overcome
the bumps in the road. They held family meetings giving each member a voice in
the situation. They worked and moved together. A natural-born organizer, Bea
planned for all events and swiftly pulled them together. After all the misfortunes of his marriage,
Ollie knew the time arrived to pull back. The word DIVORCE flared into his
brain. He considered a separation many times. All too often, military marriages
fell apart in the same way. However, Oliver consistently pushed the idea away.
For some reason, it felt like a failure. Throughout the years, he tried to
prompt Elizabeth to make the ultimate suggestion. Stubbornly, she held on with
the fierce grip of a gorilla. Lt. Col. Talbot picked up his phone and
searched for Tom Amberley's number. He rarely used it. However, it appeared
near the top. Naturally, it was an "A" name. "Liz is stuck in Jamaica under
quarantine. Requires EVAC," Oliver tersely typed. Then, he hit the send
button. He sent the phone flying onto the desk again. There, he did it. Regardless of the tight churlish feeling
in his stomach, Ollie believed his behavior righteous. A retired General still
held more weight than a Lieutenant Colonel. Let him make the phone calls and
give the orders. Tom’s reach remained long; he knew the right people. Little
more than a child in an adult body, Liz still needed her beloved daddy. Despite his mother’s protests, Oliver
realized he should have married Nicola. He sighed and ran his hands through his
bristled hair again.
Chapter Seven
Stateside, the President ordered a
complete lockdown. The plague spread by leaps and bounds. Hospital corridors filled with gurneys lined
head to toe. Providing their patients with the best medical care, doctors and
nurses worked overtime. Still, they lost more than they could save. Restaurants, grocery stores, and malls ran
on a skeleton crew. They required only necessary employees to work. A limited
requirement concerning the number of shoppers allowed inside became effective.
Multiple businesses handed out layoffs by the dozens. People wondered how they
were going to survive. The plague worried them, and so did the lack of a
paycheck. Mask mandates went into effect. The words Plague and Pandemic became
commonplace. The news readers, reporting from home, spoke of a vaccine.
However, it might take years to develop one. Around the world, other countries enforced
similar orders.
The Pentagon recommendation Lt. Col.
Oliver Talbot awaited lay on the President’s desk. Abraham Q. Morton, better
known as President Shilly-Shally, lackadaisically pushed it aside. A raid into
the mountainous region of Iran went against his political agenda. One false
move and World War Three lay on his doorstep. A diplomatic approach seemed the better
option. He requested the State Department seek peace talks with Iranian
officials. His party backed him.
President Morton faced the plague pandemic only six months after taking
the oath of office. He realized it could make or break his political career.
Morton did not wish for his new position. His colleagues in the Senate
pressured him into running for POTUS. They made him believe he remained their
only hope to pull the country back to their agenda. Serving for thirty-six
years as the lead Senator from Illinois, he sat on many committees and chaired
a several. He gained the respect of his associates and his constituents. In a weak moment, Morton decided to crown
his achievements by seeking the highest office in the land. Truthfully, he
would rather retire. However, he decided he could give another four or eight
years to the people he served. Throwing his hat in the ring, he felt surprised
to find himself headlining his party's National Convention. Then, following a
landslide election, Abraham Q. Morton became the duly elected President of the
United States. Morton sat behind the Resolute Desk. Sweat
beaded his bald pate. Anxiously, he dabbed it with an extra-large white
handkerchief. He had not told anyone about his fever. It came, and it went.
During the day, the fever varied with freezing sweats. Holding firm, he
continued with his daily schedule. However, he wished he could crawl into bed
and stay there. "Half an hour, Mr. President." A
curly red head poked into the office. It belonged to his press secretary. The
half an hour warning signaled a public address. Nervously, he shuffled his
notes. Speaking to the public gave him the willies. The chills returned. A replica Resolute Desk sat in the center
of a dummy Oval Office. The country believed President Abraham Q. Morton still
resided in the White House. However, as soon as the plague pandemic broke, he
swiftly moved into a Kentucky bunker. His wife, Mildred, shared his cramped
quarters. Along with his eight grandchildren, his
four sons and their wives resided with them. At first, the youngsters enjoyed
what they referred to as "camping." After eight weeks, they became
antsy. The whole group played on Morton’s nerves. The President spoke for two straight
hours. Assuring the people they were safe, he outlined a rigorous course of action
to avoid contracting the plague. He begged everyone to stay inside and shelter
in place. Only necessary excursions out of the home would be tolerable. His
family, he stated, would lead by example. They remained safe and sound in their
homes. Mildred promised to pray to the All-Mighty to bring them through this
difficult time. President Morton did not refer to the
military plan of action. He never mentioned the potential threat from Iran or
the possible plague origin. According to his speech, the pestilence simply
appeared as a twist of fate. He intended to deal with it as such. Secretly, he
believed his assurances, although all evidence pointed directly to the Iranian
source.
Outside the White House, crowds began to
gather. Rumor spread that the plague represented a means of mass extinction.
The Iranians were behind it, the gossips claimed. Angrily, the mob protested
the President's inaction. Many ignored the mask mandate. They wanted the truth
and demanded it. “President Waffle Iron,” Abraham Morton
chuckled, watching the news broadcast from his bunker. “That’s a new one.” Signs bearing his face with waffle indents
rose above many others. Angry protesters yelled out the nickname. Their
maskless faces showed their fury. "Do you think it's funny?"
Millie asked. His wife perched in an armchair beside him. She had remained by
his side from the beginning of his political career. All the ups and down of
the election trail lay behind her. Never would she participate in another one.
When she and Abe were alone in bed, she reminded him they had been on their
last campaign. “Well, in a way…” Abraham began, then
sealed his lips. The stern look on Millie’s face shut him down. Morton knew her opinion. Mildred had not
been pleased about his presidential hopes. She believed he would leave the
Senate quietly and live out the rest of his life in retirement. Arizona
remained foremost on her mind. A lovely hacienda in the desert lay far away
from DC and outside the beltway. Politics had been fun at first, but then
it had gotten nasty. Millie had made many friends amongst the wives on both
sides of the aisle. But, when election season came around, it was every man and
woman for themselves. Mudslinging became a spectator sport. Millie did not like
it, never had. The office of the President of the United
States was a tumultuous one. The POTUS was either loved or hated. Ugly rumors
flew. Ugly names described good men who tried to do their best. Impossible to
make everyone happy. "Waffle Iron" was one of the mild ones. As First Lady, Millie Morton constantly
stood under the spotlight. Dissenters ridiculed her clothes and shoes
continuously. She had been dowdy her entire life. Buxom and running plump, she
knew she was not attractive. People oinked at her when she appeared in public
and yelled, "This little piggy went to market." Millie cringed. “We’re getting out of politics when your
term is over,” Mildred abruptly stated, rising. Without awaiting a response, she
disappeared into their makeshift bedroom. The room was not a definite replica of the
White House. It contained a simple bed, two nightstands, and a dresser. A small
bathroom led from it. Millie sighed. Abe promised they would not stay here
long. They would move back to the White House as soon as the plague broke. In the sitting room, the President stood
and yawned. Absently, Abraham Q. Morton scratched beneath his armpit. He paused
and thought a moment. Then he stripped off his undershirt. His roaming fingers
discovered a small bubble.
Chapter Eight
Hank Talbot grabbed the phone from his
grandmother’s hand. They sat in the kitchen eating an afternoon snack of
cinnamon graham crackers and sweet iced tea. When the cell phone jingled to the
tune of ‘The Army Goes Rolling Along,’ Granny Bea snatched it up. Stepping out
of the sliding doors, she answered it. Hank swiftly whisked it from her hands.
He knew who was on the other end. “Hello, dad,” Hank practically shouted
into the smartphone. “Where are you? Oh, I know, you can’t say.” "Hi, Buddy," Ollie responded,
chuckling. "You made it to Granny's, all right?" "Yeah, sure, dad," the
eight-year-old boy answered. Hank traveled alone on the plane since the
age of six-years-old. He felt like a pro. Sometimes mom took him to the airport.
However, more than likely, one of her friends dropped him off. He did not mind.
As he told his friends, he enjoyed being a globetrotter. The furthest he had
ever flown was from Tokyo to Naples, Florida. “Boy was I lucky, dad,” Hank breathed,
fogging up the screen. “I made the second to last flight before the airport
shut down. Mom made the final one. She went to Jamaica.” The boy paused, then
continued, “I don’t think you were supposed to know that.” “Don’t worry,” Oliver answered, his voice
less than jolly. “I found out.” Taking great care, Ollie kept his
aggravation out of his voice. He did not wish to speak about Liz at all. He had
no wish to bring his only son into his dilemma. “Let me talk to Granny,” he said instead. “Sure,” the boy responded. Then, “Love
you, dad.” “Love you, too, buddy.” The next moment, Beatrice Talbot said
hello. She sounded cheerful, but Oliver knew she masked her concern. Instead,
she made small talk: the weather, Hank's homeschooling, Jeff's inability to
play golf. “What’s going on with Liz?” his mother
finally asked. “Is Hank still around?” Ollie countered. "No, I sent him off to do his
classwork," Bea assured. Grasping, one-handed, behind her, she pulled up
an aluminum lawn chair and sat. Since the pandemic kept everyone at home, she
spent much of her time in the backyard. The clean, fresh afternoon air did her
good. Too soon, the temperatures would become Florida oppressive. "My darling wife got herself quarantined
in Kingston, Jamaica, Mon." He had not meant to be funny. The 'Mon'
slipped out. His mother breathed in sharply. Despite
the distance between them, she felt her son's misery. Years ago, she believed
she had done the right thing by separating Ollie from Nicola Prescott. Bea only
considered the difficulties a military marriage presented. If one entered it
unprepared, it fell apart rather swiftly. Petite Nicola did not have the broad
shoulders to bear the responsibility. Perhaps she could have learned on the
fly, but why put her through all that? Elizabeth Amberley seemed the better
choice. However, time proved otherwise. Some military wives dedicated their
lives to the service. They stood firmly between their husband's tours of duty
and domestic life. The assets of such wives kept their men on solid ground.
When the chips were down, they held the world upon their shoulders. Then, there were the other types. Liz fell
into that category. She acted impulsively. Throwing Ollie's position around as
though she were the Queen of Sheba, she demanded her own way. When the going
got tough, Liz got going. Jamaica, Acapulco, and Tahiti were only a few of her
runaway spots. She was never available when needed. Oliver constantly ran to
her rescue. He'd made a wrong choice, and Bea had pushed him into it. “I’m sorry, Ollie,” his mother whispered,
barely audible. “So am I, mom,” her son answered across
the miles. “Are you going to arrange an EVAC?” “Her father is going to arrange one.” Oliver’s terse statement caused his mother
to pause. Beatrice nearly urged him to rescue her. Then, she bit her tongue.
Her mind whirled. “Divorce?” she finally asked, holding her
breath. Never in the history of the Talbots had a
marriage broken up. She nearly suggested counseling but stopped herself. Oliver
and Liz had tried that, unsuccessfully. Following several sessions, the
animosity between them calmed down, then boiled up again. The situation had
gone too far to save it. “Possibly.” Ollie cut the conversation
short. A moment elapsed between mother and son.
Tension stood between them. Bea sighed; Ollie repeated her sound. “Mom,” Lt. Col. Talbot cut into the
silence. “Yes, Ollie.” Another long pause. The next question
rolled on Oliver’s tongue. Unsure, he hated to broach the subject. However, it
seemed pertinent to ask. “Have you heard from Ivan?” The words
tumbled out. For a prolonged moment, he did not believe his mother would
answer. “No, Ollie.” Tears clung to Beatrice
Talbot’s lashes. She placed her smartphone on the patio
table and grasped the table's edges with white knuckles. Oliver knew better
than to ask about Ivan. After all the years following his sudden disappearance
from Swarthmore, she still ached for her oldest child. Often, in her sleep, she
cried out his name. Beatrice loved both of her offspring. It broke her heart to
lose one of them. The plague outbreak in the LBGTQ community
worried her. A little voice inside her head told her Ivan was a part of it.
Early one morning, she believed she felt the wisp of a spirit leave her body. A
deep sorrow gripped her. Without any actual knowledge, she understood her child
left the earth. “I’ll run another search, mom,” Oliver
promised. Previously, Ollie made the same guarantee
many times. Each time he came up empty. Following his enrolment at Swarthmore,
all vital information concerning Ivan Geoffrey Talbot, Jr. led to a dead end.
As far as the public record was concerned, the elder son of Gen. I. Jeff Talbot
did not exist. Oliver attempted differing variations on the name and still came
up empty. Before Beatrice mutter a response, Hank
came back on the line. “Dad,” the boy tentatively started. Then,
in a rush of words, “Mom said we’re going to get rid of Blinky and Floyd next
time we move.” “Now, wait a minute, champ,” Ollie
responded, suddenly mystified. “No one decided to get rid of Blinky and Floyd.”
“Mom did,” Hank countered, practically
sobbing. On the day of Hank's third birthday,
Oliver discovered a litter of kittens near the trash dumpsters behind his
office. Believing the cute critters would make a charming gift, he kept two.
Then, he delivered the other three to a local no-kill shelter. Naming them
Blinky and Floyd, the child kept them as his constant companions. A part of the
family, the two pets traveled to each of the Talbot's new locations. Feral cats and wayward wives abounded on
military bases. With a new move in sight, families left their pets behind. The
animals roamed the installations. They bred like rabbits, and the feral
population grew. While the cat population thrived, the wives cycled around.
After three or four years, those who made up the community transferred. New
ones replaced them. The situation revolved. Consistent animal lovers, the Talbots took
their pets with them. Oliver could no sooner part with Blinky and Floyd than
Hank could. The many cats and dogs he remembers moved along with the family.
Furthermore, he implored other military families to do the same. However, more
and more abandoned feral animals roamed around the bases. "Mom was wrong, Hank," Oliver
reassured, smiling. "Are they with you now?" “Yeah,” the child answered, his lips too
close to the screen. “They flew in the hold. After we hang up, I’ll take a
photo and send it.” “You do that, son. Let me talk to Granny
again.” “She went inside, dad. I think she’s
crying.” The silence grew between father and son.
For a moment, Oliver thought the boy had hung up. Then his voice came back in a
whisper. “I think she’s crying about Uncle Ivan,
daddy,” Hank stated. Although he did not know his uncle, he’d overheard talk
about him. “Is Uncle Ivan in trouble?” "We don't know, son," Ollie
responded, wishing to close the subject. It had been impossible to keep Hank
from learning about his missing uncle. However, the family tried to keep their
chatter down around the young boy. “Mommy’s in trouble again.” “Yes, but we won’t talk about it, okay?” "Yeah, okay, sure, dad," the boy
answered conspiratorially. After a hasty goodbye, Oliver hung up the
phone. After a moment, it buzzed. Picking it up, he opened a video of two
frolicking cats. Misty grey Floyd batted playfully at his orange and white
sister Blinky. Lt. Col. Talbot grinned for the first time in ages.
Chapter Nine
Although the cat video amused him, Oliver
Talbot could not relieve himself of thoughts about Ivan. He loved his brother.
Sure, in his youth, he had not shown it. In high school, impressing his friends
became more important than standing up for his strange sibling. He longed for
popularity. His friends called Ivan a ‘f*g’ or a
‘queer.’ The unpleasant teasing rose to high levels, particularly in the gym
locker room. The older Talbot wore dresses and made up his face in the mirror
before attending the rest of his classes. Desperately, he petitioned the high
school principal with a request to dress in the girls' locker room. The school
adamantly denied permission. Protocol demanded Ivan shower with the
rest of the boys. Covertly, he ogled their 'junk.' Basil Mumford claimed the
elder Talbot attempted to 'massage his member.' A fight broke out, leaving Ivan
on the losing end. Ollie pushed his way through the crowd.
Kneeling between the wooden benches, he cradled his brother’s head in his lap.
Then, leaping to his feet, he offered to fight Basil. Ivan tugged on the tail
of his khaki ‘Go Army’ tee shirt and begged him to stop. In his brother’s
defense, Oliver keened for a fight. The far away days panged at Lt. Col.
Talbot's brain. Although he stood up for Ivan when necessary, he felt
embarrassed. His brother played with Barbies until he reached the age of
sixteen. He raided his mother's closet for clothes and shoes. Then, he fell
head over heels for Tulliver Cabot, the latest heartthrob singing idol. "Gross," young Ollie muttered.
Entering Ivan's bedroom, many posters depicting the singer decorated the walls.
A huge one peered down from the ceiling over the double bed. His brother
sprawled on the quilt, gazing at the sweaty blonde entertainer. "Man,
you're crazy." “You do things your way,” Ivan coolly
responded. “I’ll do it my way.” “Yeah, whatever.” Oliver backed from the
room and stood framed in the doorway. “Mom has dinner ready. Will you grace us
with your presence, princess?” The pillow flew across the room. Before it
could hit him in the face, Oliver grabbed it and held it against his chest.
Then, he threw it back. Spinning on his heels, he marched downstairs. Ivan
passed him on the way down. Resembling an overgrown child, he skipped through
the dining room. Plunking into his seat, he widely grinned up at his brother.
******
Sensitivity training changed Oliver Talbot's outlook. Many, but not all,
of the outdated military stances on gays altered opinions. Some still took a
negative view on the subject, but Ollie was not one of them. With his
experience, he encouraged others to think differently. He wished he had been more understanding
of Ivan. Instead, he'd treated his brother like a pariah. Hanging his head in
shame, he understood he had been part of the problem. His parents' stance on
the subject caused Ivan's sudden disappearance. Perhaps the outcome would have
been different if they'd taken the time to talk about it. Instead they brushed
it under the table. Ivan faded out of their lives without a
word. Leaving the family to worry, he dropped out of college and drifted away.
No one knew where he was or whether he was dead or alive. The plague virus
caused a great deal of worry. Ivan was vulnerable. Oliver longed to do his best to find him.
Occasionally, he would sit up late at night searching the internet for signs of
Ivan. Pride sites and parade photos caught his attention. Eagerly, he scanned
them looking for the familiar Talbot features. No one popped out at him. He
utilized every search engine he came across. Although he tracked down every
possibility, they always dead-ended. Someone had to know Ivan Talbot. Possibly,
he drifted from place to place. In his nightmares, Ollie saw his brother
hanging out at highway truck stops or in bus terminals. Strung out on heroin,
Ivan sold himself to any passerby. Ragged and skinny, he slumped in open
doorways or slept in abandoned buildings. Waking up covered in sweat, Oliver
called his brother's name and rolled over. Liz provided minimal comfort. Although she
had never met Ivan, she seemed to know all about him. Referring to him as 'your
f*g brother,' her prejudices rose to the surface. Ollie held his tongue in full
knowledge of her affair with Gayle Martin. Elizabeth Talbot was no better off
than Ivan. “You’re not going to find him,” Liz
wearily whined. Reaching out, she yanked Ollie’s tablet away and turned it off.
“The glow is keeping me awake.” “He’s my brother, Liz,” Ollie remarked,
lowering himself onto his pillow. “My mother asked me to do another search.” “Let your mother search.” His wife yawned
loudly. “Imagine how frantic you’d be if it were
Hank,” he countered. He thought he could use his son to make his point. Liz's snore provided all the response he
required. If it did not happen to her directly, she could care less.
Distressed, Oliver considered his wife's cold, hard heart. It was all one for
one and one for none, in her opinion. She would not get out of her own way in a
crisis. Liz had too many crises going on in her
life to worry about anyone else. She exploited her drama to the nth extreme.
She would blow her tragedies out of the water if anything happened to Hank. It
would be all about her, not about their son. It seemed Liz was the one in need
of sensitivity training. After a bout with his wife, Oliver Talbot
decided he would trade her for his brother any day. “Any news?” Major Gonzalez asked,
re-entering the office. "Huh? What?" Lt. Col. Talbot sat
up straight behind his desk. The Major interrupted his thoughts. It took him a
moment to return to reality. "Sorry, no." He used a short answer. “What are we waiting for?” Alberto
questioned, full of impatience. “President.” Talbot sternly pursed his
lips. "Still? What's the tie-up?" "Apparently, the Ayatollah claims
it's not them,” the Lt. Col informed. “Morton’s taking their word for it.” “Well, la-de-da.” Major Gonzalez flung
himself uninvited into the chair facing the desk. “It is them, right?” “Right.” “So?” “So, usually when it is them, they claim
it, right?” “Right.” “Not this time.” Oliver paused, allowing
his words to sink in. “All intelligence points toward Iran. The President
utilized diplomatic channels to ascertain the facts. Iran adamantly denies it.
Why? In most cases, they announce their involvement, right? Not on this one. "Even when we prove the virus
originated in the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain range, they reject it," Talbot
continued. "They claim they have a guard outpost there but nothing else.
No one other than the guards have been near the region. Nothing in, nothing
out. Morton, as I said, believe them." Gonzalez silently weighed the information.
“Are we going in or going home?” he
finally questioned. “Up to the Pentagon,” Talbot answered. “In
the meantime, we wait.” “Jesus Christ.” Gonzalez’s favored oath.
After a pause, he stated, “Might be a lone wolf.” “Might be,” Oliver grimly conceded. “Guess
it's up to the Iranians to check it out." "Yeah, waiting for them is like
waiting for it to rain in the Sahara." Alberto Gonzalez rose and departed without
leave. After a few minutes, Lt. Col. Talbot followed him out. He wanted to
address his team, although he knew the Major had already informed them. Standing in the midst of a rough circle,
Talbot addressed his men. He laid out the details in the same manner he'd laid
them out for Gonzalez. Moans ran around the group. Many wished to return to
their homes to check on their families. The plague worried them. The men were, after all, still human. They
had their worries and dilemmas, the same as he did. Oliver invited each to
contact their wives, mothers, and children to ensure all remained safe and
sound stateside. Oliver Talbot sent out one text message
when he assured himself they were busy on their smartphones.
Chapter Ten
Nicola Prescott glanced at her phone's
screen. "Elysian Fields Delayed," the text stated. Surreptitiously, she kicked the luggage
waiting beside the door. Although she realized the long-awaited trip was off,
she felt disappointed. Almost nine months had passed since the last time she
saw Ollie. For one reason or another, they sidelined all their recent attempts.
But, with the plague raging worldwide, she already realized another delay
appeared on the horizon. Turning away from her expectant bags, she
decided to unpack later on. There was not much she could do about it. Returning
the message with a lament would not alter the situation. Nicola would just have
to wait it out"again. Although Beatrice Talbot claimed Nicola
did not fully understand the military protocol, Nic begged to differ. She had
given Ollie her complete patience. When a mission interfered with their plans,
she never complained. A kind word softened her lover's disappointment. Often,
she railed inside but rarely showed it. She knew her weaknesses and let them
out into her pillow at night. Then, she showed her brave face to Oliver. “Another time,” Nic whispered to herself.
Then she went into the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee. Nicola Prescott lived alone. She kept an
apartment in Manhattan to remain close to her literary agent and publisher. Two
bedrooms with a bath and a half suited her requirements. It was not her
permanent address. However, it came in handy. Her actual address was in Spring
Hill, Florida. She remained at her NYC home until the lifting of the current
restrictions. Remaining on lockdown did not cause a
predicament. Nicola saved half an unedited manuscript to MS Word. While she had
ample free time, Nic intended to prepare it for her agent. However, it would
have to wait until her emotions calmed down. She longed to see Ollie this time
around. "Where are you, Ollie?" she
asked her mug. Absently, she spun it on the sleek rosewood table. 'Cat Mom,' it
said on the front. A brown-haired woman perched on a couch with three cats
surrounding her. A grey named Muffin, an orange name Tangerine, and a tuxedo
named Samantha made up her little family. During her weakest moments, Nicola
lamented not having a real family. In her youth, she longed for children. As
they walked along the Champs-Elysees, she spoke to Oliver about four little
ones. Placing his arm around her waist, he pulled her close. Kissing her
temple, he laughingly agreed. Four would suit him fine, as long as they were
hers too. She delighted in those long ago plans. Nicola only had thoughts of Oliver. After
their sudden break-up, she'd shut herself off from society. The idea of
masculine company put her hackles up. When she finally accepted a date with a
fellow novelist, she spent the evening comparing him to her lost lover. It was
entirely unfair, but she couldn't stop herself. Finally, after a dozen similar
failures, she stopped accepting invitations. In her worst moments, Nicola despised
Oliver for his vulnerability. They both craved peaceful situations. Their
relationship had been easygoing and relaxed. When they could not meet, she
brushed it off with promises of another time. Ollie appreciated her efforts.
When he felt he had failed her, she calmly reassured him. She never berated
him. They both agreed to stand aside when a critical mission arose. She could
not recall a single argument between them. Nicola could not recall any adverse
situations arising with Oliver. Then, his mother became involved. Their
relationship took a swift downhill turn after they announced their engagement.
Suddenly, the entire position turned belly up. Once Beatrice Talbot sunk her
teeth in, she did not let go. All the plans Nicola made with Ollie
disintegrated. Bea filled Ollie with misinformation.
Nicola corrected it until it tried her patience. No matter what she said to the
contrary, his mother was always right. It never occurred to him to doubt the
steady flow of misinformation. Finally, after six months of distress on both
sides, her fiancé called it off. Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot used his mother's
misstatements against her. It continued to irk her. If he had only understood,
the situation might have resolved itself differently. However, he'd caved. The break-up destroyed her, and Nicola
allowed it to rule her life. She thought of all the happiness she and Ollie
shared. The long walks on the beach, kissing as the orange Florida sun sank
beneath the gulf horizon. She longed for the eagerness she felt when they
planned to see each other again. Nic began writing the novel she planned in
high school to distract herself. Deeply involved in character development and
plot twists, she pushed Oliver Talbot from her mind. She told herself she had
seen his true colors. He never made a move to defend her against his mother.
All the discussions they had concerning the future wafted away into thin air.
She had to move away from him and move on with her life. After completing her first manuscript,
Nicola approached several agencies. The uphill battle began, and the rejection
slips poured in. Time after time, she felt pangs of disappointment. Yet, she
continued sending out query letters. Finally, The Jake Markham Agency picked it
up. Delighted, she agreed to the terms
presented to her. Then, within six months, she sold her book. "The Blytheville Massacre"
became an immediate best seller. Following a whirl of book readings and
signings, she traveled across the United States. The promotion succeeded, and
she went on a similar tour of the United Kingdom. A movie studio picked up the
rights to bring her story to the big screen. Nicola Prescott followed "The
Blytheville Massacre" with "The Alberta Ripper." She moved into
the New York City apartment with another novel on the top of the book charts.
She continued to write by splitting her time between Spring Hill, Florida, and
Manhattan. Due out in another three weeks, "Molly's Revenge" was set
to become her next best seller. "Cricket Madison" was saved in MS
Word. She was only four chapters in, but with the plague keeping everyone on
lockdown, she felt sure she could complete it ahead of schedule. The
Manhattan shutdown did not bother her. Keeping to a writing schedule, Nicola
Prescott and her laptop became best friends. When her food stock ran low, she
ordered online. Exhausted by a steady flow of words, she had her meals
delivered. In the early morning, Nicola walked in the
park for exercise. The city promoted the clean, fresh air of Central Park as a
means to get outside. Few people mingled along the paths. She crossed out of
their way if she encountered another walker or jogger. Or they crossed. Keeping a good social distance, her
friends waved as she passed. Then, they shot her a text to say hello. Meetings in the coffee shop ground to a
halt. Nicola missed her group of literary friends. Steph Malone and Gabby
Sanchez were her besties. Sitting at a sidewalk café, she bounced plot twists
with Milt Kromesky. The elderly writer gave good advice. However, she rarely
utilized it. Unnerved by the empty sidewalks, Nicola
quickened her pace. The slap of her tennis shoes against the pavement echoed
back. For a moment, she imagined Oliver strolling beside her. Manhattan suddenly depressed her. Without
the pretzel and hot dog vendors, the city seemed empty. Silence reverberated
between the canyons of skyscrapers. Nicola longed to retreat to Florida, but
the airlines remained shut down. She considered renting a car to take her home.
Dragging three cats along might cause difficulties. Nevertheless, she thought she could manage
it. It was a straight run down Interstate 95 to Daytona Beach. I-4 would take
her through Orlando to Tampa. Then, it was only a short jog to Spring Hill.
Nicola pondered the possibilities. It meant a lot of solo driving, but it would
get her out of NYC. Her phone tinkled to the tune of
"Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Nicola glanced at it, then back to her
laptop screen. She'd been a million miles away. Allowing the phone to jingle
the Cyndi Lauper tune, she returned to her protagonist, Cricket Madison. Steph
could wait; Cricket had troubles of her own. When Cricket Madison discovered her
live-in boyfriend was a psychopath, she decided to move out. Swiftly packing
her suitcase, she never heard the apartment door click shut. The thick carpet
muffled stealthy footsteps. Chadwick Mars loomed behind her. Clicking her case
closed, she grabbed it, turned, and walked straight into his broad chest. "And then…" Nicola muttered to
herself. "And then…what?" Leaning forward, she pushed her hands
through her chestnut hair. Her fingers massaged her scalp"a brick wall formed
in her mind. The Cyndi Lauper tune jangled again.
Nicola stared at her smartphone and decided to ignore it. Then, changing her
mind, she snatched it up. Since the plague began to spread, Steph never failed
to call her. She wanted to check in and make sure her friends remained safe. “Hey,” Nic cheerfully answered. “Hey, yourself,” Steph chuckled. Then her
voice turned serious, “If you hadn’t answered, I was going to call 911.” “Am I worth all that?” Nicola retorted,
smiling to herself. Steph knew her sense of humor. "Are you worth… Oh, hilarious."
After a moment's pause, she continued, "You know I call every day because
of the plague." "Yeah, I know. So how is
everyone?" Nic asked. Her friend kept daily track of all their
acquaintances. Stephanie chatted about all the friends
they had in common. Steph and Gabby Sanchez frequently met since they lived in
the same building. They had coffee together that morning. Steph chatted about
Gabby's new poetry anthology due for release in the week following Nicola's
"Molly's Revenge." After mentioning several others, the
conversation dragged to a standstill. Nic held her breath, knowing bad news
hovered between them. Finally, Steph sighed heavily. "Milt was rushed to the hospital last
night," she stated, a sob catching in her throat. "He's got it, Nic.
Poor man. He's eighty-four, so I doubt he'll make it." Nicola caught her own sob. The elderly
fellow had been her friend since she arrived in NYC. They had initially met at
her publisher's penthouse and forged an everlasting companionship. Ever
gallant, Milt made a point of introducing her around. Later, he stuck to her
like glue. "I'm an old fossil man clinging to my
misspent youth," Milt whispered confidently. He'd brought her to her door
following a late-night party. "If I weren't exhausted, I'd take you
dancing. No, I change my mind. I'd take you to bed." Nicola laughed at the memory. She might
have accepted his offer if he'd been thirty years younger. However, he had been
a good friend. She hated to lose him in such a miserable way. Closing her eyes,
she angrily dashed away her tears. “So what’s up with Cricket?” Steph broke
into her morbid thoughts. Both women longed to turn the subject. “Oh, Cricket. She got fed up with Chad and
packed her bags,” Nicola answered, returning to her manuscript. “But he caught
her leaving.” “Oh no,” her caller responded, shock
filling her voice. Naïve Stephanie believed storybook character actual people.
Nic smiled to herself. “What’s she gonna do?” "Don't know yet." Nicola leaned
back in her kitchen chair. "She'll probably knee him in the nuts or
baseball bat his balls." "Baseball bat his balls," Steph
decided for her. "One of those big chunky wooden suckers. They make them
out of ash or something like that. Give him a good whack with that, and he'll
sing Soprano for the rest of his life." “You got it, chickadee.” Nicola chuckled
despite the bad news about Milt. “Is Chadwick gonna kill her, do you
think?” “Nah, he can’t. Cricket’s the main
character. Can’t kill her off.” “No, of course not,” Steph conceded, her
hopes of a bloody death dashed. “Well, I gotta go. More calls to make, folks to
check up on.” “Sure. Talk soon.” Nicola rang off. She
had to find an ash baseball bat somewhere in Cricket’s bedroom. ****** Nicola Prescott became reacquainted with
Oliver Talbot in Washington, DC. Her research into Capital Monuments brought
her there. “Molly’s Revenge” reached its denouement on the steps of the
Jefferson Memorial. Checking into the same hotel, they dumped into each other
in the elevator. At first, Nic attempted to keep a low
profile. The car held a crowd of hotel guests, but Ollie noticed her. Pushing
his way to her, he gave her a brisk hello. She pretended she didn't recognize
him but couldn't keep up the charade. Finally, she agreed to meet him in the
bar. Donning a sleek, black strapless dress,
Nicola entered the hotel bar. She chose the outfit on purpose. Like Molly, she
wanted revenge. She would show Oliver Talbot precisely what he had been
missing. Her eyes traveled over the setting, missing him the first time. On the
second swipe, she located him in a corner booth. He wore civilian clothing. "Hello, stranger," Nicola
greeted her long ago lover. Politely he rose, and she slid in opposite him. “Nic, I’ve missed you,” Ollie began. “Save it, Oliver Talbot,” she snapped. She
had not meant to; it came out. Quickly, she bit her tongue. "Look, I…" He paused; the air
thick between them. "It wasn't going to work between us. There were too
many obstacles." “Obstacles your mother threw between us,”
Nicola flung back. "My mother had nothing to do with
it," the Army Officer hotly responded. “Really, Ollie?” Nicola retorted,
waspishly. "Yes, well…" His mind raced for
an answer. Time had not erased his past excuses. Caught in the moment, he
finally understood the truth. "I'm sorry, Nic." Ashamed, Oliver lowered his eyes to the
table. The single rose in a vase between them seemed incongruous. Lifting it,
he moved it aside. Its red face reflected his embarrassment. Slowly, the
minutes ticked between them. Too many mistakes separated them. He recalled all
the happy times they shared and the distress of ending a loving relationship.
If only he could make it up to her, he would. “I guess you know I’m married,” Ollie
confessed, still not meeting her eyes. “Elizabeth Ann Amberley,” Nicola snidely
stated. When the engagement announcement appeared in her newspaper’s society column,
she hatefully shredded it. Liz Amberley had a terrible reputation.
Her picture often appeared in the news, followed by another catastrophe. Nicola
wondered what happened with the drug case. The General's daughter deplaned from
Acapulco with a brick of cocaine. The authorities detained her. Serious charges
followed her. Then, suddenly the case fell from public view. The following
articles proclaimed her engagement to Oliver Talbot. “Yes.” Ollie scrunched down in his seat.
The marriage furthered his discomfiture. Half-heartedly, he looked for an
escape. Across from him, Nicola Prescott's heart
softened. Attune to her companion's moods, she suddenly felt sorry for him.
Reaching across the table, she grasped his hand. Her kind sapphire eyes forced
him to look up. Weakly, she smiled. After a second, he returned it. "I thought you invited me for a
drink," Nic commented, breaking the ice. Oliver signed the server and ordered a rum
and coke and a scotch on the rocks. Nicola unstiffened a little more. He
remembered her favored cocktail. "What brings you to DC?" he
finally asked, sipping his drink. "Research," Nick responded,
smiling over the rim of her glass. "I have a lying, cheating Senator I'm
going to knock off." For
a moment, Oliver Talbot believed she meant it. Alarmed, he raised himself into
a military posture. Then, he relaxed. “Your next book?” he inquired, feeling
relieved. “Yes, ‘Molly’s Revenge.’” Leaning forward,
she avidly filled him in on the details. “Wow! You had me fooled for a minute.” “Yeah, you and Stephanie Malone.” When
Oliver mouthed ‘who?’, she continued, “Friend of mine. Believes my characters
are real.” “Oh.” Oliver laughed. He, too, began to
relax. Three times their server reminded them of
closing time. The couple reminisced about their fun together, lost in the past.
They grasped their hands, remembering their first meeting on the Champs Elysee
to their final bike trip through the Cotswolds. Both wished to grab their
memories and hang on for dear life. However, they had to relent and separate. Oliver Talbot escorted Nicola Prescott to
her hotel room. Outside the door, he lingered. Finally, Nic invited him in.
They chatted for another hour, liberally utilizing the wet bar. Neither
recalled who kissed who first. In the morning, they awoke enfolded in each
other arms. It felt like old times. When he attempted an apology, Nicola
hushed Oliver. Then, they merged as one. Separating, Nic traced her finger
along Ollie's profile. She adored him still. After such a wild night, how could
she let him go? She knew she could never leave him. “Elysian Fields Forever,” she breathed,
turning dreamy eyes toward the ceiling. “I have to see you again, Ollie. I can’t
live without you.” “I can’t leave you either,” her lover
remarked. Leaning on his elbow, he gazed lovingly down at her. “I was a fool--a
stupid, idiot fool.” “I concur.” Nicola grinned. Raising her
arms, she encircled his neck. “You’re a stupid, idiot fool.” "What shall we do? I have a
wife," Oliver lamented. Disentangling, he rose and stood in front of the
room's window. Then, he turned back to his lover. "I hate her, Nicola. God
help me, I hate Liz. I made a mistake"a terrible, hideous mistake." “We’ll run away,” Nicola supplied, warming
up to the idea. “We’ll escape to Elysian Fields. We’ll use it as our code word.
When you can get away, text Elysian Fields. I’ll do the rest.”
******
“Elysian Fields Delayed.” Nicola Prescott
read the text message for the second time. Her shoulders slumped in
disappointment. She guessed Oliver’s cancellation had something to do with the
plague outbreak. Pouring another cup of coffee, she set it beside her
laptop. Disappointment overwhelmed her.
“Message received,” Nic typed and sent her
return text. She did not have another recourse. Hold the fort down and wait,
she grimly told herself. Soon, oh soon, she would see Ollie again. Hand
in hand, they would stroll amongst the forbidden fields. Elizabeth Talbot, a
forgotten shadow figure, lurked in their wake. Blithely, Nic’s mind pushed her
unknowing enemy away. She would deal with Liz only when forced to do so. In the meantime, Cricket Madison had
Chadwick Mars to handle. Nicola bent over her laptop and wielded her imaginary
baseball bat.
Chapter
Eleven
Sitting up in bed, Elizabeth Talbot sneered at the doctor. The hovering
nurse shrank back against the door. Fearfully, her eyes widened. Marietta
Johnson previously faced irate patients. However, the military wife in room 208
eclipsed the others. Liz’s refusal of treatment sent the nurse scurrying for
the doctor.
Suddenly, the hospital table containing the lunch tray went flying. A
ham and cheese sandwich landed between the doctor’s feet. As though nothing out
of the ordinary occurred, he bent to pick it up. Avoiding a smear of apple
sauce, he righted the table and placed the sandwich on it.
“Where is my EVAC?” Liz shouted, swinging her legs over the bed’s side.
“Why don’t you lie down, Mrs. Talbot?” Dr. Maurice Culver calmly
questioned. Taking a step forward, he moved in to assist her.
“Get away from me, you nig…” Liz hissed, swiftly removing her arm from
the doctor’s grasp.
“There’s no need to use derisive language, Mrs. Talbot,” Maury hastily
cut her off. Usually, he kept his bedside manner in check. However, his current
patient tried his patience.
“I’ll have you know my husband is Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot. My father is
General Thomas Amberley,” Elizabeth imperiously remarked. “My husband put an
EVAC order in place for me. The only place I’m going to is OUT OF HERE.”
"You will remain quarantined, Mrs. Talbot," the doctor began
again. "I have not received an order for an EVAC. I will get you out of
here as soon as I do."
Doctor Maurice Culver wished for nothing better than to release
Elizabeth Talbot. Since she arrived, the plague ward fell into chaos. He
ordered her door kept closed to hold down the commotion she caused. The other
patients under his care did not warrant her disturbances. The
light at the nurse's station signaling attention for her room blinked
constantly. The trained nurses became reluctant to respond. Repeatedly, they
complained about playing dodge 'em over flying objects. The
other two women Liz arrived with showed civilized manners. Allyson Michaels and
Gayle Murray good-naturedly submitted to tests. Treating their nurses kindly,
they became favorites amongst the staff. When Gayle contracted the plague and
died, her caregivers mourned for her. Allyson Michaels received her EVAC and
departed cheerfully. She promised to see her stateside physician immediately. A
thorn in her doctor's side, Elizabeth Talbot, remained behind.
“You do that,” Liz hissed, folding her arms beneath her bosom.
Sardonically, she stared at Dr. Culver. “And get my friends in here. I want to
talk to them.” “No
can do,” the doctor flatly responded, heading toward the corridor.
"You get them in here." Liz's tone grew increasingly
threatening.
"I told you 'No.'" Maurice Culver pivoted at the door.
Refacing Elizabeth Talbot, he continued, "No visitors permitted."
Since Liz Talbot did not hold blood relationship with her friends, Dr.
Culver withheld his information. Their health and whereabouts did not concern
her. An announcement of a death and departure would create another fury. As
much as he wished to rid himself of the nuisance, he remained stuck with her.
Unfortunately, because of her ongoing behavior, he doubted the EVAC's arrival.
“Take me to them,” the irate patient demanded.
Deftly, Elizabeth began unhooking her IVs and leads to medical monitors.
Red lights flashed to the cacophony of sirens. Swiftly, Dr. Maurice Culver
sprang into action. Beckoning Nurse Johnson, they restrained their patient.
Uncontrollably, Liz thrashed beneath their strong arms. The
doctor grabbed her beneath the armpits and held her. The nurse reinserted the
equipment. When the doctor’s fingers discovered the
bubble beneath her arm, he swiftly stepped back. Washing his hands in the sink,
he motioned for the nurse to leave. Maurice immediately followed her.
“Plague,” Doctor Culver stated to the nurse. They stood in the corridor
with their backs to the door.
Marietta Johnson's eyes widened in terror. Acting quickly, they both
touched the incensed patient without gloves. Applying a de-Germer, they
breathed a sigh of relief. However, they were both exposed. In a matter of
time, they would know if they had contracted the deadly disease.
Doctor Culver and Nurse Johnson showered and awaited their test results.
Dr. Markham and Nurse Lavant replaced them and continued their rounds. Both
wore protective gear, including transparent plastic pants and ponchos. Masks
and shields fit snuggly over their faces. The doctor entered Liz Talbot's room;
his nurse shadowed him.
“Oh, terrific, aliens invaded the earth,” Liz sarcastically remarked.
“This must be a real scare-fest someone’s pulling.” She snorted when she
laughed. “First the plague, then UFOs.” Under her breath, she hummed the
Twilight Zone tune.
"This is no joke, Mrs. Talbot," the doctor announced. Behind
him, Nurse Gracie Lavant solemnly nodded. "Plague is a serious
disease."
“Yeah, right. Serious. Got it.”
“Mrs. Talbot…” Dr. Joshua Markham querulously began.
“Are you going to get me out of here?”
“No.”
"My husband, Lt. Col. Talbot, will hear about this. You're keeping
me here against my will. I am the wife of a United States Army Officer. Do you
understand that?" Elizabeth pronounced, elongating her words. If she
carefully pronounced her words, perhaps the idiot pretending to be a doctor
might comprehend. "You cannot keep me here."
“You have the plague, Mrs. Talbot.” The doctor pronounced his words as
clearly. “Unless I receive other orders, you will remain here. You will be
isolated. Other than your doctor and nurses, you will see no one. Am I
understood?”
“No.”
Posturing herself, Liz straightened her back. Ominously, she glared at
the physician. Scoffing at the word plague, she did not believe him. In her
mind, she told herself she could not have the dreaded disease. Elizabeth's left
fingers caressed the bubble growing on her armpit as she refolded her arms
beneath her breasts. Aghast, her face paled.
******
Throughout her school days, Elizabeth Amberley did not pay much
attention. Her young mind flew to frivolous activities. Meeting her friends and
listening to music entertained her. No one expected her to accomplish a higher
education. A career never interested her. All her life, she knew she would
marry an Army Officer. Liz
knew very little about the plague. Too far in the past, it did not interest
her. All her fascinations lay in the here and now. Keen
on history, Oliver attempted to draw her into his hobbies. Seeking a common
past time, he wished to share his enthusiasms with his wife. However, they did
not share common interests. Liz, on the other hand, brushed him off. Lt.
Col. Talbot considered himself well versed in the different eras of the past.
Although he and Nicola Prescott avidly discussed history, Liz presented a brick
wall. She cut him short when he tried to speak about specific events to her.
“Why should it worry us, Ollie?” Liz asked. She rolled over in bed, then
sat up. “Those times are gone, the people dead. It has nothing to do with us.”
Oliver often read in bed at night. The glare of the light frustrated her
beauty sleep. Angrily, she yanked the book away from him.
“You can learn a lot from history,” Oliver responded, grabbing for the
hardback. When she raised it as high as her arm, he knelt on the mattress.
Twisting her wrist, he forced its release. “So
what?” she shrieked, tired of how he constantly ignored her. “If I’d known you
were a bore, I wouldn’t have married you.”
“That makes both of us,” Ollie sneered, the words out before he caught
them. He reopened his book and studied the page. Leaning in, the map of an old
battleground fascinated him. His wife faded into the background.
“Humph.” Elizabeth folded her arms beneath her breasts. Snatching the
book, she heaved it against the wall. It thumped, then fell to the carpeted
floor. Satisfied, she marched from the room. The
Jeep Cherokee backed out of the garage. Liz humped over the wheel, an angry
snarl crossing her face. The tires squealed as she slammed the gear into drive,
and she hurtled through the stop sign. An oncoming car's brakes screeched to a
bracing halt. Elizabeth Talbot did not notice.
Three blocks away, Gayle Murray waited for her. The
Talbots and Murrays frequently appeared at the same military installation. The
two women arranged the coinciding moves. Occasionally, they had to separate.
However, Liz kept looking for assignments that would bring them back together.
She could not stay away from Gayle.
“Ollie’s on a tear about history again,” Liz exclaimed, bursting through
the door. Flopping on the couch, she pulled her pajamaed legs under her
buttocks. “Get me a drink.”
Unquestioningly, Gayle obeyed. Mixing a martini, she handed it to her
lover. She sat, and Liz placed her head in her lap. They kissed and fondled.
"Much better," Elizabeth Talbot sighed, swilling her martini
in one gulp. "I don't know why I put up with Oliver. He's thick. You know
what I want more than he does."
“Hmmm,” Gayle absently responded.
“Let’s run away together,” Liz announced, bolting into a sitting
position. “That’ll show ‘em.”
Gayle Murray continued to fondle her paramour. She much preferred women
to men. However, she considered herself dutifully married. Gayle believed her
relationship with Liz remained a secret. Hiding behind her marital status, she
satisfied herself privately. Breaking away would announce her concealed reality
to the world. Her husband and children remained her first consideration.
"We'll get divorced and go to New Orleans," Elizabeth confidently
continued.
“Yeah, sure, Liz,” Gayle responded, not sure at all. Swiftly, she moved
and forced her companion to sit up. “What about my husband and kids?” “So
what about them?” Liz snapped, leaping to her feet. “Think I care about mine?”
She laughed derisively.
“Let’s not talk about it now, okay?”
Gayle stood and embraced her companion. Although Elizabeth dominated
her, she knew how to calm her down. Soon, the two women found themselves
wrapped together in the bedroom.
******
“Gayle,” Liz whimpered. Following the departure of Dr. Markham, the
Army wife held her guard up. Then, thinking about the plague, she lost control
of her emotions. Slumping in the bed, she wrapped her arms around her waist and
trembled. The disease petrified her. Suddenly, she wished she had listened to
Ollie's soliloquies concerning history. Wrapped up in herself, Liz dismissed
the cares and concerns of the people surrounding her.
Suddenly, Liz longed for the comfort another person could bring her.
Tears coursed down her cheeks. Whether Oliver or Gayle, it did not matter any
longer. Anyone would do.
Undoubtedly, the EVAC would appear soon. When it arrived, Liz and Gayle
would leave god-forsaken Jamaica together. Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot would not
leave his wife to rot in a stinking civilian hospital. Although she treated him
horrendously, he would never abandon her. She determined to leave with her
paramour.
Sitting alone in her hospital bed, Liz Talbot convinced herself she
would soon go home. Assured of the EVAC, she became smug. Reality slipped away.
The plague throbbed, surging in her veins. Dismissing fate, she ignored the
symptoms. They were not hers; they belonged to someone else. Her mind unhinged.
Straightening up, Elizabeth preened her hair. Drawing her fingers
through her frosted locks, she tried to make herself look presentable. She
longed for a mirror but did her best. Oliver stood beside the bed. Beckoning,
he held out his hand. She reached out to grasp it. She rose as though in a
dream, and his arms enfolded her. Her knight in shining armor arrived to rescue
her. Fading in and out of actuality, Ollie turned
into Gayle, then Ollie again. Liz's eyes fogged. When she refocused, she
discovered herself alone.
******
Tentatively, the closed door cracked open.
Marie Longstreet entered with Liz Talbot's dinner tray. At age eighteen, she
volunteered at the hospital in an after-school program. Marie worked as a food
server dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black bow tie. She wore
plastic protective gear over her clothing. Smiling warmly, she approached the
bed. Liz
languidly glanced up at Marie and accepted the tray. Her overly bright eyes
gazed at the contents"grilled chicken, asparagus, and mashed potatoes. She
lifted the half-pint milk carton and grinned maniacally at the apple pie slice.
Calmly, she unwrapped her utensils.
Marie stood back, relieved. The patient in room 208 appeared calm. She
did not fear a shower of the tray's contents for the first time.
Friendly Marie enjoyed hospital work. Her plans included a nursing
school in the future. Admiring Doctor Culver and Nurse Johnson, she wished to
follow in their footsteps. For six months, she served meals to sick patients.
Most welcomed her with smiles and small talk. The few who grouched received a
warm greeting and a swift retreat. Elizabeth Talbot became the exception. In
the food server's lounge, Marie complained that Liz cruelly oppressed her.
However, when she entered the room this time, the atmosphere seemed different.
"My friend is joining me for dinner," Liz serenely stated. Her
smile elongated. "Can you bring her tray in here?"
"Which friend?" the server questioned suspiciously. Blindly
Marie backed toward the door. Her back contacted it.
“Gayle,” Liz said, grimacing broadly. “Gayle Murray. We’re waiting for
an EVAC. It will be easier if we’re together.”
"G…G…Gayle Murray," Marie Longstreet stammered, perplexed.
Swiveling, she pushed the door opened and stepped into the corridor. The
plastic sleeve of her protective poncho caught on the door handle, trapping
her. Imprisoned, she yanked hard, tearing the garment. Then, she fled.
“Hey! What’s going on?” Elizabeth Talbot screamed after the departing
server. “Where’s Gayle?” Liz
stared emptily at the closed metal door.
******
Marie Longstreet's chocolate face paled upon hearing the deceased
woman's name. Trembling, she raced toward the nurse's station. Marietta
Johnson's replacement, Gracie Levant, leaped from her seat and halted Marie.
Glancing down the hallway, she noticed the food service cart sitting outside
room 208. "Bad juju, bad juju," the young
Jamaican woman blubbered. Digging beneath her protective gear, her fingers
wrapped around her crucifix. The chain broke, sending the food server into
hysterics.
“What bad juju?” Gracie questioned.
When Marie slid to the floor, the nurse squatted beside her.
“R…R…Room, Room 208,” Marie stammered, tears streaking her face. “Bad
juju.” Determinedly, Gracie stood and strode down
the corridor. Standing outside Room 208, she cracked the door. Liz Talbot sat
up in bed, eating her dinner. Chattering calmly, she addressed an unseen figure
sitting opposite her. She listened intently to a response, smiled, and
continued to talk.
"Bad juju," Marie whispered, peeking in beneath Gracie's
outstretched arm. “The ghost woman, Gayle Murray, is dead. She visits the crazy
patient."
“Stop it,” Gracie cautioned Marie. “That’s enough.” Turning,
she wrapped her arms around the volunteer. Slowly, they returned to the nurse’s
station. Then Nurse Levant summoned Dr. Markham.
Joshua Markham appeared within a few moments. Together, he and Nurse
Levant entered Liz Talbot's room. Unobserved, they watched their patient carry
on a conversation with Gayle Murray. Then, she answered for her long-time
friend.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Talbot?” Dr. Markham finally asked.
Approaching the bed, he hovered over the patient.
"Fine, Doctor, just fine." Liz grinned up at him. "Has
the EVAC arrived? Gayle and I remain prepared to depart at any moment."
“Not yet,” the doctor responded, playing along.
“We’ll be home soon, Gayle,” Elizabeth Talbot spoke to her unseen
companion. “Then we’ll make our plans. Do you remember them, Gayle?”
"We're both getting divorced and going to New Orleans," Liz
responded, imitating Gayle's voice. "We'll set up a home and stay together
forever."
Nurse Levant sent a questioning look in the doctor's direction. Calmly,
Joshua returned a cautioning one. Their problem patient became unhinged. She
believed her fantasies.
“Should we call in a psychiatrist?” the nurse asked the doctor. At
the word psychiatrist, Liz became aware of her surroundings. Slitting her eyes,
she focused on the hospital staff standing at the end of her bed. Hiking
herself up, she straightened the bedclothes and her posture. Ominously, she
glared at the intruders.
Calmly, Dr. Markham approached the bedside. Taking Liz's arm, he counted
her pulse"rapid. Grabbing his wrist, Liz held it in a viselike grip. Markham
frantically grappled with her fingers. Unable to gain traction, he pried her
digits with his other hand. The grip tightened.
“Psychiatrist? You think I need a psychiatrist?” Liz bellowed, baring
her gleaming white teeth. “I need an EVAC. My friend and I have waited long
enough. My husband, Lt. Col. Talbot, ordered one. You’re holding it up. Get us
outta here.” As
the Doctor struggled with Liz's grip, Nurse Lavant stepped in to intervene. She
also failed to release the patient's fingers. The dinner tray tilted. Then, the
contents slid onto the hospital bed.
Screaming insanely, Liz freed her clutching hand. Lifting a mashed
potato gob, she slung it at Doctor Markham. The physician took it heavily on
the forehead. The wet mess slipped into his eyes and down his cheek. Grabbing
the patient by the wrists, he held her firmly.
“Restrain her,” Joshua Markham ordered Nurse Lavant. The
nurse swiftly pulled the restraining belt tight across Liz Talbot's waist.
Then, she hooked the wrist and ankle belts in place.
“We’ll have to sedate her,” the doctor remarked. He regained his
self-control. Gracie prepared the syringe and handed it to
the physician. He stabbed it into Liz’s upper arm and let out his pent-up
breath.
“Bad juju lady,” Marie Longstreet muttered, mournfully shaking her head.
She leaned in the open doorway.
******
While Lt. Col. Talbot continued to await final instructions from the
Pentagon, the Amberley house in Hendersonville, North Carolina, stood eerily
silent. Gen. Thomas Amberley sprawled across the king-sized bed. Three days
previously, he died of the plague. His unconscious wife lay on the kitchen
floor, her days numbered.
Chapter
Twelve
Arastoo Mazanderani worried his lower lip with
his teeth. Panic hovered just
beneath the surface of his fanatic mind.
Silent, his burner cellphone lay before him. For three days, he awaited
a call from Kasra Anvari.
Following his sister's arrival in San Francisco, Kasra discreetly
shadowed BahAr. The only news Arastoo received from the outside came from
Kasra. He frequently reported on her progress. She successfully distributed the
plague virus.
Each day, a text message arrived from Kasra depicting the situation.
Although his friend praised his sister’s ability to spread the fleas, he voiced
doubts about her behavior. The removal of her hijab distressed him. Her lewd
behavior sent him into a fury. Arastoo ordered Kasra to remain close to her. If
she continued her abominable behavior, he demanded a swift punishment. Still,
he expected his plan to move forward.
Following the San Francisco spread, BahAr should have gotten on a plane
for New Orleans, Louisiana. A package containing colorful hijabs awaited her.
Concealed inside lay an additional ten vials of plague-infested fleas. However,
all communications with Kasra Anvari abruptly ceased.
Shut off in the Iranian Takht-e-Soleiman range, Arastoo could not
acquire firsthand information. The occurrences of the outside world eluded him.
Therefore, he believed his plan to destroy the San Franciscan LBGTQ community
succeeded. Moving forward, he depended upon the same results in New Orleans. He
did not realize how quickly the pandemic spread. If he had known, the
furtherance of his plan would have been unnecessary. The
plague swiftly traveled from California to the remainder of the United States.
Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, and Australia declared total shut down
areas. In Tehran, the first cases began to emerge.
Throughout his life, everyone treated Arastoo Mazanderani as though he
were a genius. Chemistry excited him, and he excelled in it. However,
fanaticism drove him to ignorance. He could not see the world outside his
comprehension. Shades of grey did not exist in his limited world. Right was
right, and wrong was wrong. There was nothing else.
“Death to America,” Arastoo muttered, glaring at the mobile phone.
Absently, he spun it with his finger. Then, he lifted it to check for messages.
Nothing appeared.
Angrily, he slammed it down onto the table. The glass screen cracked,
furthering his fury. Arastoo Mazanderani glared at it.
"Allahu Akbar," Zeeba Bahrami exclaimed, entering the cave
that held their chemistry laboratory. She slept later than she intended.
Donning her lab coat, she sat down in front of a microscope.
"Allahu Akbar," her companion responded less enthusiastically.
“Still no word?” Zeeba asked, ogling Arastoo from behind her thick
glasses.
“No.” The response sounded snappish.
Zeeba longed to approach Arastoo. She wished to put her arms around him
to comfort him. Her love for him grew stronger, day by day. At night she
dreamed of sliding into bed next to him. Wild images of lovemaking filled her
fantasies. Soon, she knew she would approach him, make him her own. She could
not contain herself if they remained hidden in solitude for much longer.
Unaccustomed to male attention, Zeeba frustrated herself with lewd
dreams. Then, she prostrated herself before Allah for being weak-minded.
Depression weighed heavily upon her heart. For
a moment, she hesitated. She plugged her eye against the microscope's lens. Her
attention riveted onto the specimen entrapped in the glass. The new plague
strain appeared more viral than the initial one.
Tentatively, Zeeba glanced at her companion again. Without
consideration, she slid off her stool and stood behind him. She wrapped her
arms around his shoulders and tenderly bent to kiss his shiny black hair. Her
hand slid between the buttons of his white shirt. She caressed his smooth
chest. Then, she unzipped his black pants and slipped her fingers inside. “Do
not touch me, woman,” Arastoo hissed, releasing himself from her embrace. “One
hundred lashes for initiating unmarried sex according to Sharia Law.”
Furiously, Arastoo Mazanderani backhanded Zeeba. Clutching her swollen
cheek, she backed away from her lab partner. Angrily, he struck her again. The
weight of the blow caused her glasses to sail off her nose. They crunched
beneath the fanatic’s advancing feet. Blinded, she stumbled and fell. A
whip cracked in the air. Again, it hissed and struck. Its heavy weight fell
upon the sightless woman. Like a venomous snake, it bit into her skin. Her
white blouse tore, and blood stained it. Madness overcame Arastoo as he continuously
struck. Unleashed, he vented his frustrations upon Zeeba. Hugely, he stood
above the quavering women.
Sweat beads flew from Arastoo’s forehead as he wielded his weapon.
Furiously, he snapped the whip. Flinging it over his shoulder, he utilized his
muscular arm to crack it forward. The whip hissed through the stillness of the
laboratory cave. The
form crouched on the floor lost its human structure. For Arastoo, it became
little more than a vile object.
Zeeba whimpered. She crawled toward the cavern's entranceway, raising
her hands and knees. Survival strengthened her. Despite the leather whip's
cutting bark, she pulled herself onward. A trail of blood followed her,
illuminating her path.
Arastoo continued to strike. Lossing count, he surpassed the hundred
lashes subscribed by Sharia Law. Frantically, he continued to beat his lab
partner.
Finally, Zeeba collapsed near the entrance. Her body quivered, then
stilled. Her ragged breathing ceased.
Standing above her, Arastoo prodded her with the toe of his black shoe.
Then, using his foot, he rolled her over. Her eyes fixed on him, then glazed.
His partner of three years stared blankly up at him.
“Women,” Arastoo Mazanderani muttered, turning away. He
chastised himself for choosing Zeeba Bahrami as his assistant. However, he
never actually viewed her as a woman. To him, she was only a chemist. He
decided to overlook the obvious. Attracted by her genius, he drew closer to
her. Their conversations brightened his day, although they only discussed
chemistry.
Zeeba did not attract him. Yasmina, his wife, did not entirely seduce
him. The homosexual men he discovered in London did. During the overnight
hours, his dreams took him back to Soho. Closing his eyes, he reobserved the
street scene, the nightclubs, and bars packed with lewd men and women. The
desire to join them grew stronger each time he went there.
Zeeba’s grasping touch threw Arastoo into a panic. His strong reaction destroyed
her. It destroyed Arastoo. He did not beat her because of Sharia Law; he beat
her because her woman’s touch offended him. Admittedly, Arastoo Mazanderani
admired men over women.
Wildly, the chemist ran his hands through his hair until it stood on
end. His primeval scream echoed back through the winding cave system. His
master plan to destroy the LBGTQ community pushed him to the edge of insanity.
If he demolished the source of his temptation, he would free himself of his
evil thoughts. Falling
to his knees, Arastoo prostrated himself before Allah.
"If you love Allah, follow me, Allah will love you and forgive you
your sins. Allah is forgiving, merciful," the prostrate fanatic quoted
from the Quran. (Quran 3:31)
******
After a while, Arastoo rose. Averting his eyes from his partner's body,
he returned to his work. He placed his eye against the microscope Zeeba had
studied earlier. The slide showed a more viral strain of plague than he'd
previously concocted. Grinning widely, he believed Allah answered his prayers.
“Paris,” he gleefully stated, rubbing his hands together.
Delighted in his plans, Arastoo lifted his cellphone and checked his
messages. No new texts arrived from Kasra Anvari. However, he sent one
demanding a response. In
his mind, he imagined his sister and friend had changed locations. Perhaps
Kasra had trouble reconnecting. The channels of communication remained faulty.
Arastoo felt sure he would have news soon. Once they completed their task in
New Orleans, they could move on to Paris to spread the newest strain.
******
Meanwhile, in San Francisco, Kasra Anvari lay in his hotel room. The
maid discovered him when she entered to clean. Hastily, the manager phoned the
EMTs, who swiftly removed the body. Another victim of the plague entered the
death records.
Chapter
Thirteen
Calvin Blanchard trembled as he approached the Presidential Podium. The
weary eyes of America fell upon him. Gulping, he opened the leather-bound
folder containing the speech. Cal held his head high and began to speak.
Calvin's resemblance to Abraham Q. Morton was impeccable. The mole on
his right cheek appeared in precisely the same place as the late President's.
No one had to know it was a prop"except Cal himself. The
President’s body double never expected to take his place. Calvin Blanchard
viewed it as an empty position. However, the pay was excellent.
“Imagine getting paid to do nothing,” Cal chuckled to his wife, Melinda.
After accepting the proposition, he delighted in the simplicity of his future.
He never imagined the plague would resurface and surge around the world.
Calvin Blanchard stood before the American people knowing that he had
deceived them. Widening his grey/green eyes, he focused directly on the camera
and began to speak.
"As we work steadfastly to overcome the current situation, I assure
you"the American People"that we will successfully put the plague behind us.
Around the world, scientists are scrambling to produce an effective vaccine. I
guarantee that once the majority of the population receives an inoculation, we
will defeat this plague.
"In the meantime, wear your masks continuously in public and
shelter in place. If we continue to keep a good social distance, we will stop
the spread. It is up to each and every one of you to do your part. "A recent rumor maintains the plague
originated in Iran. Categorically, it is untrue. The Intelligence Community has
no evidence of the current strain's origin. It is simply a fluke of nature.
Pointing the finger at the Iranians will do more harm than good. I encourage
anyone who speaks hatefully against them or plots against them to halt such
activities. You will receive a severe punishment.
"We must work as a nation together to defeat the plague. Playing
the blame game will not help.
“Thank you.”
Calvin Blanchard held up the thumbs and forefingers of both hands in a
“V” for victory formation. Then, he turned his back on the camera and walked
sedately away. A
cacophony of reporter’s voices yelled at his departing back. The press secretary
strode to the microphone and motioned for silence. “No
questions,” Monique Abreo remarked into the microphone. The
angry journalists continued to shout their questions. However, Monique stepped
back, then disappeared. Groans followed her.
Swiftly, the faux President stepped into Marine One. His wife, Melinda
Blanchard, awaited him. Their next destination was a bunker in Colorado, where
they would remain for the interim. If other appearances became necessary, they
would come from a mock-up of the Oval Office.
******
Representative Ginger Hartley breathed a sigh of relief. After viewing
the Presidential speech from her Congressional Office, she felt a weight lift
from her shoulders. For all intents and purposes, the charade worked. Calvin
Blanchard pulled off his impersonation of Abraham Q. Morton perfectly. No one
would expect the switch. In
fact, only four people knew the President had died of the plague six days
previously. Rep. Ginger Hartley, Rep. Deval Harrelson, Sen. Jamie Merrick, and
Press Secretary Monique Abreo. The only one who concerned Hartley was Abreo.
Relatively new to her position, Abreo might slip. However, the rest were D.C.
seasoned veterans.
“What did you think?” Sen. Harrelson asked, stepping into Hartley’s
office. He assured himself the door was closed before continuing. “Cal pulled
it off perfectly.”
"We'll all breathe easier now," Ginger Hartley responded,
grinning. Relieved, she sank back into her leather-bound office chair. She
rested her chin in her tented fingers while propping her elbows on her desk.
"No one will guess he's not actually the President."
Rep. Ginger Hartley knew withholding information concerning the
President's demise broke the law. Nevertheless, she believed she acted in the
American people's best interest.
Secretly confined to an undisclosed hospital, Vice President Manuel
Ramirez only had days to live. Constitutionally, the oath of office should be
taken by the next in line: The Speaker of the House.
Representative Hartley cringed. By all rights, Ginger should have been
the Speaker. In fact, for the last three terms, she upheld the position. The
previous election made her the Minority Leader. However, her opposition
opponent filled the chair, Samuel Grisham. And he, according to Ginger Hartley,
was not fit for the job.
“How long can we keep this up?” Deval Harrelson questioned, taking a
seat. Although he went along with the plot, he had his doubts. “As
long as possible,” Hartley deviously countered. She caught her colleague’s brown
eyes and held them.
Deval tried to shift his gaze but could not. Ginger Hartley's office was
known as the Spider's Web. Once caught, it became nearly impossible to escape.
Ginger held sway over Deval for too many years to count. He was known as
Hartley's Stooge.
Ginger Hartley and Deval Harrelson entered the lofty Congressional Halls
more than thirty years ago. Ginge hailed from Massachusetts and Dev from
Louisianna. Both devoted themselves to their party and worked hard for their
constituents' best interests. Bulldogging her way into several committees,
Hartley rose swiftly. Less ambitious, Deval kept his nose to the grindstone and
retained his seat.
After she became Speaker, Deval noticed a change in his longtime friend.
Although Ginger had always worked aggressively to get to the top, her elevated
position swelled to her head. He realized, at the moment, she scrambled to find
a way into the Presidency. It irked her that Samuel Grisham was legally the
next POTUS.
"Someone will catch on, Ginge," Harrelson cautioned. "I
bet the rumor mill is already grinding. Someone noticed. Someone saw something
out of the ordinary. By tomorrow morning, a billion posts will go up on all the
social media platforms. They'll all claim it was not the President
speaking."
"So?" Ginger reclined in her chair, a smug look crossing her
face. "We get them pulled, or we get them declared misinformation. We got
this, Dev."
"We ain't got it, Ginge." Removing the handkerchief from his
suit jacket's upper pocket, Deval Harrelson dabbed at his chocolate-hued
forehead. Sweating profusely, he mopped at the moisture. "If we get
caught…"
“You worry too much, Dev." Ginger Hartley's grin widened. "No
one's going to catch us. We have all the brains, so we're where we are. The
rest of the people are stupid. They're like little lemmings. We lead; they
follow."
“Those lemmings are the people who vote for us,” Deval remarked, shoving
his hanky back into its pocket.
“That’s my point.” Ginger leaned forward and sneered. “They’re dumb
enough to keep voting for us.”
"Exactly." With a defeated sag in his shoulders, Rep.
Harrelson rose and placed his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, it seemed as
though Deval had more to say. He hesitated, although for only a moment, then
exited.
Suddenly he wished he were back home in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. The
son of a corner grocer, he'd had no real hope for the future. Then, in college,
he'd been bitten by the political bug. He took part in several protests and
began organizing them. Before long, he held his first campaign and, much to his
surprise, won. He continued to climb until he'd finally sought a seat in the
House of Representatives. He'd been in D.C. for thirty years and played
Hartley's Stooge for most of them.
Deval Harrelson wondered if it were time to give up. Ginger Hartley's
latest plan went entirely too far. If caught, the consequences were dire. It
meant… No, he did not want to consider what it meant. He knew a treasonous act
would destroy his career, reputation, and life. His shoulders drooped as he
entered the busy Rotunda.
******
Senator Jamie Merrick stood on her toes overlooking the crowd in the
Rotunda. Her eyes sought either Hartley or Harrelson. When she spied Deval, she
pushed her way through her colleagues and hooked her arm through his.
“Well? How’d it go?” Jamie asked as soon as they were alone.
"It went," Harrelson answered, reaching for his hanky again.
Aggressively, he mopped his perspiring brow. “No
one suspects?”
“Probably, but Ginger has a plan.”
“Good.” Jamie breathed a sigh of relief.
Jamie Merrick was a newcomer when compared with Ginger Hartley and Deval
Harrelson. She arrived in D.C. twelve years previously as a Junior Senator. As
ambitious as Hartley, she climbed the ranks with the speed of an acrobat
scaling toward a circus tent's high wire.
Jamie entered the Halls of Congress wanting to make a difference.
Noticing her grand ideas, her longer-term colleagues promoted her.
Consequentially, the press named her a rising star. Keeping her image clean,
she dressed impeccably in a smart polyester pantsuit. Her brown hair pulled
into a French Twist appeared neat and sophisticated. No
one had to know her stage name: Porche Starr. Dropping out of high school, she
longed to become a Broadway star. Impulsively, she left Cloverdale, Indiana for
Manhattan. While awaiting her big chance, she began stripping at The Atlantis
Playground.
Although she auditioned at several casting calls, Jamie did not achieve
her goal of becoming a Broadway Super Star. She may have achieved fame in her
high school drama club, but she was not good enough for the limelight. The
stripping gig became permanent.
Senator Ansel Carmichael noticed Porche Starr. When he visited
Manhattan, he frequented The Atlantis Playground. The spry young stripper soon
became his private dancer. One thing led to another. Before long, he invited
Porche to his posh hotel room. Then, he set her up in a lavish apartment.
Ansel Carmichael eventually talked Porche Starr into running for an open
Senate seat. Ansel dressed in her appropriate clothing and turned her platinum
locks back to brown. Returning to her given name, Jamie Merrick cleaned up
well.
Running as an ordinary but concerned citizen, Jamie Merrick talked the
talk and walked the walk. No one suspected her background. The voters viewed
her as a Champion of the People. As a result, she won the election with a good
margin and entered the Senate. And remained Ansel Carmichael's mistress.
Ambitious, Jamie Merrick climbed the ladder. She sat on several
committees and slept around. She swung both ways by advancing her political
career in the bedrooms of her colleagues. Jamie did not care if her bedmates
were men or women as long as she kept moving upward. Then, she caught Ginger
Hartley's eye.
Ginge took Jamie to her bed and kept her there. Digging deep, Ginger
discovered all she could about Porche Starr. Maliciously, she held it over the
young Senator’s head. Unless Jamie did as Ginger commanded, all her dirt would
fly. Caught in the spider’s web, Jamie eagerly complied.
******
Deval Harrelson departed from the Congressional Halls for his Georgetown
condo.
"We're safe as long as no one notices," Deval recalled his
final words to Jamie Merrick.
Although he'd squeezed her arm reassuringly, he doubted his optimism. At
the moment, he doubted Calvin Blanchard's ability to fool the American People.
Suddenly, he viewed Ginger Hartley as an absolute fool. Her ambitions
carried her too far. If she grasped the Presidency, she would assume more power
than she could handle. Deval realized the entirety of his thirty-year mistake.
Hartley's Stooge retook control of his life and his situation. His
hand shook as he grasped his smartphone. Squatting on the edge of his sectional
sofa, he dialed a number he thought he would never utilize. The phone rang:
once, twice, three times. If it went to voicemail, Deval knew he would hang up.
Then a brisk voice said hello.
“Hey, Sam.” Deval attempted to sound casual. “It’s Dev. Deval
Harrelson.”
"Yeah, so what's up Dev?" Samuel Grisham replied excitedly.
The Congressman's voice surprised him. He rarely spoke to Hartley's Stooge. “We
gotta talk, Sam.” Deval rushed his words before he changed his mind. “Something
big just came up. Can we meet?”
“Sure,” Speaker Grisham eagerly responded. “When?”
“Now, if you can,” Representative Harrelson stated, his heart pounding heavily
in his chest.
"Yes." Grisham checked his wristwatch. The hour grew late.
However, Harrelson's out-of-the-blue call intrigued him. "Where?"
“Your office, thirty minutes?”
“Thirty minutes, okay.”
Thirty minutes later, Deval Harrelson ceased to exist as Hartley’s
Stooge. He became a Whistleblower.
Chapter
Fourteen
Hank Talbot sat at the edge of his grandparents’ pool. Aggressively, his
feet kicked in the cold blue water. Bored, he became frustrated.
Hank understood the lockdown. Most of the time, Moo-ma and Poo-pa kept
him inside. During the scorching summer days, they allowed him an hour in the
pool in the mornings. He took a quick swim in the evening before his nightly
bath. Although it refreshed him, the exercise lacked enjoyment. At
first, Hank relished the lockdown. Poo-pa called it camping inside. Then, the
days began to drag. Pool in the morning, a game of checkers in the afternoon,
pool again after dinner. Bath and bed rounded out the day. The
Talbots' attempt to keep their only grandchild entertained failed. Hank missed
his Army base friends and the companions he had met during previous visits to
Naples, Florida. Twin boys Fred and Ted Willis lived across the street. Three
doors down, Darla Townsend resided with her grandmother. Marcy and Kingsley
Stead lived in the opposite direction. Since he arrived, Hank had not seen
them. He longed for their companionship.
Hank thought about stealthily exiting the Talbot home to meet with his
friends. However, because of the epidemic, he lost his nerve. Moo-ma and Poo-pa
would become very disappointed if he disobeyed them.
Kicking his feet, Hank stirred up the pool water. He pretended a giant
maelstrom stirred up the blue liquid for a moment. He dropped his toy sailboat
into the midst of the whirlpool and watched it navigate the spiral. Then, the
vessel tipped and sank. Too bad.
Rising, Hank strode toward the sliding glass door. Moo-ma would yell at
him for dripping on the tiled kitchen floor. However, the child did not care.
Getting yelled at would provide a distraction. He entered and opened the
freezer. Extracting an orange-flavored popsicle, he returned to the patio.
Poo-pa followed him outside. Retired Gen. I. Jeff Talbot wore blue swim
trunks with a white stripe. Overweight, his large gut hung over the waistband.
Approaching the pool, he lowered himself into the water. Hank cannonballed,
throwing a sheet of water over the older man.
“Hank,” Moo-ma called, stepping onto the patio. “Take it easy.”
"It's okay," Jeff Talbot hollered back, waving his arm over
his head. "Let the boy play."
Chuckling, he sent a spray of water over his grandson's head. The
Talbot grandparents enjoyed Hank's many visits. Although they were disappointed
with Liz's attitude toward him, they took advantage of the situation. If they
could, they would provide a full-time home for the child. While Oliver
completed a mission, his wife played with her girlfriends. They viewed her as
irresponsible. Still, they did not wish to interfere in their son's business.
"Whatever you say," Bea responded, grinning to herself. As
long as Jeff permitted Hank's rambunctious behavior, she did not mind.
"We'll have lunch on the patio. Then, I must make a quick trip to the
grocery store."
"Can I go too?" Hank asked, jumping onto the patio. Eagerly,
the boy longed to go somewhere, anywhere. Even food shopping sounded like fun.
“You have to wear a mask and social distance,” Moo-ma answered, pleased
to have company on her errand. “Maybe we’ll stop at the park on the way home.”
“Yippee!” Hank leaped for joy. Perhaps he would see a few of his
friends.
“Social distancing in the park too, young man,” his grandmother
instructed.
“Yeah, sure.”
Hank returned to the pool, doing another cannonball over his
grandfather’s head. Diving, he retrieved his sunken sailboat. Pretending he
sailed to Key West, he bobbed his boat over the water’s surface.
******
Smiling to herself, Beatrice Talbot returned to the kitchen. Preparing
tuna sandwiches, she added potato chips and pickles to the plates. Then she
poured frosted glasses of iced tea. Her
grandson was the love of her life. It saddened her that her son only produced
one child. Moreover, Oliver's marriage disappointed her. As a mother, she
wished the best for both of her children. Ivan's disappearance bitterly hurt
her. She longed to return to his childhood and have a do-over. She would have
approached him differently.
Ivan deserved a better life than they had given him. Bea understood more
now than she had years ago. Her eldest child had been unique, precious. Other
children treated him abominably; his desires had seemed extraordinary. She had
loved him yet had not appreciated him. When he vanished, it broke her heart. In
a way, she clung to Hank. Sadly, Bea did not anticipate another grandchild.
Oliver and Liz remained cool toward each other. Separated from his family, Ivan
led his own life. She did not know if he had found a life partner yet. Perhaps,
somewhere, he anticipated his own family.
"All my fault," the elder Talbot thought to herself. Placing
her picnic on a tray, she stared down at it and sighed. Wistfully, she filled a
bowl with cherry tomatoes.
Beatrice Talbot blamed herself for her sons' problems. She believed she
had driven Ivan away and destroyed Oliver's chance at happiness. Interference
and manipulation ruined her children's lives. Guilty as charged, she thought,
sighing again. Her longing for do-overs remained an impossibility. However, if
given a chance, she would have acted differently.
“Where’s that lunch?” Jeff Talbot asked, standing in the opened patio
doorway. “There are some starving men out here.”
“Coming right up,” Bea responded, faking a smile. When she lifted the
tray, her husband took it from her.
Jeff placed the lunch onto a white wrought table. A jaunty blue and
white striped umbrella provided a shady place to eat. Politely, he pulled out a
chair for his wife. When she sat, he kissed the top of her head.
Jeff Talbot knew his wife's thoughts and feelings. Upholding her
silence, she did not have to tell him. Guilt etched itself across her
expression. Bea meant the best for everyone. However, their offspring had the
right to decide their own lives.
Ivan chose his path. It hurt him to lose his firstborn. Unfortunately,
circumstances went against him. It would have been simpler if he had not been
born into a military family. The teasing might have occurred but not as
intensely.
Sensing turmoil within his eldest son, it had not surprised him when
Ivan disappeared. Escape presented the only way out. Both he and his wife
remained guilty of trying to change the unchangeable. They had not understood
Ivan as they should have. Nor had they supported Ivan’s lifestyle.
Jeff silently commiserated with his wife.
Although they rarely spoke of Ivan, they both thought of him. He was a
part of them as much as Oliver was. They both longed for a whole family.
“When is dad coming home?” Hank piped up, breaking the silence. He
sensed the depressed mood settling between his grandparents. He poised his
question to distract them.
“Don’t know, son.” Jeff Talbot smiled at his grandchild. “You know we
can’t tell just yet.”
"Yeah." The child lapsed into silence. "I wish he'd come
home. I miss him."
Both elders exchanged a look over the boy's head. Hank wistfully mentioned
his father but not his mother. It seemed significant.
"When I grow up, I'm going to do what dad does," the boy
stated matter-of-factly.
Another exchange between grandparents. The military tradition would live
on in the Talbot family. “Mom’s
in trouble, isn’t she?” Hank asked, thoughtfully chewing his sandwich. “I wish
she wouldn’t go away so much.”
“Your mother will be all right,” Bea responded, patting the boy’s hand.
“She’s stuck in Jamaica in quarantine. Your other grandfather is working on
getting her home.”
"Will I have to go to Grandmother Amberley's when mom comes
home?" the child asked. He would rather stay with his Talbot grandparents.
Grandmother Amberley treated him differently than Moo-ma. She would not
allow him to play or to create much noise. He could not splash in her pool and
make a maelstrom. His playtime had to include his cousins, who were all girls.
They preferred dolls to sports and pretending to be Army Rangers.
“Blah,” Hank thought, sticking out his wide tongue. He would rather stay
with Moo-ma and Poo-pa.
“We’ll see, child,” Bea answered. A thin smile appeared on her serious
face. It
would have hurt her to let Hank go. If his mother returned, she might want the
child with her. However, Bea had her doubts. Liz never truly bonded with her
son. She used him as a prop"not as actual flesh and blood. Hank gave her
bragging rights as a mother. However, when it came to acting like a natural
parent, she was frequently absent without leave.
Liz's frequent departures troubled the Talbot grandparents. Her friends
and party lifestyle were not conductive of a military spouse. Their
daughter-in-law was not there to support her son when Oliver went away on a
mission. She farmed the child out to relatives, friends, and lesser-known
acquaintances. Ollie often had to track his son's whereabouts and make
alternate arrangements for the child. The distractions interfered with his work
situation. Bea
attempted to provide a good grounding for Hank and wished he could remain with
them. Then, she chastised herself for plotting interference again.
"For now, you are staying with us," Poo-pa interrupted.
"And you're going to stay here. So let's not worry over it for the time
being. Let's take it day-by-day."
Moo-ma agreed.
"With all the shutdowns, the planes aren't flying as
frequently," the grandfather continued. "The safest place is right
here. I doubt your mother will take the risk." If
Liz returned, Jeff Talbot doubted she would want the boy. He believed the child
would remain exactly where he was.
"Let's forget about it, for now, Hank," Bea suggested, rising.
She lifted the tray and headed inside. "Get ready to go out. We'll go to
the grocery store. Then, maybe, we’ll go to the park. You could uses some
outside playtime.” The
thought of the park hastened Hank's footsteps. He readied himself in record
time and waited by the car before his grandmother emerged. As
they backed the sedan out of the garage, the sun twinkled brightly on the
windshield. It excited Hank. They had not been out since the shutdown began.
Even a trip to the grocery store seemed like an adventure. He wondered if his
friends would spent time at the park too. The
deserted roads stretched blackly toward town. The houses along the way seemed
deserted. Drapes enclosed picture windows, and driveways sat devoid of cars.
Hank thought of the Apocalyptic movies he frequently watched with his father as
they passed. Visions of zombies stumbling along empty streets stuck him as
possible. He never believed he would see a real-life scenario. The plague
changed everything. A
half dozen cars sat in the supermarket parking lot. A lone shopping cart sat in
a vacant space, looking forlornly alone. Moo-ma pulled into a slot close to the
entrance. She secured her mask over her nose and mouth. Then, she assisted Hank
with his. He could have done it himself, but he relented. Moo-ma had his safety
in mind. He did not want to create a fuss.
Together they entered. A team member wiped down a cart and pushed it
toward them. Hank thought he recognized her. However, the mask covering the
nose and mouth distorted her features. Nevertheless, he waved, and she returned
the greeting.
Many shelves remained empty, and his grandmother could not obtain a few
items on her list. Nevertheless, she bought bread, milk, cheese, and a bag of
Red Delicious apples. Hank placed them on the Express Lane counter and swiped
Moo-ma's debit card. It made him feel grown up to pay for the groceries.
When they returned to the parked sedan, Hank jubilantly awaited arriving
at the park. Would his friends play there too?
Perhaps, if the excursion were successful, Moo-ma would plan another
trip. Hank thought of the hobby shop on the other side of town. He thought of
the model tank he had seen on the store’s internet page. A new Harry Potter
Lego set would please him too.
When they stopped at the park, Hank’s face lit up in delight. He noticed
another child. However, because of the distance, he did not recognize her.
Exiting the car, the child raced toward the playground. Marcy Stead sat
on a swing, her feet dragging in the sand. Two red pigtails drooped over her
shoulders. When she noticed Hank Talbot, she grinned delightedly. However, when
he approached, she halted him.
Hank stopped dead in his tracks. He longed to play with a friend.
Although the child did not particularly get along with Marcy, it thrilled him
to see her. He rather wished she were her brother instead. Hank and Kingsley
Stead had been friends since they were four years old. Marcy, the twin sister,
tagged along and whined when they played boys' games. However, Hank had not
seen his friends in so long that he would play with anyone.
“You gotta take the third swing,” Marcy called. She jabbed her pointy
finger twice along the line of swings.
“We gotta social distance.”
“Yeah, okay, gotcha,” Hank yelled back. With a skip, he ran toward the
swings and leaped into the third one. “Where’s King?”
“John.” Marcy indicated toward the restrooms in the nearby pavilion. As
she pointed, her brother appeared and sprinted toward them. His masked face
obscured his gleeful grin. He knew when Hank arrived but had not seen his
friend. Gladly, he raced up and nearly swung his arms around his playmate.
Then, his feet skidded on the soft playground surface. He remembered what his
mother said about social distancing. He raised his hand and tick-tocked it back
and forth.
"Hey!" Hank called through his mask. Distorted by the face
covering, his voice sounded funny. The
two boys raced around the swing set and climbed the slide. They tried not to
crowd at the top. However, in his rush, Kingsley collided with Hank's back.
Neither boy actually noticed.
“Don’t touch each other,” Marcy called from below. She had seen them
bang into each other.
"Aw, shut up," King yelled, leaning dangerously over the
slide's upper railing.
“You wanna get the plague and die?” his sister hollered. The disease
scared her more than it did Kingsley. She did not want to die.
"Blah." King lowered his mask, stuck out his tongue, and
wiggled it. Hank copied him.
"Boys are stupid," his sister remarked. Hastily, she climbed
the slide and followed her companions back to the ground. The
three children played happily while Bea Talbot and Dorothy Stead chatted. The
women sat on either end of the park bench. Social distancing, the empty green
rails stretched between them.
After being cooped up at home, the fresh air refreshed them. The warm
summer sun beat down on the park. In the distance, birds chirped their happy
songs. It could have been an average day. However, no one else had ventured out
to enjoy the season.
Chapter
Fifteen
Nicola Prescott drove through the Holland Tunnel at daybreak. The empty
road ahead of her seemed eerie. It felt as though she were in another world.
She had never experienced as straightforward a trip. Only one vehicle proceeded
her while two followed at a distance.
Milt Kromesky died a week previously. The news upset Nicola. When she
first arrived in Manhattan, the elderly gentleman befriended her. Somehow, the
city felt empty without him. Social distancing put a proper funeral out of
bounds. Although her group of friends gathered on Zoom, his remembrance wake
seemed flat, unreal. Nicola wished she could have provided him with a better
send-off. Nic
desired companionship. However, the plague spread quickly, preventing
get-togethers. Facetime did not take the place of real time. Stephanie Malone
and Gabby Sanchez kept in touch. The rest of her companions dropped off.
Nic's fiction writing kept her busy. Cricket Madison and Chadwick Mars
became the closest people in her life. However, they lived solely in her
imagination. In Nic's opinion, fictional characters never took the place of
real ones. However, they were her bread and butter. She could take them to
Florida if she wished. And
she wished. Beyond the grave, Milt Kromesky convinced her. Nicola did not wish
to stay in NYC if Milt were not there. Florida beckoned. Therefore, she packed
up her three cats and hit the road.
Exiting the tunnel, Nicola navigated onto the Garden State Parkway. She
intended to travel to Cape May, New Jersey, then cross on the ferry to
Delaware. Interstate 95 would take her to her home state. Muffin, Tangerine, and Samantha rode in their
carriers on the backseat. Their endless caterwauling came to a halt with a soft
whimper from Sam. The cats provided good company once they settled down. Nic
spoke softly to soothe them. Usually, she flew when she transferred homes, and
her furry companions traveled in the hold. The road trip might prove
challenging. However, with many flights canceled, driving seemed the better option.
“Good kitties,” Nic gently crooned. “Good kitty kitties.”
Muffin ma-wrawled in return. Then he began to purr softly. Peering into
the rearview, Nic smiled. Tange groaned and stretched; Sam rolled over on her
belly. Nicola could only see a little of the tuxedo's white chin in the dark
carrier. The rest of her black fur blended into the shadows. “At
least they won’t argue over their tablets and snacks,” Nic spoke to herself.
She considered the cats her children.
Smiling, Nicola Prescott thought of her childhood vacations. Forced to
spend hours on the backseat, she and her sister, Noelle, often fought over
trivial things. Boredom drove them to it. The punch buggy game provided the
catalyst for many a backseat fight.
“Yellow punch buggy,” Noelle screeched, peering out the window. Turning
on her sister, she hauled back her arm and punched.
Nicola took it squarely on the upper arm. By the evening, a blue-black
bruise would appear. It would remain for the entirety of their summer vacation.
She would look stupid in tank tops and bathing suits.
“Watch what you’re doing,” Nic hissed, slamming her younger sibling in
the same place. ‘There, now we’re even,’ she gleefully thought.
"MOM!" Noelle yelled, grasping her arm. Tears stood out on her
honey-colored lashes.
“What did I tell you about hitting each other?” Nadine Prescott, their
mother, sharply asked. Hoisting herself
between the front bucket seats, she glared at her daughters.
“Noelle started it,” Nicola answered, pouting. Her younger sister
usually started their fusses.
“You don’t have to finish it,” their mother retorted, sitting back into
her front seat.
“Yeah, whatever,” Nic muttered, slumping into the back seat.
“Yeah, whatever,” the adult Nicola told her dashboard.
Occasionally, the desire for real children overcame her. She should
marry and settle down, she admonished herself. After all, Oliver Talbot had
nothing substantial to give her. A fling"that was all he was. He called, and
she flew merrily into his arms. Often, Nicola admonished herself for doing it.
“Give it up,” Nicola stated out loud. Cringing, she realized she spoke
to herself. Then, she shrugged and said, “I won’t give Ollie up. I don’t care
if he’s married. I want him.”
Nicola clicked on her turn signal and pulled off the parkway into a fast
food drive-thru. She did not look to see which one it was. It all boiled down
to the same thing. And she only wanted a large coffee.
Paying for her drink, Nic pulled into a parking slot. Lifting the lid,
she sat back and allowed the steam to escape. Then, she added three sugar
packets and four creamers. She took a sip.
"Hot!" Nicola exclaimed, plunking the cup into the car's
cupholder. Nic
backed out of her space and hit the road again. Traffic remained light all the
way down to Cape May. Four cars plus her own pulled onto the ferry. If the
situation continued, she’d make it home in record time.
However, vehicles began to back up as Nicola Prescott neared the D.C.
area. She dreaded navigating in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nevertheless, after
Richmond, VA, it would lighten up again. Still, it proved easier to get around
the capital than she expected.
******
Finally, Nic pulled into a Hampton Inn near Santee, South Carolina.
Weary from the drive, she stumbled into her room and dropped onto the bed. She
felt lucky they accepted her pets. With the plague preventing travel, perhaps
they were eager for lodgers.
Rising, Nicola set up a litterbox and freed her companions. Muffin, her
grey cat, wove a joyful figure eight around her legs. Samantha leaped at her
leg, dragging long scratches from her knees to her ankles. Although she winced
at the sudden pain, Nic bent down to give her little girl a soothing pet.
Orange and white Tangerine flopped onto the bed and stretched out.
“Love you guys,” Nic sang, throwing kisses. She fell back onto the bed
and played with her frisky cats.
Following a quick nap, Nic pulled up Door Dash on her smartphone and
ordered dinner. It arrived in good time, and she ate hungrily. Then she fed the
cats.
******
The
following morning, Nicola Prescott hit the road again. The roads remained
clear, and she jogged merrily along. The interstate cut through Georgia and
deep into Florida. She exchanged I-95 for I-4 and met traffic in Orlando. By
mid-afternoon, she arrived in Spring Hill.
Parking her car neatly in the garage, Nic entered through the kitchen
and kicked off her sandals. She breathed a sigh of relief and swung open the
fridge. Connie Maitland, her friendly neighbor, stocked it during the previous
night.
Nicola considered herself fortunate to have a good friend next door. The
older woman treated her like a daughter. If she called, Connie eagerly provided
the assistance she required. A
tapping sound drew her attention as Nic drew out a half-gallon of milk. Looking
up into the kitchen window, she discovered Connie smiling at her. Swiftly, she
unlatched the sliding lanai door and invited her friend inside.
"You made good time," the elderly woman exclaimed, breezing
in. "I didn't expect you until much later. No speeding, I hope."
Playfully she shook in index finger in Nicola's face.
“No, nothing like that,” Nic answered, grinning. “Clear sailing almost
all the way. No traffic. The plague is keeping everyone at home.”
“Excellent,” Connie returned, grasping the milk. Extracting two glasses
from an upper cabinet, she poured. Then, pulling out a stool, she perched at
the kitchen island.
“Hang on a minute,” Nic called, heading toward the garage. “I haven’t
brought my babies in yet. They’ve been in their carriers for two days. You know
how they hate it.”
Within moments, the two women carried in the three cats. Releasing them,
Muffin and Sam charged around the house. Playfully, they leaped over each other
and dashed into the open lanai. Tangerine appeared in the open carrier door,
sniffed the air, and lumbered out. Taking four steps, he plopped on the tiled
floor and stretched out.
“Lazy boy,” Nicola chided her middle cat.
"So what brings you down to FLA?" her neighbor asked,
regaining the kitchen stool. Nic joined her and sipped her milk.
“The city was driving me crazy,” the writer responded. She did not wish
to speak of Milt’s passing. It still saddened her. “It became depressing with
everyone on lockdown.”
"It isn't any more exciting in the southland," Connie
wistfully responded. "The theaters are closed, and the club canceled our
bridge games." A
conservator of the arts, Connie frequented the local theater companies. She
donated both her money and time to the endeavors of the performers. She played
cards at their gated neighborhood's small community center in her spare time.
Nicola accompanied her to many plays and musicals but reneged on joining the
club. Playing bridge and gin bored her.
“Looks like we have to entertain ourselves at home,” Nic answered, idly
spinning her empty milk glass.
"Easy for you to say," Connie stated with a sigh. "I've
crocheted twenty doilies. Tell me, Nic, what will I do with twenty
doilies?"
“Give them as Christmas gifts,” Nicola offered.
“Very funny. Blah.” The older woman put out her tongue. “I can’t even
get my hair done.” Pointing upwards, she indicated her unruly silver curls.
"I see what you mean," Nic responded, propping her elbows on
the counter. "First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to shut all the
blinds. And set up a 'do not disturb sign' on the doorknob. I want to get in at
least twenty pages of 'Cricket Madison.'"
“Your new book?”
"Hmmm, mmm," the writer conceded. "Cricket's in a mess.
Her boyfriend, Chadwick Mars, is a control freak. She just clocked him with a
baseball bat. Writer's block set in. I figured I could clear my head down here.
Then, I'll move the story forward."
“Tap tap tap. Ding. Thack. Zzzzhip.” Connie imitated an old-fashioned
typewriter perfectly.
Nicola laughed for the first time since Milt died. In a way, she felt
relieved. After receiving the news, Nic cried herself out. Moreover, she could
not focus on her work. As she tried to move her story forward, the words hung
blankly in her mind. The white MS Word page stared at her accusingly.
“Thank heavens for laptops and MS Word,” Nicola exclaimed, grinning
broadly. “In
my day, we had typewriters and pencils,” her neighbor remembered. “Lining up
paper and carbons took up a great deal of time. We started over on every typo.
The younger writing generation sure is lucky.”
"We're spoiled," Nic conceded. "But it's just as tough to
get your foot in the door as in your day. I consider myself lucky enough to
have an agent."
“True,” Connie replied, recalling her days as a novelist. “You’re
further ahead than I was. You have three best sellers. The fourth one will sell
like hotcakes.” “I
hope so. Cricket is a real character. So is Chad if you’re into control
freaks.”
"As long as they each play off the other, you've got it made."
A
loud series of meows startled Nicola and Connie. Leaping to their feet, the two
women dashed for the lanai. Muffin and Tangerine lay tangled together at the
edge of the pool. As Nic rushed toward them, the two cats rolled over and splashed
into the cold water.
Nicola threw herself down at the pool's edge and fished Muffin out.
Bellowing out a screech, the bedraggled cat dove for the house. Tangerine
surfaced and paddled toward the shallow end. Connie lifted him into her arms
and hurried into the bathroom. Emerging moments later, she held the orange cat
wrapped in a towel. Samantha sat on a white wrought iron table, preening
herself.
“Rescue accomplished,” Nic exclaimed and laughed. Her
neighbor handed over Tange and plunked down at the table. Sucking in air,
Connie gasped for breath. After a few moments, she felt better.
"Too much exercise for this old gal," she sputtered. It became
difficult to breathe.
“You okay?” Nicola queried, worried about her friend. “Sure, just give me a minute.”
Nicola and Connie sat by the pool. After a while, Muffin reemerged and
groomed himself at Nic's feet. Tangerine curled up on the fluffy towel. After a
while, Connie said goodbye, and Nic waved. The
long day drew to a close. Nicola suddenly felt exhausted after the long drive.
She grabbed a bite, then a shower, and fell into bed. For
a while, the writer in her emerged. She thought about Cricket Madison and
Chadwick Mars. A few scenarios crossed her mind, including a hostage situation.
Then, Nicola's mind drifted to Oliver Talbot.
“Elysian Fields Cancelled,” she muttered, rolling over. Pulling the
comforter over her head, she repeated, “Elysian Fields Cancelled, indeed.”
Perhaps she would cancel Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot and get on with her
life.
Chapter Sixteen
Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot read the news on his
smartphone. The plague death count rose dramatically over the past forty-eight
hours. The multiple numbers staggered him. He wondered if he knew anyone who
died of the plague. Beatrice Talbot indicated their state of
health when he spoke to her. Both his parents and Hank remained plague-free.
Ollie knew he could count on the elder Talbots to keep his son under lockdown.
They were health-conscious and studious about their safety. Oliver had not heard from his wife since their
last communication. He assumed Liz’s return to stateside had gone off as
planned. Surely, the lack of text messages indicated all remained well with
her. Ollie did not worry. Thomas Amberley worked thoroughly, and he loved his
spoiled daughter. He would move heaven and earth if she faced any danger.
Surely, she travelled to Hendersonville, North Carolina to ride out the
lockdown. Dismissing Liz, Ollie scrawled through a list
of casualties. He keened his eye at the screen filled with Talbots. Pausing at
the I’s, he peered at the page. Ivan did not appear. He sighed and sat back.
Ivan never appeared on lists. Disappointed, Oliver wished he could locate
his missing brother. He longed to make up for all the bad times and accept Ivan’s
personality. Yet, his older sibling eluded him. “Where are you, Ivan?” he questioned his
smartphone. His mind flashed back to their younger days.
Their home in Ft. Dix, New Jersey, had an ancient basketball hoop over the
garage. After school, he and four friends shot hoops in the driveway. In the
front yard, Ivan pushed a pink Barbie Corvette along the stone walkway.
Chatting happily, he made up a pretend conversation with his Barbie and Skipper
dolls. His friends stopped playing and gathered
around Ivan. Closing his eyes, Oliver pictured them. Ralph Mansion wore a green
tank top over jean shorts. Propping his hand on his hip, his bony elbow stuck
out. Next to him in the circle, Clem Anderson pushed his black glasses back
onto his nose. Kyrie Strong"the only girl present"stated she had not played
with dolls since the age of seven. Her brother, Kendrick, turned to Ollie. “What are you gonna do about him?” Ken asked,
poking his white sneaker into Ivan’s ribs. Nervously, Ivan turned his doe eyes upward.
Silently, he pleaded for help. Oliver glared down at him. His friends gathered
in a semi-circle waiting. Oliver saw lipstick and mascara and eye
shadow. His hostile brain burned as he looked upon his older brother. A little
girl looked up at him. Ivan wore a crop top, a tutu and pink sparkly leggings.
Pink high top sneakers with silver laces adorned his size eleven feet. The
Barbie Corvette stood beneath his trembling hand. Oliver held the basketball beneath his right
arm. His eyes travelled from Ralph to Clem and rested on Kyrie and Kendrick.
His friends or his brother; his choice. He slide the b-ball from beneath his
crooked arm and dribbled it. Then, grasping it in both arms, he straddled the
pink plastic car. Wham! The ball hit the toy. Plastic crunched
beneath the weight of the basketball. Ollie held it in his hands again and let
go. Wham! The car split in the middle. Fury overcame the younger brother. Again
and again, the ball smashed into the Corvette. Ivan grabbed his beloved Barbie sportscar and
rushed inside. Oliver heard his bawling and a pang trembled in his heart. Then
his friends gathered round him. Kendrick high fived him. Ralph and Clem high
fived each other. Impulsively, Kyrie flung her arms around his neck and kissed his
cheek. The heart pang faded, and Ollie grinned. His popularity level ticked up
a few notches. When Jeff Talbot swung the front door opened,
Oliver’s friends high tailed it up the street. At the corner, Clem turned to
walk backwards and called out a “Woo-woo!” He fist pumped the air then he turned
and ran. Oliver responded to his father’s summons.
Chucking the basketball up the driveway, he entered the house in his parent’s
wake. Ivan sat in the recliner. Bent forward, his hands covered his face. He
sobbed uncontrollably. When Ollie entered, he looked up accusingly. Mascara
streaked his cheeks. Oliver pivoted away from the pathetic sight.
However, his father grasped his elbow and dragged him into the room. “Apologize,” I. Jeff Talbot demanded, pointing
toward Ivan. “I…I’m sorry, Ivan,” Oliver stammered, feeling
the heart pang again. He knew he had acted inappropriately. “Tomorrow, after school, you are going to
replace Ivan’s toy,” his father ordered. “You will use your own money.” “I was saving for a rocket launcher, dad,”
Ollie countered. “I almost have it.” “Nevertheless, you destroyed Ivan’s property.
You’ll replace it.” “Yes, sir,” Ollie reluctantly gave in. “Dad, he’s sixteen,” Oliver complained. “Yeah, son, I know,” I. Jeff Talbot conceded. “He wears girls’ clothes, and he acts…” Ollie
did not finish. His father shushed him.
******
So many years ago, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot
lamented. He began to scroll through a list names on a people-search site. Ivan
did not appear on the list. Oliver longed to find his brother. He wanted to
make up for the bad days with promises of good ones in the future. Too many
mistakes, Ollie bemoaned. Admitting failure, Oliver turned back to the
internet news pages. He read about the beginnings of the plague and the
thousands of resultant deaths. A write up of the nine original San Francisco victims
caught his eye. Melissa Beaumont"aged thirty-five A long term resident of San Fransisco, Mel as
her friends called her, taught high school English. An active member of the
LBGTQ community, she participated in fund raisers and rallies. She advocated
for students who wished to ‘come out.’ After school, she invited lesbian girls
to her house for special club meetings. Ramon Ramon"aged eighty-one An entertainer by trade, Ramon Ramon’s claim
to fame included a performance at the Monterey Pop festival in November of
1967. He acquired a cult following during the 1970s and 1980s. Later, he fell
on hard times. His live-in lover, Cyrus Bland, sued him for palimony. Homeless,
Ramon drifted to San Francisco and entertained as a street musician near
Fisherman’s Wharf. His body was discovered in an alley beside a dumpster. Chaz Lopez"aged sixteen A runaway discovered in a flophouse. Few
details available. Authorities still attempting to locate family. Cammie Light"aged twenty-three A popular local girl, Cammie graduated from
Mission High School and attended the UCSF School of Nursing. She worked at
Concentra Urgent Care. Her girlfriend, Vicky Ansel, called 911 as soon as the first
plague symptoms appeared. Cammie died at Saint Frances Memorial Hospital. Det. Leeland MacAllister"aged thirty-eight The San Francisco police detective lived with
his wife, Mary, and three children, Marcia"aged nine, Grace"aged seven,
Marcus"aged two, in suburban Palo Alto. He recently ‘came out’ to his family
and colleagues. His death came as a double blow to all who knew him and called
him friend. No one expected his homosexual tendencies. Ivy Masterson"aged approximately forty A recent newcomer to San Francisco, Ivy
Masterson accepted employment at Che Boutique. The proprietress of the popular
Union Square establishment, Maureen Tapper, hired Ivy on the spot. Later, when
her new employee did not appear at work, she regretted her swift decision. Maureen
claimed she liked the transgender woman from the get-go. The news of Ivy’s
sudden death upset her greatly. Samson Delight"aged thirty Real name unknown. Samson Delight, a male
stripper, at the Rainbow Palace, passed out during a performance. The telltale
bulbous had not yet appeared. However, he had all the other symptoms. The four
men who accompanied him in a line dance, were placed in immediate quarantine
and the club shutdown pending inspection. Sent home from school, the eighth grader
returned to her empty home and crawled into bed. Her parents discovered her
body the following morning. Her mother entered her bedroom to shake her awake.
When she could not rouse the girl, the father called 911. She was pronounced
dead at the scene. Capri recently ‘came out’ as a lesbian. Kasra Anvari"aged twenty-seven A Clarion hotel maid discovered the body of
the Iranian vacationer. When she entered to clean the room, she found the door
jammed. Calling for maintenance to assist, the two co-workers forced the door
opened. Kasra lay sprawled immediately inside. He died three days previously.
Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot sat back in his chair.
The Iranian name struck him as unusual. It might provided a clue to the origin
of the plague epidemic. Ollie considered the possibility. At the moment, he
only had the slightest knowledge of his pending assignment. If Iran proved
their final destination, he did not wonder the initiation of the mission
remained in limbo. Oliver sucked in his breathe then let it out. His
men grew more impatient with each waiting hour. He wished the task were
completed and they were on their way home. Wearily, Oliver glanced over the victims names
once again. Kasra Anvari alarmed him but another one stuck out: Ivy
Masterson"aged approximately forty. Why did the name mean something to him? He
did not know anyone in San Francisco. Clearly, he did not know any of the other
people who died of the plague. A picture appeared with all on the list except
Ivy Masterson. An outline of a female head appeared in the place of a photo.
The information did not hold any clues to the dead woman’s past. Still, Ollie
felt…well, he felt something.
Chapter
Seventeen
"Colonel?" Sgt. Tyrone Jones stood in Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's
makeshift office doorway. His voice sounded choked up.
“Yes, Jones?” Lt. Talbot acknowledged without looking up. “I
spoke to my wife, Colonel,” Jones stated, leaning heavily in the doorframe. “My
son’s got it. He was admitted to the base hospital last night.”
Oliver's attention suddenly focused on his Sargeant. Tears streaked
Tyrone Jones's caramel-colored cheeks. Running his shaky hands over them, he
rubbed away the tears. He sank into a desk chair without waiting for an
invitation.
“I’m sorry, Jones,” Oliver responded, hastening to his feet. Squatting
beside the upset Sargeant, he placed his hand tenderly on the man’s upper leg.
“What is the prognosis?”
Jones looked up into the baleful face of his superior. The Lt. Col.
always treated his men with respect and kindness. Tyrone Jones liked him.
Talbot frequently inquired about their families and offered supporting words to
boost his men. “My
wife says he’s stable,” the Sargeant responded, hopefulness tingeing his words.
“Maybe he’ll pull through. T-T’s a strong kid.” Tyrone’s lips jiggled as though
he might cry again. Then, he controlled his emotions and sat up straighter.
“I’m sure he will,” Oliver assured, smiling encouragingly.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones remained a vital part of the team. Lt. Col. Talbot
knew he could rely on him.
Several years ago, Oliver Talbot had stood up as Jones's best man. His
wife, Kalisa, brightened her surroundings. Always ready to volunteer, she gave
her utmost to promote Ty's career. Their children, Tyrone III and Tallah grew
delightfully into toddlerhood. It saddened Ollie to hear of T-T's illness. “Would you like to go home?” Oliver
inquired, standing. “I’m sure we could find a replacement.”
"Nah, no." Sgt. Jones shook his head. At first, it seemed
half-hearted. Then, the movement became adamant. "I want to get the
b*****d who did this. I stake my son's life on it."
“Gotcha.” Oliver regained his seat. Despite T-T’s illness, he knew Jones
would stick it out.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones's impatience grew as he considered the unjustness of
the situation. Someone created the plague virus to destroy lives. All across
the world, people died senselessly. The irradicated disease disappeared years
ago. A nutcase with a grudge had brought it back for the sole purpose of
killing innocent people. The
fact that it began with the LGBTQ community rankled him. The target meant
repression and bigotry. Throughout his life, Tyrone had seen bigots at work. He
grew up in the New York ghettos. The schools he attended were run down and
understaffed. Gang violence spread like wildfire. They were poor and black with
no way to pull themselves out. Old
Wilbur Jones often reminisced about segregation. Tyrone recalled his
grandfather talking about the difficulties of being black. Black only bathrooms
and abandoning bus seats for white passengers. He recalled protests that
swiftly got out of hand and beatdowns by the police. It saddened Tyrone when he
considered the awfulness of segregation.
Throughout his life, his father found it difficult to find work.
Prejudice continued to run high. Finally, late in life, Tyrone Sr. signed up
for Army duty. Many roadblocks continued to face him. However, he persevered
and swiftly rose in the ranks. Finally, beating all the odds, he retired as a
Four-Star General. Tyrone Jr. hoped to follow in his parent's footsteps and
give his children a better life.
"So what's the tie-up," Sgt. Jones finally asked.
“President,” Lt. Col. Talbot responded.
“President Soft Soap,” Tyrone grumbled, using one of Abraham Q. Morton’s
many nicknames. He sighed.
"Waffle Iron," Major Alberto Gonzalez quipped, entering
abruptly. "Show Talbot what you just showed me." He pulled Master
Sargeant Emil Hollister into the office. Sgts Bud Cassidy and Carl McMillian
followed in their wake.
Fumbling with his smartphone, Emil Hollister found the YouTube video he
sought and turned it on. The voice of Pres. Abraham Q. Morton filled the space.
He recited his post-pandemic speech. Then, the President swiveled and departed.
Angry voices followed him when the journalists realized he would not answer
questions. Lt.
Col. Talbot sank back in his seat. The dialogue addressed most of the issues.
“So?” Oliver raised his eyebrows.
“Not the President,” Cassidy cut in.
Oliver swiped the Sargeant with his eyes. Straightforward and reliable,
Bud Cassidy was not a fool. He wouldn't likely fall for a conspiracy theory.
Ollie heard him speak out against such nonsense many times.
“How so?” Ollie questioned, rocking back on his chair. When it touched
the wall, he steadied it. Inquiringly, he gazed up at Sgt. Cassidy.
“Moles don’t move,” Bud bluntly stated.
“Moles?” Oliver set his chair down. “What are you talking about?” “As
the President spoke, his mole slid a quarter of an inch down his cheek,” Sgt.
McMillian clarified. “Watch it again.” Lifting the smartphone, Carl reset the
video and played it. Oliver watched intensely. “A
quarter of an inch?” Ollie questioned, still perplexed. He had not seen a
thing.
“Yes, a quarter of an inch,” Bud Cassidy affirmed. He nodded
significantly.
“It’s not Abraham Morton,” Emil Hollister stated, folding his arms
tightly across his chest.
“Bull s**t.” Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot shot up. Striding toward the door,
he shut it with a bang. “This conversation stops here and now.” He turned
around to face his men.
Silently, the men stood in the office. They each hated waiting around
for action. Instead of eliminating the source of the virus, delays caused time
to drift away. The group would proceed to their final destination as soon as
the President signed their orders. However, without the signature, they
remained in a holding pattern. “Why would they need a stand-in?” Master
Sargeant Emil Hollister finally ventured. “Is the President dead? What about
the VP? He usually stands beside the Prez.” All
eyes turned on Hollister. Cassidy, Jones, and McMillian believed the
Commander-in-Chief might have died. Gonzalez, siding with Talbot, thought
otherwise. The Master Sargeant remained adamant concerning his discovery. “If
the President and the VP are dead or indisposed,” Lt. Col. Talbot remarked,
“The Speaker of the House immediately takes the oath. Right?”
Concession all around.
"So, where's Sam Grisham?" Talbot asked. "There should
have been a press conference…an announcement. Then, Sam should have taken the
oath. So far, we haven't heard anything. We should assume Abraham Morton
remains in command." The
room grew silent again.
"Ginger Hartley," Cassidy blurted out. He slammed his fist
into his palm. All
eyes turned on Bud Cassidy.
"Ok, guys." Bud took a deep breath, then continued. "What
if Hartley knows Morton is dead? And what if she withholds the info? Then sets
up a body double to take his place?"
“And she takes Grisham and his party down?” Carl McMillian cut in. “She
could step into his shoes and retake the Speaker’s podium.”
“That would make her President,” Emil chimed in. “It
would take a lot of nerve,” Tyrone Jones solemnly asserted.
"She has plenty of that," Emil remarked. His long face showed
his contempt for Rep. Hartley.
"You're making up conspiracy theories," Talbot flatly
announced. He paced the small room with his hands clasped behind his back. “It
stands to reason. If the President is dead…” Bud Cassidy began.
"We don't know if the President is alive or dead," Alberto
Gonzalez stated, taking Oliver's side. "I know this waiting business has
everyone down. However, we shouldn't entertain ourselves with guessing games.
If the Prez and VP died of the plague, Grisham would step in. That's all we
have to know."
“And that ends it,” Talbot asserted, regaining his seat. “Go check your
gear.” “We
checked it three times already,” McMillian grumbled as the group filed out.
"Recheck it," Lt. Col. Talbot called after them.
******
Oliver Talbot stared at the closed door. FUBAR, he grumbled under his
breath. Never, in his entire career, had he faced such a mess. Usually, all
their missions went off like clockwork. The current one stunk to the high
heavens.
Delays in their line of work remained inevitable. However, the current
one proved the exception. At first, Lt. Col. Talbot believed they faced a
simple task. Swoop in, swoop out. A long, drawn-out wait for orders rarely
occurred. Talbot believed the President wavered. He could not believe Morton
died of the plague. Indeed, he had received the best Secret Service protection
available. They would have removed him to a safe bunker and assured his health.
The
delay meant Morton waffled. He hesitated to sign the order to propel Delta
Force Squadron G into action. The President had prevaricated on lesser issues
many times. While the country waited for a rapid movement, he held back his
signature. However, the current matter proved urgent. People around the world
were dying of Plague. Other were hospitalized, not knowing if they would expire
or become healthy again.
Oliver chaffed against inaction. He sought swift solutions. His men
longed for completion and to return to their homes.
Sgt. Tyrone Jones belonged with his family. At his wife's side, he could
provide safety and security. Together, they could pull their son out of danger.
Instead, they sat with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for President
Waffle Iron to sign a simple order.
Chapter
Eighteen
Rep. Deval Harrelson pulled his Mercedes out of his Georgetown garage.
His wife, Celia, wondered why he decided to leave in the dead of night. Their
bedside clock stood at 12:15 am when Dev shook her awake. He hovered over her,
dressed in black slacks and a black tee shirt. Half-awake, she ogled him.
“Get up, C,” Dev urged in a whisper. “C’mon. We gotta boogie.”
“Boogie?” Celia groggily questioned. That particular term for hurry went
out of style in the 1970s. She groaned and rolled over.
“No, c’mon, C,” Deval tried again. Reaching out his long arm, he prodded
her. “I’m not kidding. We’re, like, splitsville. Now.”
“Hmmm,” Celia Harrelson moaned, yanking the covers over her head. She
hated early mornings; she hated traveling during early mornings.
"Look, something's up, Celia honey," Deval stated, perching on
the side of the bed. "Any minute and the s***s gonna hit the fan. We gotta
get outta here. Dig it?"
“What s**t?” The word caught her attention. Abruptly she sat up in bed.
“I’ll tell you on the way,” Dev stated. Urgency crept into his voice.
Satisfied, Celia finally slid off the bed. Deval stopped her as she
headed toward the bathroom. Throwing him an evil look, she dressed. It irked
her to start the day without a clean, refreshing shower. However, she realized
her husband's resolve. Usually, he remained the most laid-back person she knew.
In fact, his relaxed attitude drew her to him. However, if he were in a rush to
leave, he had a good reason. In the
next room, Rep. Deval Harrelson woke his grandchildren. Following his daughter,
Maliaka's overdose death, he provided a home for her offspring. Six-year-old
Niesha and two-year-old Quiana slept peacefully. The youngest hugged a yellow
stuffed rabbit against her chest. Deval hated to awaken them, but he wanted to
get moving.
When Ginger Hartley discovered he had blown the whistle on her scheme,
her fury would escalate. Her longtime Congressional yes-man would become the
target of her wrath. Dev wanted to put as many miles as he could between his
family and Washington, D.C.
Tenderly, Deval Harrelson lifted Niesha from the top bunk. Wrapping the
child in her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket, he turned to carry her from the room.
Behind him, Celia cuddled Quiana. The toddler’s curly head poked out of the
matching blanket. The plush toy dangled from his wife’s arm. Stealthily, the
group entered the garage.
Sliding into the front seat of the Mercedes, Deval backed the car out.
Fearful of tampering, he wanted to make sure the auto remained safe. He would
not allow Celia or the children to enter with him. Slowly, Dev reversed to the
end of the driveway. Then, he turned the car off.
Celia stood at the open garage door. Beside her, Niesha stood with two
fingers stuck in her mouth. The little girl leaned against her grandmother's
leg. She found it challenging to stay awake. Unaware of the situation, Quiana
slept peacefully in Celia's arms.
Deval grinned broadly at his family. Leaving D.C. felt like a good idea.
It felt like an idea he should have had years ago. Perhaps, when things
simmered down, he would return. Or maybe not. The time may have come to exit
the political arena. Retirement"he had not considered it. Now, the word stood
out like a neon sign. Dev
longed to watch the girls grow up. If he retired, he could give them more time
than he gave his own daughter. The child of Annys, his first wife, grew up in
boarding schools and took her holidays in her classmates’ homes. Only on rare
occasions had Deval devoted time to her.
Maliaka resented her father’s inability to connect. Running wild, she
became pregnant with Niesha during her junior year in high school. When
questioned, she could not name the father. Angrily, Deval pressed her for
answers. Nevertheless, Maliaka nonchalantly claimed there were too many men to
know for sure. Furthermore, she refused a DNA test. Following the birth, his
daughter disappeared with the baby.
Four years later, Maliaka returned with Niesha and a newborn, Quiana.
Strung out of drugs, she contracted syphilis and died several weeks later.
Ginger Hartley adeptly covered up the situation. The news media carried a story
claiming Rep. Deval Harrelson's only daughter passed away after an aggressive
bout with breast cancer.
Deval decided to make up his relationship with his daughter by spending
time with his grandchildren. Pleasantly, he considered beach vacations and
trips to an amusement park. He saw the girls' smiling faces covered with melted
chocolate popsicles in his mind. They would graduate from high school and
attend college. Perhaps, in place of a father, he would walk them down the
aisle at their weddings.
Grinning broadly, Rep. Deval Harrelson waved to his wife. In the dimness
of the garage, her white teeth sparkled. Celia returned his wave and then
prodded Niesha. The little girl lifted her hand and waved too. Dev
leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. Then, he shifted into drive.
The
Mercedes exploded. The
force of the explosion sent Celia Harrelson sprawling. She landed hard on the
garage’s concrete floor, breaking her back and neck. Her head bounced twice,
and she knew nothing else.
Niesha crawled to the bundle next to her grandmother. Pulling her little
sister onto her lap, she soothed the toddler’s head. Her small hand entangled
in dark hair, and she crooned a lullaby. The
Mercedes blazed, sending orange and red flames into the midnight sky. Running
footfalls echoed around the lonely street. In the distance, sirens wailed. A
man's form emerged, and he knelt before the frightened children.
Senator Wallace Henry helped Niesha to her feet. His wife, Greta, lifted
Quiana. Opening her eyes wide, the youngster cried. Her ululating wails overpowered
the oncoming sirens. Greta comforted her, then carried her home. In a daze,
Niesha followed her little sister.
******
Speaker of the House Samuel Grisham accepted the news of Rep. Deval
Harrelson’s death. He nodded grimly and dismissed his aide. The
bad news spread like wildfire. Deval's information concerning the death of
President Abraham Q. Morton stunned Sam Grisham. He could hardly comprehend it.
Nor could he understand why Minority Leader Hartley kept the news under wraps. Sam
Grisham did not dislike Ginger Hartley. However, he did not understand her.
Once, when they first arrived in the Congressional Halls, he befriended her.
They both had the same objectives but approached them differently. Then, she
became Speaker, and her attitude changed. Bipartisanship disappeared. Ginger
made demands and shut out suggestions contrary to her opinions. It became difficult
to work with her.
However, Sam Grisham tried. For three terms, Ginger Hartley held the
Speaker's position. With each new term, her associates found it difficult to
work with her. Yet, her party remained in the ascendency. The American people
began to grumble. Then, in the last election, she lost her position. Hartley
descended; Grisham ascended.
Minority Leader Hartley attempted to obstruct procedures. She encouraged
open rebellion. Keeping a keen eye on her activities, Grisham felt a pang of
remorse for her. However, no matter how sore she became, she had to realize she
was no longer the Speaker.
Representative Ginger Hartley disrupted the normal course of the law.
She plotted to overthrow a duly elected government. Withholding information
concerning the President's death rose to treason.
“Too many deaths,” Grisham muttered to himself. The VP succumbed to the
plague three days previously.
Without the leadership of President Abraham Morton, the country fell
into chaos. The death of the Vice President meant no one would immediately step
into the Oval Office. Ginger Hartley stood in the way of progress. Speaker
Grisham should have taken the presidential oath days previously. The
plague continued to spread. Hospitals groaned with patients. With so many
waiting for medical help, the gurneys lined the hallways. The promised vaccine
did not appear. People sheltered in place and kept to social distancing
guidelines.
When the Speaker of the House became President Grisham, the situation
would change. Sam promised himself he would take immediate action.
Determinedly, Samuel Grisham exited his office. Across the hall, the
Minority Leader's door remained firmly closed. Sam cast his eye toward it. He
should go in and have a word with Ginger. Perhaps he could talk her out of her
plans. Tentatively, he gripped the door handle, then changed his mind. He did
not wish to confront her.
Senators and Representatives gathered in the Rotunda. As Sam Grisham
crossed the tiled floor, several of his colleagues called his name. He offered
a wave to several but did not stop. They spoke of recent events. However, Sam
felt he should not become involved. A
sudden bang muffled conversations. Speaker Grisham stopped in his tracks and
listened. The sound barely penetrated, but an uneasy feeling crept up his
spine. Then, he continued on his way.
“Shot!” a voice rang out.
Swiveling, a mob of congresspeople and guards rushed toward the voice.
Samuel Grisham pushed through the bodies jamming the corridor. A Congressional
Guard blocked the Minority Leader's door. When Sam maneuvered his way to the
front of the pack, Officer LeBeaux stepped aside. Hastily, the Speaker entered
and stopped in his tracks.
Ginger Hartley's red hair spread across her desk. Beneath it, her head
twisted sideways. Her wide green eyes stared deadly at the wall to her left. A
pistol dangled from her fingers. “Oh
dear God,” Grisham breathed. “Suicide.”
******
The
funerals took place, one following the other. Side-by-side, Pres. Morton and
V.P. Ramirez lay in state. Due to the lockdown status, mourners did not line up
to file past. Arlington National Cemetery received both bodies.
Representative Deval Harrelson's body entered the Rotunda the next day.
At first, he was to lie next to Minority Leader Hartley. However, evidence
concerning the explosion that killed Harrelson pointed directly back to the
Ex-Speaker. Dev and his wife Celia lay together in the family cemetery in Breaux
Bridge, Louisiana. For
her many years in Congress, Rep. Ginger Hartley received due acclaim. Her
constituents recalled her as a firm and well-respected leader. The news media
omitted Hartley's part in the delay in reporting Pres. Morton's death. Nor was
her connection to the explosion that killed Rep. Deval Harrelson explained.
Speaker Grisham did not believe the furtherance of such information necessary.
“Let the people who loved her continue to do so,” Sam Grisham stated,
ending the situation. The
following Saturday, Speaker of the House Samuel Grisham placed his hand on the
Bible and took the Presidential Oath of Office. “I do solemnly affirm that I will faithfully execute the Office of
President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve,
protect and defend the Constitution of the United States," the new
President gravely stated. Chapter Nineteen
President Grisham sat behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Sam
never expected to become President of the United States. Folding his hands
before him, he sat straighter. He had a lot to accomplish in very little time.
Abraham Q. Morton left the country in a mess. Unexpectedly, the plague
turned everything upside down. However, most of the unfinished business
preceded the outbreak. President Grisham realized the daunting problems of his
position. As he considered the situation, his press secretary entered. “Come
in.” Pres. Grisham beckoned from the Resolute Desk.
Hastily, Monique Abreo entered. Her high heels clicked as she strode
across the office. Arrogantly, she stared down at Grisham. She would much
rather work for President Morton. Her new boss would not ask her to sit in his
lap, nor would he whisper into her ear. The new Commander-in-Chief was a
no-nonsense type of man. “You’re on in twenty minutes,” Monique
remarked, turning on her heels. She longed to get away quickly. “I want to go over the speech’s text,”
Grisham announced, stalling Abreo’s retreat. Monique Abreo’s shoulders sagged.
Disappointed, she pivoted to reface Samuel Grisham. He noticed the look of
disdain crossing her features. Immediately, he decided to replace her at the
first opportunity. Sam knew of her relationship with Ginger Hartley. However,
he decided to ease the friction between them. Monique stood before the desk. She refused
the chair Sam Grisham offered. With a snap of the wrist, the Press Secretary
opened the folder containing the speech. Holding it before her, she glanced
over the text. The wording was firm and precise. It covered all the bases. All in all, she disagreed with the
President's politics. She considered tossing it on the desk and marching out.
Nevertheless, she remained. Word-for-word, Grisham read the speech out
loud. At several points, he stopped and reiterated them. Then, he made a few
changes. Out of the twenty minutes preceding his address, he used up fifteen. Monique Abreo's sore feet screamed in
pain. Determinedly, she remained standing. Her father used to chide her for her
stubbornness. She did not care. Sitting before the President, whom she already
hated, showed signs of acceptance. She refused to accept him. In her opinion,
Ginger Hartley should have stepped into Morton's shoes. “That’s all for now.” Grisham finally
excused her. Sitting back in his chair, he watched
Monique stride from the office. Yes, he would definitely replace her as soon as
possible.
******
President Samuel Grisham began his speech
with a moment of silence for President Morton and his other lost colleagues.
Then, he included the hundreds of thousand plague victims. "My team and I are working toward
solutions concerning the plague pandemic. Once we get past all the red tape, a
vaccine will become available. I'm counting on you, the American People, to do
your part. Get inoculated. "In the meantime, please remain
sheltered in place and follow social distancing guidelines. We want to get
America back open for business as soon as possible. "Although I cannot give specific
details, I can say we have isolated the source of the plague. The State
Department and the Military are coordinating a plan to proceed with
annihilating it. I am sorry to say we could have confronted this situation much
sooner. However, we aim to move forward rather quickly. Please bear with us. “I thank you for your patience and
forbearance,” Grisham ended. Then, added, “Are there any questions from the
press?” Hovering on the sidelines, Monique Abreo
moved to escort the President away from the podium. Eyeing Grisham
suspiciously, she stepped forward. She had not expected an invitation to the
press. Morton never answered questions. Pres. Grisham abruptly waved her back. He
wanted to speak to the waiting journalists. Utilizing the news and social
media, he longed to connect with the citizens he wished to serve. Sam Grisham did not view himself as a ruler.
He sought popularity. Unlike his predecessor, he wanted the people to view him
as one of them. "How long before the vaccine becomes
available," a newswoman shouted. Her red hair stood out in the crowd. Sam
immediately recognized her. "Sorry to say, there has been a
tie-up with red tape, Avril," Sam answered, using the reporter's first
name. "We're pushing it through as quickly as possible. I cannot say
exactly when, but soon." “Thank you,” Avril McMurphy responded,
stepping back into the mass of reporters. Avril McMurphy took her job seriously. One
of the few women who remembered breaking boundaries in the newsroom, she
respected Sam Grisham. “Where does the source of the plague
stem?” Marshall Tasker questioned, pushing his way to the front. The rash
reporter knew better than to ask such a question. “Cannot say,” Pres. Grisham immediately
responded. “Thank you, members of the press.” Monique
Abreo finally stepped up to the podium. Shoving herself in front of the
President, she used her butt to move him away. “That ends the question period.”
Briskly taking his arm, she retreated alongside Sam Grisham. “Thank you, Ms. Abreo.” Sam dismissed his
press secretary at the Oval Office. Deflated, Montique glared at the closed
door. Usually, she shared a moment with Abraham Morton following an address.
They poked fun at journalists and exchanged kisses on the couch. No hanky-panky
on this run, Montique thought as she turned away. Concerned, she wondered when
her replacement might arrive. Instinctively, she knew it would not take long.
Awkwardly, she felt glad. Working for Samuel Grisham would prove a bore.
****** President Grisham stood behind the
Resolute Desk. Then, he sat. For a moment, he envisioned Monique Abreo. The
slim, blonde Press Secretary was too pushy. The way she cut him off from the
journalists annoyed him. He made a note to replace her. Perhaps Avril McMurphy
might step in. Grisham and McMurphy knew each other for a
long time. He recalled his first encounter with her years ago. When Sam first
arrived in Washington, D.C., she appeared as a cub reporter. He invited her for
a drink at a nearby hotel bar after an interview. She gladly accepted. Over
cocktails, they connected. Sam dated Avril on and off throughout the
early years. He liked her style and her spunk. She stood out among only a
handful of women working as journalists. On occasions, she appeared abrasive.
Her forthwith style irked many but propelled her up in the ranks. At one point,
Sam considered proposing. Samuel Grisham never married. He wavered
about Avril but never asked her. As the years passed, he became immersed in his
work. A private life took a backseat for him. Before long, he realized he had
frittered away his life. Looking forward, he set his mind on the Presidency. If Avril accepted, she
would become his new Press Secretary. Within the next few day,
he would decide. Pres. Grisham pushed thoughts of Avril
McMurphy to the back of his mind. Grasping a stack of briefs, he pulled them to
him. Most were mundane. However, the one concerning the Delta Force Squadron G
mission caught his attention. The fact that Morton neglected to sign it stunned
him. Grasping a pen, he scrawled his name across the bottom.
Chapter
Twenty
Midnight stillness surrounded the small
Iranian village of Hamzeh Qasem. Outside the Mazanderani house, soldiers lined
the street. Awaiting a signal, they prepared to burst in the door. Inside, Mahasti Mazanderani slept
peacefully. At age fourteen, she remained with her parents. Her sister, BahAr,
traveled to San Francisco. Mahasti considered her lucky. Unhappy at home, she
wished to flee as her sister had. Her father was too strict, her mother too
placid. Like her sister, she longed for freedom. Mahasti had not seen her older brother in
three years. Her father proudly proclaimed that Arastoo worked for the
Ayatollah. Gulzar Mazanderani expressed his great admiration for his only son.
A notice from the Great Leader of Iran seemed highly significant. Around the
small village, her father proclaimed the family’s good fortune. Dreaming of following BahAr to America,
Mahasti lay back against her pillow and stared at the low ceiling. Then, a
sudden crashing sound shook the house. The girl screamed and leaped to her
feet. As she screamed, a soldier burst through
the door. With wide eyes, the youngest Mazanderani daughter stared at him. He
petrified her. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her into the main room.
Her father stood amid the armed soldiers; her mother clung to his side. “What is the meaning of this?” Gulzar
indignantly demanded. His face glowed red with fury. “Where is your son Arastoo?” the leader
questioned in return. "My son is on a secret mission. The Ayatollah
gave him a special assignment," the Mazanderani patriarch returned. His
chest puffed out in pride. "Leave my house and my family in peace." “The Ayatollah has never heard the name
Arastoo Mazanderani,” the officer sneered, poking his assault rifle into
Gulzar’s protruding stomach. “I tell you…” the father began again. Mahasti backed against the wall.
Fearfully, she watched the scene unfold. Her scared eyes captured the
commotion. Did the soldier intend to kill her father? Hastily, the soldiers rushed the family
outside. Two vans waited outside the house. Prodding them with their assault
rifles, they pushed Gulzar into the lead one. Anahita and Mahasti entered the
second. Embarrassed, Mahasti pushed her long black
hair behind her ears. Remaining in her nightdress, she felt naked without her
hijab. Fearfully, she glanced at her mother. Dressed in similar attire, Anahita
also did not wear her head covering. Tears glistened in Anahita Mazanderani's
golden eyes. She felt ashamed of being forced from her home. The faces of her
friends gawked at the family as the soldiers paraded them outside. Many were
long-time acquaintances, even old school friends. As soon as the vans
disappeared, the gossip would begin. Anahita shrunk against the cold metal
bench she sat on. Mahasti grasped her mother’s hands. She
wanted to comfort her but could not form the words. Trembling, she leaned
against her mother and cried.
******
“I tell you, my son works for the
Ayatollah,” Gulzar shouted, slamming his fist into his open palm. “How many
times must I tell you.” “Your son, Arastoo, is responsible for the
plague outbreak,” the military officer remarked. Grasping the arms of
Mazanderani’s chair, he leaned menacingly over him. “Get it through your thick
head. The Ayatollah does not know your son. The Ayatollah never sent your son
on a mission.” Gulzar hung his head in shame. He had
taught his son to follow Mohammad. He thought of himself as a gentle father.
Sure, he expected much from his son. He expected his family to obey him. His
brilliant son studied chemistry and excelled. His wife and two daughters were
demure and submissive. Never did he detect either fanatism or rebellion. Trusting his son, Gulzar believed in the
remarkable attention of the Ayatollah. Arastoo was a credit to the family. Now,
however, doubt crept into his mind. How naïve he had been. Gulzar chided
himself on his stupidity. "Where is Arastoo?" the officer
questioned, leaning in closer. “I
do not know where my son is,” the father responded, tears brimming his brown
eyes. “I only know what he told me. The…” “Yes, I know about the Ayatollah,” the
military official responded. Shrugging, he backed away. “Your son lied to you
and your family.” Striding through the reinforced door, the
soldier slammed it hard. The crashing sound echoed throughout the corridor.
****** Thrusting open the door, three armed
soldiers entered. Frightened, Mahasti Mazanderani cast her eyes downward. A
curtain of straight black hair hid her facial features. A tear clung to the
corner of her brown eye and slid down her cheek. “Put this on,” a young soldier ordered,
handing her a brown hijab. Trembling, Mahasti clutched it. The dull
material felt rough in her fingers. It smelt of sweat and greasy hair. Swiping
her long tresses back, she adjusted the hijab onto her head. Her tears
waterfalled down her face. “Where is your sister?” the first soldier
barked. “I…I don’t know,” the youngest Mazanderani
stammered. “Where is she?” Her capturer sneered at
her. Mahasti glanced up at the three men surrounding
her. The one who spoke appeared rough, uncouth. Fearfully, she thought he might
strike her. The second had kind eyes but stood rigidly against the wall.
However, she recognized the third. Danyal Mehri frequently patrolled the
area. Often, he hung around the schoolyard fence. When BahAr attended the
school, she and her friends repeatedly flirted with him. After her sister
departed, Mahasti took her place. She and her girlfriend, Nazanin Zahra
Iskandar, threw him surreptitious glances. He would return their smiles and
then move away. “I said I do not know,” the frightened
teenager whispered. “I do not know,” she reiterated. Searching for help, she
looked toward Danyal. Danyal Mehri met Mahasti's eyes. Abruptly,
he cast his downward. He knew her and recalled the older sister. He enjoyed
BahAr’s teasing and wide inviting smile. At night, he dreamed of her sumptuous
body. Nevertheless, he discovered her desire to become a pole dancer. At one
time, he considered asking for BahAr's hand in marriage. Disgusted, he turned
away from her. Then, the younger sister caught his
attention. Danyal might have approached her. However, the sudden arrest put a
hold on his plans. “Does San Francisco ring a bell?” the
older soldier questioned. Mahasti raised her eyes in surprise.
Forcefully, the soldier slammed a series of photographs onto the table. His
meaty hands covered them. Curious, the young girl peered at the pictures. Then,
the hands raised. She stared at images of her dead sister. Shrieking, she
covered her face and bawled. Swiftly, Danyal stepped forward. Placing
his hands on Mahasti’s quaking shoulders, he kneaded them. The girl leaned
against him, taking comfort from his presence. “Your brother, Arastoo, sent BahAr to the
USA to spread the plague virus,” the second soldier announced. He turned a
chair to face her and straddled it. “Your sister contracted the disease, and
someone dumped her body near Alcatraz Island. Kasra Anvari is also dead.” Mahasti knew the name Kasra
Anvari"Arastoo's best friend. Fleetingly, she wondered why he traveled to San
Francisco also. She guessed he had run away with BahAr. Her sister frequently
talked about eloping with a man. However, she never mentioned the man’s name. “Where is Arastoo?” The question took Mahasti by surprise.
Stunned by the two deaths, she had not expected a change in subject. Dumbly,
she shook her head ‘no.’ "I do not know," the girl
answered truthfully. "WHERE IS ARASTOO?" the lead
soldier shouted. Leering, he leaned forward. When his nose touched hers, Mahasti pushed
her chair backward. Its four feet screeched as it rushed across the tiled
floor. The second soldier advanced on her. Still
straddling his seat, he hitched it forward. He placed his fingers beneath her
chin and forced her to look at him. Mahasti's brown eyes met his, then reverted
downward. “Where is Arastoo?” he asked, his voice
smooth and reassuring. "Takht-e-Soleiman," the girl
whispered. Long ago, she'd overheard her brother and his friend speaking about
the mountain range. She did not know for sure Arastoo's location. Nevertheless,
Mahasti felt it was the correct response. Knowledgeably, the older soldiers
exchanged a glance. They had the answer they sought. Danyal squeezed her
shoulders and then patted them. Then, the three men departed.
******
Hours passed since the soldiers departed.
Mahasti Mazanderani sat in the cold, dank room. Alone, she shivered and wrapped
her arms around her belly. Twice, she felt ready to vomit but held it back.
Remorse enveloped her petite form. The betrayal of her brother covered
her like a shroud. Indeed, she felt as though she had destroyed him. The
soldiers would capture him. Then, Arastoo would face the executioner. Spreading
the plague virus and killing scores of people sealed his fate. Yet, Mahasti
loved him as she loved her sister, BahAr.
Slowly, the door creaked open. Aghast, Mahasti stared at it. She
trembled with fear. Perhaps she had been wrong about Arastoo. The soldiers
returned to question her again. Bile rose into her mouth. Terrified, she
covered her lips with her hands. If they entered, she would throw up. Rough hands shoved Anahita through the door. The
Mazanderani mother tripped over the threshold and sprawled across the floor. Leaping
up, Mahasti hastened toward her mother. She knelt beside her and cradled
Anahita's head in her lap. Singing an old lullaby, she soothed the older
woman's head. “I’m
all right, baby,” Anahita murmured, sitting up. Lovingly, she patted her youngest
daughter’s hand. “You told them where Arastoo is?” “Yes,
mama,” Mahasti whispered, ashamed.
"Do not worry, my love," the mother responded. "You did
the right thing. Arastoo has hurt many people. He was wrong to spread the
plague." “Yes,
mama,” the child repeated. Her stomach rumbled loudly. “When
this is over, we will go home,” Anahita assured.
"Mama…BahAr…" Mahasti began. “Yes,
my dear, I know about BahAr.” A tear glimmered in the mother’s eye. Chapter Twenty-One
The dismal cave haunted him. In the dim light, his lab equipment cast
eerie shadows upon the rocky walls. At times, the glass beakers flickered,
giving them the appearance of movement. He felt they mocked him, plagued him.
Plague"the dreaded disease reached out its murderous tentacles.
Unmercifully it killed millions of people. Arastoo had not realized how quickly
it could spread. Instead of remaining in San Fransisco, it moved into
neighboring communities and swiftly took over. It knew no boundaries.
Arastoo Mazanderani should have known better. As a chemist, he should
have realized the swiftness of the disease. Instead, he focused on destroying
the LGBTQ community only. He could not have been more short-sighted.
Hatred caused him to seek destruction. Hatred of cultures he did not
understand motivated him. Because he sought to please Allah, Arastoo took on
the role of Allah himself. He decided to take command of life and death.
Arastoo realized he had sentenced his own people to a terrible fate.
Around the world, multitudes of people died because of him. Across the American
continents, in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia, death knocked upon the
doors of the innocents. It crept into the Middle East and Iran.
Frantically, Arastoo's eyes roamed across his laboratory. Then, they
rested upon Zeeba's deformed body. She slumped against the wall and fixed her
dead eyes on him. They mocked and accused him of her murder and the murder of
many people.
Arastoo's flaccid lips quivered.
He sat on his cot and ran his hands through his jet-black hair. Angrily, he
tore out two clumps with his clenched fists. Then, he shook his fists in the
air.
“Arrrrrgooh," the chemist howled. His mouth formed a perfect zero.
The sound flew down the long, cavernous corridors and reverberated hollowly
back. There might have been three or four or five ghosts calling to him from
their hidden lairs.
Fury overtook Arastoo Mazanderani. Leaping up, he charged his laboratory.
Sweeping his arms across the tables, he cleared them. Equipment crashed around
his feet; glass shattered. He swept his arms back, emptying the remains onto
the floor.
A flying shard caught Arastoo in the left eye. Baying in pain, he
clasped his hands over it, deepening the fragment. Another scream escaped his
throat. Then, he turned and fell over the lab table. Collapsing to his knees,
he crawled toward the wall.
Arastoo's shoulder encountered flesh as he slumped against the wall. His
hand crept out and touched Zeeba's cheek. For a moment, he probed it with his
finger. It traveled over her short pug nose and felt her slack lips. The
nearness of another human comforted him. Then, he remembered she was dead.
"Zeeba," the chemist moaned tearfully. The bitter salt stung
his wounded eye. He tried to blink it away. However, he only drove the splinter
further into his eye.
In a different situation, Arastoo thought, perhaps he could have loved
her. He could have taken her, used her companionship to please his carnal
needs. However, his fanaticism drove him. It drove him away from other people.
Thoughts of death and destruction consumed him. Day and night blended. Time meant
nothing to Arastoo. Relentlessly, he paced the cavern. Sometimes, he spoke to
Zeeba as though she were still alive. In his mind, they conversed as they
always had.
“They will come for you, Arastoo,” his dead lab partner told him.
“Stealthily, men from the West will come here. They know who you are; they know
what you have done.”
"No…no…" Arastoo emphatically denied it. "No one knows.
How can they?"
“They will come, Arastoo,” Zeeba’s haunted voice breathed. “They have
ways of knowing.”
“No!” Arastoo threw his head back and screamed. The word echoed throughout
the cave system.
Patiently, Zeeba waited for it to stop. She had always been patient and
calm. As solid as the rock that surrounded him, Arastoo's partner kept hold of
herself and him. Acting as his prop, she encouraged him to keep trying. Because
of her, he succeeded with his plans. Instead of thanking her, he killed her.
He'd created the plague and sent it to the worst place on earth: San
Francisco.
Could he say he loved her? Arastoo never loved anyone. His wife,
Yasmina, filled a small part of his life. He did his duty as a husband--that
was all. Three years had passed since he last saw her. If he focused on her
face, he could not recall it. A drab woman, she did not hold his desire.
He desired...
What did he desire? Arastoo Mazanderani wondered. Nothing, he told
himself, knowing it was untrue.
At first, Arastoo turned away from the world to study chemistry. It
meant everything to him. Then, as he grew up, he realized the world's
corruption. All his life, he had closed people out. At Oxford, students
gathered from around the globe. All nationalities and all religions studied
within those wonderous walls. He viewed them suspiciously if they did not
believe in Islam and the Prophet Mohammad.
Curious, Arastoo journeyed into London. An unseen force brought him to
Soho. At first, he felt appalled by the sight of gay men openly cavorting with
each other. Then, a strange sensation overwhelmed him. He wanted to become a
part of their lifestyle. A twinge stirred within him as he watched. If he could
set himself free, he would happily join them.
It irked him, yet it urged him forward. Twice, the young Iranian nearly
gave in to his desires. Then, he abruptly repressed them. The passion continued
to well inside him. The only way to end it was to destroy the LBGTQ community.
The satisfaction of ridding the earth of that ungodly menace would set him
free.
“The plague,” Arastoo muttered to himself. He would recreate the plague
and set it upon them.
When he told Zeeba Bahrami, she listened carefully. Although she did not
know of Arastoo's inner conflict, she fanatically agreed with his cause. She
committed herself to helping him.
“And how have I repaid her?” Arastoo asked himself. “I have killed her.”
Arastoo Mazanderani stood over her body and shook his head. Too late to
say, ‘I’m sorry,’ he knelt beside her. His fingers combed her soft hair.
Bending forward, he kissed her slack lips and muttered her name.
He should have loved her. Instead, he destroyed her. For the first time in his life, Arastoo
Mazanderani considered love and hate. Hate had always raged inside him. He
never attempted to temper it with love. If he had, his life would have been
much different. However, the fire of hatred burned zealously within him. Arastoo softened as he sat beside Zeeba.
Clasping her cold hand, he brought it to his lips for a kiss. Then, leaning
forward, he captured her lips with his. After a moment, he withdrew and wiped
death from his mouth. What had he done? He could not love a corpse. Wrapped in disappointment, the chemist
stood. Hanging his head, he moved away from Zeeba’s body. He cursed himself.
******
Remaining in a stupor for three days,
Arastoo did not eat; he barely slept. Disillusion and doubt filled his mind. He
had never felt more conflicted. On the third day, he arose. His mind
cleared. Opening his remaining eye, he glared at his surroundings in amazement.
Martyrdom awaited him. “Isha Allah,” Arastoo muttered. Then,
raising his voice, he yelled the two comforting words. Reassuringly, they
echoed back. The chemist scurried away from the
laboratory and entered a winding corridor. Moving deeper into the earth, he
hurried toward his destiny. Secreted far into the vast mountain lay a hidden
lair. Only Arastoo knew about it. He had never informed Zeeba of its existence.
Perhaps foresight told him she would not accompany him to his final
destination. A stash of weapons lay concealed within a
small cave. Gleefully, the chemist prepared to make his final stand. The men
from the west would come. He had no doubt. When they arrived, he would face
them. It was not a case of his life or theirs. He planned on taking them with
him. Hurriedly, Arastoo Mazanderani strapped on
his suicide vest. Grinning wildly, he organized his space. Grasping an M4
assault rifle, he propped himself against the cavern’s wall. He faced the
entrance. If anyone stepped inside, he would fire. Then, he would pull the
suicide vest’s cord. Chapter Twenty-Two Doctor
Joshua Markham stood over the hospital bed. Nurse Gracie Lavant hovered next to
him. Tenderly, he lifted the sheet and pulled it over the face of his dead
patient. He felt helpless. The plague took lives faster than the doctor
could save them. Joshua Markham became a doctor to heal patients, not to watch
them die. It broke his heart to lose another one.
Elizabeth Amberley Talbot lay serenely on the hospital bed. A tuft of
blond hair stuck above the pulled-up sheet. Peace overtook her for the first
time in her tumultuous life. In the
doorway, Marie Longstreet stood holding a dinner tray. Her wide brown eyes
stared at the sheet covering the patient's face. She nearly grinned but
immediately turned it into a look of sorrow. “Bad
Juju Lady’s dead,” the food server muttered, drawing the nurse’s attention.
"We won't need a tray here tonight," Gracie Lavant instructed.
She removed the meal from the server's hands and walked into the corridor. She
slipped it into the cart and turned to face Marie.
"None of your voodoo talk, do you hear me?" Gracie ordered,
wagging a finger in Marie's face. "The patient died of the plague. I won't
have you spreading rumors and riling everyone up. Understood?"
“Ye"yes, ma’am,” Marie responded, her eyes saucer round. “Not a word, I
promise.” Swiftly she crossed her heart with her index finger. “You
better keep it sealed. Got it?” Nurse Lavant pretended to zipper her mouth.
Then, she pretended to throw away the key.
"Yes, ma'am," Marie repeated. She pushed her cart toward the
next room. Surreptitiously, the food server glanced behind her. She watched the
nurse re-enter Liz Talbot's room. As she served the next meal, she informed her
patient that the Bad Juju Lady had just died.
Eighteen-year-old Marie Longstreet departed from the hospital two hours
later. Altogether, she told forty-six patients on three floors about the Bad
Juju Lady’s death. Then, she lost her job. ****** “No
one used black magic in this hospital,” Nurse Levant adamantly exclaimed.
Crossing her arms, she stood beside the patient’s bed.
Wide-eyed, Lorraine Duval’s moon-face stared up at her. Her corkscrew
hair rasped against the hospital pillow. Dolefully, she shook her head. Marie
Longstreet’s story concerning the white woman’s Bad Juju scared her. She
believed the white woman carried the plague to Jamaica. The white woman cursed
the island with death.
Lorraine's granny practiced voodoo. At one-hundred-eight years of age,
the old mambo foretold the pandemic. Falling into a trance, Vondra Duval
claimed a white cloud would devour the island. The cloud would rain pestilence
upon the land. When
Marie Longstreet spoke of the Bad Juju Lady, Lorraine saw the white cloud
swirling around her like a shroud. She had no doubt Elizabeth Amberley Talbot
brought the destruction upon them.
“Granny Vondra…” Lorraine began, drawing her sheet up to her chin. “Don’t
tell me anything about Granny Vondra,” Gracie Lavant cautioned. Propping her
fists against her hips, she posed with attitude. “There ain’t no voodoo in this
hospital. There ain’t no Bad Juju Lady.”
Silently Nurse Lavant cursed Marie Longstreet for spreading rumors. The
hospital staff had enough on their hands fighting the plague. Three days ago,
Doctor Culver died. The significant loss of a physician caused shortages in the
medical team. Dr. Markham worked night and day, often napping on a cot in his
office. Worry lines and dark circles appeared beneath his eyes. Still, he
continued to make his rounds. Saving his patients meant a lot to him. Joshua
Markham dedicated his life to his profession. Nurse
Gracie Levant remained by Dr. Markham's side. Twenty-three years ago, she
entered the nursing profession. Hospital work continued to thrill her. However,
the plague epidemic took its toll. Watching so many deaths depressed her.
Although Elizabeth Talbot's displays of temper unnerved her, the nurse
felt compassion for her loss. The abandonment of her family struck Gracie, and
she felt sorry for the young woman. Liz adamantly believed an EVAC would take
her away from Jamaica. However, it never arrived. As far as Gracie Lavant knew,
no one scheduled it. Dolefully, she shook her head. Then,
she turned back to Lorraine Duval. Lorraine suffered a mild case of the plague.
Only a few were lucky enough to recover and return to their daily lives. It
appeared as though Ms. Duval might survive. Relieved, Gracie took her blood
pressure and pulse"normal. It provided a good sign. The tell-tale bulbous had
not appeared"another good sign.
However, the patient in the next room was far advanced in the disease.
Nurse Lavant entered cautiously. Maxwell Jameson, aged forty-two, remained in a
coma. Despite his oxygen, his raspy breathing disturbed her. He would finally
succumb within a few hours. Luckily, he missed Marie Longstreet's rants about
the Bad Juju Lady. Nevertheless, luck passed him by when the plague came
knocking. “How
is Mr. Jameson?” Dr. Markham inquired. Nurse Lavant met him as she exited the
room. Sadly, she shook her head. Dr.
Joshua Markham entered the room, and Nurse Lavant shadowed him. Mournfully,
they looked down upon their patient. They could not provide more care for him,
only allow him to rest in comfort. Within the next few hours, he would breathe
his last. “I
wish they would hurry with the vaccines,” Joshua Markham remarked as they
stepped out of the room. “I
hear they’re expediting testing,” Gracie Lavant put in. “The new United States
President is pressuring the pharmaceutical companies to put a rush on all the
vaccines.” “It
couldn’t happen any sooner,” Dr. Markham stated, moving toward the next room.
“We could use it ASAP.” “Other
countries are jumping on board, supporting the President,” Gracie continued.
“As soon as we start inoculating, we’ll get over the hurdle.” “Yes,
and put this epidemic behind us," Josh Markham remarked. He wished to put
the plague in the past where it belonged. ******
Late
in the evening, Elizabeth Talbot's body entered the hold of a military plane
heading to the United States. She finally obtained the EVAC order she had hoped
to receive. Dr. Markham oversaw her departure from the Montego Bay hospital.
Relieved, he returned to his duties in the Plague Ward. Chapter Twenty-Three
Maureen Tapper squinted at the text message. Confused, she wondered why
a Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot wished to speak to her. Perhaps it was a come-on"one
of those plaguey spam calls she frequently received. If he sought a political
endorsement for his favorite candidate, he was out of luck with Maureen.
Setting her cell phone on the coffee table, she contemplated it. Maureen
disliked random texts. If she did not know the sender, she became suspicious of
it. However, curiosity fought with caution within her. The name Oliver Talbot
struck her for some reason. Something niggled in the back of her mind"something
she should know yet did not know.
Maureen wished Jackie Wentworth were still alive. Her longtime
girlfriend could advise her. She always knew the correct answers. However,
Jackie succumbed to the plague early in the pandemic.
Thinking of Jackie made Maureen sob. Brokenhearted"an unfamiliar word.
She had never been brokenhearted in her entire life. Strong and determined, Ms.
Tapper took life for granted. She never thought of death or separation from
those she loved. It meant nothing to her simply because it could not happen…not
to her.
Maureen Tapper and Jackie Wentworth had been together since the late
1960s. Maureen realized she was a lesbian during her first year of Junior High
School. She enjoyed watching girls undress and shower beneath billowing steamy
water. It turned her on and made her heart beat fast in her blossoming chest.
Wistfully, she recalled her first love"a twelve-year-old athletic girl named
Jill Cummings.
Obsessed by Jill, she steeled her nerves to approach the girl. At first,
she sent anonymous love letters. Then, she began drawing hearts with the
initials MT + JC on bathroom walls. Finally, she sent Jill a red rose on St.
Valentine's Day. Full
of self-love, arrogant Jill Cummings made a big stink over the rose. She
flaunted it in front of her girlfriends. But who was MT? The tiny tag wrapped
around the flower's stem said MT + JC. First, she approached Michael Tremaine.
He denied sending it to her. Mark Trask gave her a blank stare and walked away.
Cringing, she decided the rose came from geeky Mansfield Tapley. Jill hated
him, but he constantly made googly eyes at her. “Don’t
send me roses,” Jill stated, thrusting the red posey at Manny. “Don’t send me
anything. Got it? I hate you.” As abruptly as she approached the nerdy boy, she
stormed away. “I
didn’t send it,” Manny yelled back, stopping Jill in her tracks.
Swinging around on her heel, the young teen marched back.
"What do you mean you did not send it?" Jill screamed, her
face turning scarlet. “I
didn’t send it,” Mansfield repeated, unabashed.
“Well.” Jill’s cheeks puffed out in exasperation. “If you didn’t send
it, who did? It wasn’t Mike or Mark either.”
Mansfield made a slow stationary circle in the school cafeteria. Seeking
one person, he allowed his eyes to roam over his fellow student’s faces.
Finally, he noticed Maureen Tapper standing in the lunch line. Raising his
index finger, he pointed toward the young girl. Geeky
Mansfield Tapley knew things. In fact, he knew nearly everything. A bookworm
from a young age, he spent most of his time studying. His eyes wandered when he
took a break from reading. Attentively, he saw things most other students did
not. Manny noticed Maureen's surreptitious glances toward Jill. He guessed her
intentions. Her
face flaming red, Jill Cummings marched toward Maureen Tapper. Grabbing her
arm, she yanked her classmate out of the lunch line. Then, she poked the rose
into her face. “How
dare you!” Jill shrieked, drawing the attention of the students surrounding
them. “I hate you!”
Maureen faced Jill. Moon pale, her face turned cold. From a distance, a
million eyes focused on her. Her secret revealed, she stood stark still and
stared at Jill. It was not the conclusion she desired. Grasping the rose, she
held it close to her budding chest. A lone tear escaped her dull eye and slid
down her cheek.
“Lezzie,” Jill cried. The
entire audience of boys and girls joined in. Forming a circle around Maureen,
they chanted, "Lezzie, Lezzie." Then, her fury mounting, the young
lesbian burst through the ring. Spinning on Jill Cummings, she roughly pushed
her to the ground and rushed from the cafeteria. Maureen Tapper left her childhood behind that
Valentine's Day. Her heart turned cold.
Unyielding, she determined never to allow anyone to hurt her again.
Maureen took her first lover during her High School Senior year"a
Sophomore named Pam Sturgeon. She did not truly love Pam, but the girl was the
only other lesbian she knew. Then, at the end of college, she met Jackie
Wentworth. They attended Woodstock together and were into the Peace and Love
thing. They remained together until the plague attacked San Francisco. Sorrowfully, Maureen missed Jackie's
company. ****** A day
passed before Maureen Tapper stole up the nerve to call Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot.
By that time, she had a sneaking suspicion about his text message. “Is
this about Ivy Masterson?” Maureen barked into her cell phone. Oliver Talbot
barely said hello before she cut him off. “Yes,
about Ivy,” Talbot responded, sitting bolt upright in his chair.
"Was she your brother?" the boutique owner asked, leaning
forward on her couch. Holding the phone against her ear, she awaited his
response. She propped both of her elbows on her knees. “I
believe it’s a possibility,” Oliver answered. He nearly sighed with relief. “Ivy
Masterson was a big girl, well over six feet in height.” Maureen rushed her
words. “Hefty too, nearly three hundred pounds, at a guess. I suspected a sex
change.” “His
given name was Ivan Geoffrey Talbot,” the Colonel stated. Finally, he let out
his sigh. He found his brother. “Our mother’s maiden name is Masterson.”
Relaxing, Maureen fell into conversation with Ollie. She was glad to
talk about Ivy. Following Jackie’s sudden death, she had not felt much like
conversing with anyone. However, she instantly felt a comradeship growing with
her phone companion.
"I am sorry Ivy died so tragically," Maureen lamented, sorrow
filling her heart. "I only met her once. However, something about her drew
me in. I hired her on the spot. Usually, I do all sorts of background checks,
but Ivy…" For a moment, she paused, reflecting. "Ivy felt right. I
knew she would fit in at Che Boutique. “I
discovered her body,” the shop owner continued, following another pause. “When
Ivy didn’t show up for her first day of work, I grew concerned. It was before
we realized about the plague. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”
Locating Ivy Masterson’s address proved difficult. The newly arrived had
not had a chance to set herself up properly. Being a huge city, San Francisco
kept its secrets. However, Maureen persevered and, finally, discovered Ivy’s
apartment. It
saddened Maureen to find Ivy wrapped up in her blankets. The studio apartment
smelt of death. The boutique owner noticed the stench the moment she entered.
It nearly choked her. Standing close enough to touch her, the landlady shook
her head in astonishment. Maureen swiftly turned on her, cursing her for not
noticing. Elderly Mrs. McMahon scurried away.
“Incompetent,” Maureen Tapper muttered as she approached the pull-out
sofa-bed.
Desolately, Maureen looked down upon Ivy's still body. The loss of a
beautiful life irked her. She wished she had the chance to get the know her new
team member better. Perhaps they could have been friends instead of workmates.
"Thank you for searching for my brother." Oliver Talbot
interrupted Maureen's thoughts, pulling her back to the present. "It's a
big deal to my family and me. We've searched high and low for any sign of
Ivan."
"I suspect he was a special young man," the shop owner
replied. "I felt he was a warm soul seeking his way in the world."
"You can certainly say that," Ollie answered, a small smile
etching his face. "I hate to say he went through a lot in his youth. No one
understood him. Then, he dropped out of college and dropped out of our lives.
My mother grieved when he disappeared. We've looked for him ever since he left
us."
"I completely understand," Maureen emphatically assured. The
deep conversation relieved her trepidation concerning Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot.
Although she received her first impression over the phone, she liked him.
"Trans people have difficulties with society. No one wants to deal with
them. Sadly, everyone treats them like piranhas." "I
know," Ollie whispered, considering his ill-treatment of his older
brother. "Ivan experienced much mistreatment as a child. Although we
traveled worldwide, he could never escape the bullies." “It’s
the way it is,” Maureen Tapper conceded. “She would have done well in San
Francisco. We are very welcoming here. The LBGTQ community thrives. I’m proud
to have a part in it.”
"I'm certainly glad he found you, Ms. Tapper," Oliver
concluded, broadening his smile to a grin. "I appreciate your friendship
toward him. It would have meant a lot to Ivan. He longed to become accepted in
a society that loved him."
"Although I only met her once, I still consider her a friend,"
Maureen acknowledged. "I wish I could have known her better. Still, I am
glad to have known her. It only lasted an hour or more, but I will always
remember Ivy Masterson." ******
Maureen remained seated on her couch long after she hung up on Oliver
Talbot. The vision of Ivy Masterson's entrance into Che Boutique replayed in
her mind's eye. She wished to reach back and stop the world. If only she could
have done more for Ivy. However, she did not know what more she could have
done. The
plague overcame San Francisco before anyone realized it raged around them.
Jackie Wentworth's death shocked her and left her numb. Due to shelter-in-place
orders, her beloved boutique closed its doors. At the moment, she remained
unsure when (or if) it might reopen. For the time being, people only shopped
out of necessity. No one bought new clothes.
Maureen grew bored because of the lockdown. Day after day, she remained
home, doing nothing and going nowhere. Without Jackie's companionship, the
walls closed in on her.
Speaking to Oliver about Ivy seemed to brighten her spirit. She chided
herself for being morbid. However, even the short conversation provided a new
experience. On
TV, the President spoke of a vaccine. Maureen hoped it would appear soon. Then,
perhaps, life would go back to normal.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Lt.
Col. Oliver Talbot smiled with satisfaction. At last, he discovered Ivan's
whereabouts. However, it shocked him to think his brother died a lonely,
heartless death. If only he could have found him sooner.
There was no point in running scenarios that did not exist. Oliver
scolded himself for doing it. It was too late for Ivan. He faced the ugly task
of informing his mother of her elder son's demise. He had written letters to
lost service members' loved ones many times. However, this one seemed
different. It hit home.
Procrastination was never one of Oliver’s strong points. He liked to get
gruesome tasks over with as swiftly as possible. Still, he hesitated. Calling
his mother with the news would devastate her. He dreaded her cell phone tears.
Perhaps he could wait until they were face-to-face. Then, he could comfort her
in the manner she deserved. “I
have to do it,” Ollie lamented, tears stinging the back of his eyes. Covering
them with his hands, he sobbed.
With trembling fingers, Oliver grasped his phone. It rang once, twice,
three times. Impatiently, he waited for his mother's out-of-breath hello. It
did not arrive.
Ollie sat back in his office chair. Bea Talbot usually picked up on the
second ring. His ringtone hurried her. Beginning to panic, he wondered about
the situation. Had something gone wrong? Perhaps Hank… No,
he could not think that his only son had contracted the plague. His parents
were too cautious about allowing Hank to become inflicted. Hurriedly, he pushed
his morose thoughts away. He'd try again in a moment.
******
However, fate forestalled the moment. As Lt. Col. Talbot reached for his
cellphone, it buzzed. Lifting it, he noticed his father's number on the
display.
“Hello.” Oliver snapped the word. A call from I. Geoffrey Talbot was
unusual. Something had happened to make his father phone him. Once again,
Ollie’s thoughts flashed on Hank.
"You're likely to receive this news from another source, Oliver.
However, I thought it was better coming from me." Never one for 'hellos,'
General Talbot marched into the conversation unheeded. "Liz died in
Montego Bay, Jamaica…about 2100. Plague." Lt.
Col. Oliver Talbot's mouth flew open, stunned. The news struck him as
impossible. Liz…dead?
Young and vibrant, his wife strutted through life as though nothing
could harm her. Oliver could not imagine her lifeless body lying coldly on a
mortuary slab. Although their marriage had disintegrated long ago, she remained
his wife. He had lived as close to her as a man and woman possibly could. She
was as much a part of him as he was of her.
After a long marital struggle, death finally parted Oliver and
Elizabeth. For a moment, the word ‘Free’ floated through his mind. Then, he
dismissed it. His heart suddenly softened toward her.
“I…I’m sorry, dad,” Ollie muttered, his eyes refilling with tears.
“Yeah, we are too,” Jeff replied, drawing his wife close to his side.
Bea pressed his face into her husband’s shoulder. “Look, Ol, I know you and Liz
didn’t get along. Still…” “We
realized the marriage was a mistake almost as soon as we said our vows,” Oliver
conceded, sinking back into his chair.
“Your mother always felt sorry she pushed you toward her,” his father
continued. “The other young woman…”
“I’d rather not discuss it, dad,” Ollie cut his sire off. “It’s not an
appropriate time.”
Momentarily, Oliver's thoughts flashed toward Nicola Prescott. They had
kept their affair a secret. Neither of his parents knew he continued to date
her. After so many years, he believed they had forgotten his long-ago
sweetheart.
“Understood.” Jeff Talbot’s one word closed the subject. A
silence hung between father and son. Neither knew what to say next. However,
they were not ready to break off the conversation. Finally, a thought struck
Oliver.
“Why was Liz still in Montego Bay?” he abruptly questioned. “I left a
message with Tom Amberley to EVAC her.”
Another pregnant pause interrupted the discussion.
"Didn't you know?" Gen. Talbot finally asked. "The
Amberley's died of the plague. A neighbor discovered their bodies several days
ago. They were both deceased for several days before the fellow next door
eventually checked on them."
Aghast, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's face paled. General Amberley never
received his message concerning the EVAC. He died before the text. Ollie
mentally kicked himself for not checking up, for not ensuring himself of the
order's issue. Woefully, he realized he should have done more for his wife.
Instead of blocking her out, he could have possibly saved her.
“I’m sorry, dad,” Oliver responded. Angrily, he wiped away fresh tears.
“She sent a barrage of text messages about getting quarantined in Jamaica. I
passed them off to Tom. I figured he’d take care of the situation. Stubbornness
won out.
“How’s Hank handling it,” Ollie swiftly continued before his father
could respond. “Have you told him?”
General I. Jeff Talbot’s trembling sigh traveled across the miles. In
whispered tones, he and his wife spoke of informing the child. They both wished
Hank’s father were present to tell him. However, the situation would not permit
it. Sooner or later, they would have to have the dreaded conversation.
“You know I would rather do it myself, dad,” Oliver confirmed. “However,
it’s not good to let it linger. I hate to ask you and mom…”
“We’ll tell him, son,” his father responded after clearing his throat.
“Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Sure, dad.” For
a moment, Ollie considered asking to speak to his mother. He wished to inform
her about Ivan. Nevertheless, he felt it might wait until a better time.
"Just tell mom I want to speak to her later," Oliver stated
before saying goodbye. "Take care of Hank. I'll get home as soon as I can.
This mission is a real mess."
“Gotcha,” Jeff answered before hanging up. Good-byes were like
hellos"non-existent.
FUBAR, Oliver thought, tossing his phone onto his desk. All of a sudden,
everything is FUBAR.
Ivan: dead
Elizabeth: dead The
Amberson’s: dead
Boiling over with anger, Oliver Talbot considered the situation.
Impatiently, he wished the entire ordeal behind him. Still, he awaited final
orders.
Lifting his smartphone, Oliver brought up Nicola's number. He almost
dialed it, then changed his mind. He wanted her. No, he needed her.
Closing his eyes, Ollie pictured Nic bent over her laptop. When they
went away together, he often woke up to find her busy typing. A thought or idea
might strike her in the middle of the night. She always said she had to capture
the moment as soon as it arose. He enjoyed standing behind her, watching.
When the right time appeared, Oliver Talbot would author his own novel.
It had always been his fantasy to become a writer. Life forestalled his true
ambitions. The Talbot tradition of military service held him back. His marriage
to Liz further complicated his ability to set time aside to write. At
times, Ollie hated his life. He toed the line for too long. Considering his
newfound freedom, he longed for Nicola. She gave him her love, and he took it.
At times, he felt he had taken advantage of her. Their clandestine romance
fulfilled his desire. However, he could not truly commit his life to her.
Stupid…he had been stupid for too long. All his life, his mother drilled
his obligations into his mind. Oliver joined the military because of tradition.
His marriage to Elizabeth Amberley upheld his mother's vision of Army life.
Following in his father's footsteps, he felt obligated to his family. However,
he realized he did not fulfill his responsibilities to himself. The time had
come to become his own man.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Hank Talbot sat on the couch between his grandparents. Tears ran
uncontrollably down his cheeks. Devastated, he sobbed at the loss of his
mother.
Tenderly, Moo-ma placed her arm across her grandson’s shoulders. Poo-pa
rested his hand on the boy’s knee. Together, they attempted to comfort Hank.
"Mommy," the child sobbed as he leaned into his grandmother's
ample bosom.
Beatrice Talbot hated telling bad news, particularly to a youngster.
Deep in her heart, she wished her son were at home to do his duty. The mother
did not know Oliver's exact location. However, she did know his current mission
was an important one. Although he could not share details, she realized it had
something to do with the plague epidemic.
Jeff Talbot exchanged a look over with her over Hank’s head. His
thoughts ran in the same direction. Only upon the completion of his mission
could Ollie speak about it. Top Secret assignments ran in the family. General
I. Geoffrey Talbot recalled many of his own. Luckily, his wife accepted the
terms of his military career. It had not always been the case with Oliver’s
wife. Still, he should not think ill of the dead. Overcome
with emotion, Hank leaped from the couch and ran for his room. He loved his
Moo-ma and Poo-pa, but he suddenly wanted the loneliness of his bed-chamber.
Diving headlong onto the bed, he buried his face in the pillow. Sobs shook his
young form. “Mrrrrowww.” Floyd jumped up next to the child
and rubbed his grey body against the boy’s arm. “Mrrrrowww.”
Gently, Hank stroked the misty grey cat's fur. The closeness of his pet
consoled him. Orange and white Blinky made himself comfortable on the boy's
stretched-out legs. Soothingly, he purred. Instinctively, the cats knew their
master's sorrow. They came to him to offer the love and assurance he required.
While the child slept, the fluffy brothers kept vigilance. At
noon, Bea stood in Hank's doorway and watched. One arm hugged Floyd as the
child sprawled across the bed. The cat raised his head, a contented look
etching his features. Blinky stretched and yawned. Tenderly, the grandmother
closed the door. Satisfied, she left Hank to sleep away his grief. The
youngest Talbot awoke in the middle of the afternoon. Sitting up, he rubbed his
eyes. Blinky wandered into his lap; Floyd snuggled close to his side. The
news of his mother’s passing greatly disturbed the young boy. Death had not
entered his life"at least not that of a close family member.
******
For
some reason, Hank never grew close to his mother. He often longed for a gentle
touch or a loving word from her. Rushing off with her girlfriends, Liz barely
had time for her only offspring. Frequently, he heard her complaining about the
encumbrance of having a child underfoot. His appearance stunted her playtime
activities.
“One is enough,” Elizabeth grumbled to Gayle Murray. “I wish I didn’t
have any children, but Ollie insisted. It’s so much easier without stumbling
over a brat.”
“Hmmm,” Gayle murmured, stretching out.
Unobserved, Hank stood in his parents' bedroom doorway. Downstairs,
Grant Hardwicke waited in the kitchen. The boys intended to play baseball at
the school's field. He came home to ask permission and pick up his catcher's
mitt.
Habitually, Liz complained of migraines and spent whole afternoons in
bed. When he could not locate his mother downstairs, Hank climbed to the second
level. Easing open the door, the boy peered inside. He gasped and stepped back.
Naked, his mother and her best friend sprawled across the bed.
“Get outta here!” Elizabeth screamed. Her son’s intake of breath caught
her attention. Swiveling her head, she
glared at him ominously. Then, leaning over the mattress, she grabbed a
slipper. Heaving it at him, it crashed against the half-opened door with a
thud.
Hank slammed it closed and leaned against it. Breathing heavily, he
placed his hand over his heart. It thumped rapidly in his chest. For an
instant, he was glad Grant had not followed him upstairs.
Slowly, the child opened the door and poked in his head.
“I…I’m sorry, mom,” he whispered, barely audible. “Can I go to the
ballfield with Grant?” "I told you to get outta here,
Duff," Liz shrieked, using Hank's real first name. "I do not give a
damn where you go. Disappear, got it?"
Scurrying downstairs, Hank raced for the kitchen door. Holding the
refrigerator door open, Grant Hardwicke studied the contents. Finally, he
selected an apple and took a massive bite out of it.
“Let’s get going,” Hank exclaimed, slamming the fridge door. Pushing his
friend outside, he jogged up the driveway.
“Hey, you forgot your mitt,” his best friend hollered, catching up.
“Oh…yeah…”
Hank Talbot’s shoulders sank as he slumped toward the opened kitchen
door. Slowly, he crept upstairs and hesitated outside the master suite. Casting
a surreptitious glance toward it, he slid past. He entered his room, grabbed
his mitt, and raced back to the kitchen.
“Okay, c’mon,” the child urged his friend. Swiftly, he led Grant away
from the Talbot house.
Although he joined his friends' after-school game, Hank's mind strayed.
The discovery of Liz and Gayle together in bed unnerved him. He knew about sex.
A few months previously, his father had 'the talk' with him. However, 'the
talk' only included the relationship between a man and a woman. He learned
about homosexuality from his classmates' chatter. Still, he could not believe
his mother would indulge in that activity. He discovered her reality the hard
way. The
image did not leave his mind. From that point forward, Hank imagined his mother
wrapped in Gayle's arms every time he saw her. Then, he imagined Liz departing
with her best friend. For some reason, the idea gave him pleasure. If he lived
alone with his father, they would find happiness together.
******
Hank perched on the edge of his bed. Downstairs, he could hear Moo-ma
busy in the kitchen. The scent of frying hamburgers filled his nostrils. He
thought of staying with his grandparents. Loving them, he wanted to remain in
the protective environment they created. In
the quiet of his private space, Hank Talbot came to grips with his mother's
death. The plague pandemic swiftly took the lives of many loved ones. The
nightly news broadcasts were full of the multiple mortalities. Numbers instead
of names, Hank thought. Were there actually so many people in the world? And
what did all those deaths mean? Thoughtfully, the child wondered. All
around the earth, boys and girls woke up without their mothers and fathers.
Parents lost their children to the virus, too. And grandparents died. In his
childlike mind, he grappled with the extensive loss of life.
“Moo-ma?” Hank asked, standing between the kitchen and the dining room.
“Are you and Poo-pa going to die too?”
Slowly, Beatrice Talbot turned from the stove. Behind her, hamburgers
sizzled in the frying pan. A platter of lettuce and tomato slices stood on the
counter. Her grandson’s abrupt question startled her.
“Everyone has to die sometime, Hank,” she truthfully responded. She kept
her voice at a soothing level.
“You’re not going to die tomorrow or the next day, are you?” the boy
whispered, gripping his hands in front of him. Slowly, he rocked on the heels
of his track shoes. “The plague…it kills people. Everyone is dying. I don’t
want you to die, Moo-ma.”
“We’re not going to die, sweetie.” Bea
opened her arms wide, and Hank ran into them. Crying, he pressed his face
against Moo-ma’s bib apron. Comfortingly, she massaged the boy’s shoulders.
Then, she held him away from her and stared into his wide eyes.
"We are cautious about following the state-issued mandates,
Hank," she tenderly explained. "And we plan to get the vaccines as
soon as they are available. Poo-pa and I will remain with you as long as you
need us."
"I wish mommy stayed here," the child cried desultorily.
"Mommy was never around when I needed her. When dad went away, she
disappeared too. Only she never went with daddy. She went with Gayle."
“Yes, I know, sweetheart, but you always had us,” Bea consoled. “And
your Amberley grandparents too.”
“They didn’t love me,” Hank mourned, wiping away his tears. “Granny
Amberley didn’t like boys. She wanted her girl grandchildren.”
"Never mind all that, now," his grandmother stated, gnawing at
her bottom lip. They had not told the child of his other grandparents' deaths.
Jeff thought it better to wait a while. Too much bad news would throw Hank over
the emotional edge. "Go wash up for dinner. We're eating on the lanai
tonight."
Hank turned to enter the powder room, then spun back around.
"Moo-ma?" he tentatively asked. Then, he rushed his words.
"Does anyone have to call me Duff anymore? I am not thrilled with the name
Duff. I'm Hank."
“No, darling, no one will ever call you Duff again,” Bea reassured,
smiling to herself. She, too, disliked the name.
“Good,” Hank called back, racing into the small bathroom.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
“Colonel?” Sgt. Tyrone Jones asked. He stepped inside Oliver Talbot’s
office, his hat crushed in his hands.
“Yes, Sergeant?” Lt. Col. Talbot responded, glancing upward.
“T-T’s gonna make it, Colonel,” the Sergeant stated, grinning from ear
to ear. “He’s out of danger.”
Tyrone Jones clasped his smartphone in his massive fist. It contained a
message from his wife announcing his son's impending recovery. As though it
held his child's life, he clung to it and cherished it. Tears of joy sparkled
in his dark brown eyes.
"I'm glad to hear it, Jones." Oliver jumped up and grasped
Tyrone's other hand. As he did, he felt all the anxiety slip away from his
comrade-in-arms.
Delighted over the glad tidings, Ollie wished for some of his own. The
news of his wife’s demise on top of Ivan’s left him feeling low. Knowing Tyrone
Jr would survive brightened his dismal aspect.
"You cannot believe how relieved I am," Jones babbled
gleefully. In his joy, he completely missed his superior's red-rimmed eyes.
However, Major Alberto Gonzalez noticed when he entered the Colonel's
space. Swiftly, he ushered Sgt. Tyrone Jones to the door and then shut it.
“Bad news?” Gonzalez questioned, pressing his back against the door. For
a moment, Oliver studied the Major. Then, he sank into his chair. Propping his
chin in his clenched fists, he nodded.
Silently, the two men faced each other. Gonzalez held his tongue. Biding
his time, he waited for Ollie’s answer. Time ticked away. “My
wife,” Lt. Col. Talbot finally stated. “In Jamaica. General Amberley also. His
wife.” His words came out clipped.
Major Alberto Gonzalez sorrowfully swiped off his hat and gripped it
against his chest. Sinking into a chair, he bowed his head in silent prayer.
Automatically, his rosary slipped into his sweat-soaked palm. Well-respected in
Army circles, General Amberley served his country with pride. Both officers and
enlisted men spoke his name with reverence. To lose such a man due to plague
seemed an utter shame. Gonzalez recalled working under him several years
previously. Many would wish to send their condolences to the remaining Amberley
family members.
“I’m deeply sorry, sir, for your loss,” Alberto murmured, his eyes
brimming with tears. Silently, his lips moved as he counted his rosary beads. The
Lieutenant Colonel silently watched the Major. Although they attended church
services, the Talbots were not overly religious. Following his marriage, Oliver
rarely considered his faith. He might have taken it seriously at one time.
However, Liz's demeaning attitude toward his desires took the wind from his
sails. Most of his aspirations meant little to her. Therefore, if she did not
wish to participate, no one else should either. Now
that he was free of her, Oliver felt relieved. Suddenly, his emotions turned
from gloomy to bittersweet. Their marriage might have succeeded if they treated
each other with higher esteem. In a way, he wished it had worked out. However,
both of them had a stubborn streak.
‘No,’ Ollie suddenly thought, ‘it would not have succeeded.’
Oliver faced the truth. Shamefully, he abandoned Nicola to marry Liz.
Throughout the marriage, he compared the two women. Elizabeth always came out
on the short end. She was not Nic. The other woman was the only one who counted.
All
Liz’s shortcomings were because of Nicola.
Behind Ollie's closed eyes, he pictured the perfect woman. Petite,
blue-eyed with brown wavy hair, Nicola perched atop his pedestal. Another woman
could not compare to her beauty, charm, and wit. Vivacious Elizabeth Talbot
fell pathetically short.
Because of Nicola, Oliver allowed Liz to play on his nerves. Her flighty
attitude, insipid girlfriends, and sharp tongue all cut him down. A small smile
curved his lips, then it widened.
Angrily, Lt. Col. Talbot shoved his thoughts aside. After a minute, they
tried to creep back in. He felt ashamed of himself. If he allowed them to
continue, his sadness would turn to joy. He chided himself for thinking only of
Nicola. Facing of his wife’s death, he should show more respect for Liz.
However, despite his efforts, he realized his newfound joy.
******
“Stars and Stripes Forever” jangled on Lt. Col. Talbot’s smartphone. At
the sound of the Sousa tune, Oliver snatched it up.
“Hello?” Ollie stated, holding his tone to a low level.
"Dad? Can I talk to you?" Hank's quivering voice traveled
across the miles.
“Sure, of course, son,” the father responded.
Across from him, Major Gonzalez stood. Oliver waved him from the room.
Hastily, Alberto retreated. He comprehended his commanding officer’s need for
father-and-son time.
“When are you coming home, dad?” Hank asked. Far away in Naples,
Florida, the boy perched on the edge of the bed. Moo-ma allowed him the use of
her phone to make the call. “As
soon as I can,” Oliver responded, smiling.
“Mom’s dead.” Hank Talbot dissolved into tears. Distressed, he sank onto
his bed and curled into a fetal position. The phone lay next to him.
Over the distance, Oliver's heart broke. The desire to comfort his son
tore at his emotions. Suddenly, he
wished he were stateside. He longed for a stable lifestyle, maybe even a simple
nine-to-five job. Arriving home after a long day to a loving family appealed to
him. The Army took him away too frequently. Perhaps, he decided, he should
think of retirement.
Retirement suddenly appealed to him. When Oliver returned to the states,
he would discuss it with Nicola.
Nicola…Ollie’s thoughts came back to her again. His reflections always
came back to Nic. Then, his mind flew back to his grieving child.
"Hank," the father called out to his son. "Hank!"
His voice grew assertive. The
child remained sprawled across the bed. From a far distance, he heard his
father’s voice. He longed to speak but couldn’t. Tears choked him.
“Oliver?” Beatrice Talbot’s voice responded to his calls.
"Is Hank okay?" Ollie snapped, concern filling his voice.
“He’s overwrought, Oliver,” his mother calmly explained. Gently, she sat
beside her grandson and rubbed his back. “He asked to speak to you. I thought
it would help.”
"Please assure him I will come home soon," Lt. Col. Talbot
responded. "Tell him I'm making plans. Once I get back, the current
situation will change."
“I’m sorry about Liz, Ollie,” Bea stated, dry-eyed. Although sorrow
overwhelmed her, she could not cry for her dead daughter-in-law.
“Yeah, mom, me too,” Oliver answered, swiping at fresh tears. An
elongated pause stretched between mother and son. So many words left unspoken,
Oliver thought. The lengthy past sprawled behind them. The distance separating
them did not permit hugs of reassurance. A single touch or a small quavering
smile might have improved the circumstances. Ollie considered switching to a
video call. However, he suddenly could not face it.
Like a child, Lt. Col. Talbot unexpectedly longed for his mother. He
recalled the scent of her soft, sweet perfume, the cotton of her everyday
dress. Memories of her tender smile panged at his heartstrings. In
his mind's eye, he saw his six-year-old self running to his mommy with a
scraped knee. Sitting on the kitchen table, he watched her bandage it and kiss
it better. Ivan appeared wearing a nurse's uniform. The white nurse's cap sat
jauntily askew on his tousled hair. Dramatically, his brother bent to apply a
kiss of his own. Oliver yanked his knee away, then kicked Ivan squarely in his
skirted nuts. If
only he could replay his childhood with Ivan, Ollie thought. He would have
approached the situation differently. He would have loved his brother instead
of despising him.
“Mom, I…” Oliver wanted to say ‘Ivan,' but his lips would not form the
name. “I…I…”
“Yes, Ollie,” his mother prompted.
"I…I want to speak to you about…I…" Lt. Col. Talbot knew he
could not continue. "I'll come home soon, mom. When I do, I have many
things to speak about with you. However, it can wait for now. But, soon,
mom."
“It’s all right, Ollie,” Bea blithely reassured. “You’ll find us right
here when you are ready.”
"Thanks, mom," Oliver sighed. His
mother blew kisses over the line and then said a hasty goodbye.
The lonely outpost stood high in the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain
range. Inside, four armed guards kept watch. During their nine-month
tour of duty, no one detected any movement. Yawning, Captain Ahmad Jafari leaned in
the door frame. He brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the
region. Nothing ever happened here. When he joined the Iranian Army, Captain
Jafari expected adventure. His ardent training led him to believe he would
fight on the battlefield. Instead, he remained stuck in the loneliest outpost
in Iran. Inside, his men sprawled on their cots. Ahmad
Jafari let them sleep. Cursing the lack of activity, he frowned at the absence
of discipline. However, with little movement in their area, there was not much
they could do. Ahmad longed for their replacements. Another two weeks, and they would be free,
Jafari thought. He hankered for a return to Tehran for a well-needed break.
Nine months was too long to wait in such an isolated place. “Another day, another rial,” Sgt. Farzin
Karimi muttered. Standing behind Captain Jafari, he held a cup of morning
coffee. “Nothing?” “Did you expect anything?” Ahmad Jafari
snapped back. Karimi played on his nerves. Farzin Karimi believed in motivation.
Regardless of the circumstances, he kept his surroundings jolly. A witty quip
or a practical joke, he believed, broke up the monotony. Salt in the sugar bowl
or throwing an abundance of pepper into a meal 'livened up the joint' in his
opinion. Captain Jafari thought differently.
Keeping a severe countenance, he did not wish for livening up of any kind. He
was assigned there to do his job, nothing else. Once he completed his mission,
he wished to put Sgt. Karimi in his past. He wanted to put the entire task
behind him. “Cup of coffee?” Farzin suggested, handing
his superior his cup. “I’ll fix my own, if you don’t mind,”
Ahmad tensely stated. He tasted salted coffee too many times for his liking. "Suit yourself." Sgt. Karimi
shrugged. Nonchalantly, he sipped his morning wake-me-up. It was difficult to
hold back a cringe at the salty flavor. However, he kept up the pretense of a
sweetened drink. Behind them, Lieutenant Arsha Mehri sat up
on his cot. Next to him, Sgt. Razban Amiri turned over. Angrily, Captain Jafari
marched across the room. Using his foot, he prodded the second sergeant awake.
Razban sat up, then leaped to his feet. "Do you think this is a spa? Are you
on holiday?" Jafari crossly snapped. Clasping his hands behind his back,
he patrolled the room. His heels clomped harshly against the hardwood floor.
Then, he spun on his men. Mehri, Karimi, and Amiri lined up in front
of Jafari. Their heels clinked together, and they stood at attention. Their
superior eyed them furiously. Mentally, he took in their look of disarray,
their lack of military professionalism. Throughout the nine months, he tried to
keep order in the ranks. However, with each dull day, the situation became more
disordered. Ahmad fought his frustrations and lost. Defeated, Captain Ahmad Jafari continued
to survey the area while his men lounged in the outpost. In the middle of the
afternoon, he finally relented to a game of poker.
******
“Americans?” Captain Ahmad Jafari spat
out. Astonished, he stared at his latest orders. “Has the Ayatollah gone mad?” As long as Jafari could recall, America
was Iran's most feared adversary. The chant 'Death to America' echoed
throughout the past. The new commands shocked him. Delta Force Squadron G would
appear within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The Takht-e-Soleiman
outpost would provide their base of operations. Headquarters ordered Jafari's
team to assist. "Assist!" Jafari continued, his
brown eyes bulging with indignation. “Assist? What?” Lt. Arsha Mehri
questioned, peering at the orders. “Where?” Confusion reigned amongst the outpost’s
inhabitants. No one knew of the plague epidemic except Ahmad Jafari. In an
abundance of caution, he kept the information away from his team. If he told,
he feared mutiny. The men, concerned for their loved ones, might attempt to
return to their homes. Faced with new possibilities, he decided to update them
with the news. “It’s a joke,” Farzin Karimi sputtered,
laughter welling in his throat. “Finally, the Captain tells a joke.” "It's not a joke," Jafari
countered. "According to HQ, the plague appeared in San Francisco. It
spread throughout the United States and across the world. As we speak, it rages
through Iran. A multitude has already succumbed to the virus. “Furthermore, US Intelligence tracked the
origins to this region,” he continued, capturing the attention of his men.
“Right over there.” Striding toward the open door, he pointed toward the
mountain across the valley. "As I said," Karimi cut in.
"A joke. No one can believe the plague originated in Takht-e-Soleiman. No
one has moved in or out of here in ages. You know it's impossible." Mehri and Amiri quickly agreed. Briskly
nodding their heads, both soldiers decided with Sgt. Farzin Karimi. A team
stationed at the outpost would have noticed if anyone penetrated the mountains.
"Needless to say, our orders are to
entertain the Americans," Jafari remarked, his face solemn. "Sure, I'll entertain them," Farzin
Karimi smirked. "Coffee, sir?" Casually, he handed his superior a
steamy cup of joe. “Thank you,” Ahmad answered, accepting the
offering. Jafari enjoyed a good cup of Persian
coffee. The combination of cardamom and saffron steeped in the grounds
delighted him. In addition, he liked it extremely sweet. Gently, he raised the
cup and sipped. He relaxed, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders.
Then, he took a heartier draught. His eyes flew wide with fury. Angrily, he
sprayed the hot liquid from his mouth. “Salt!” he yelled. Swiftly, he poured the
coffee down the drain and turned on Karimi. “YOU IDIOT!” Farzin's bellowed laughter echoed around
the small building. Choking, Razban Amiri attempt to hold his back. He pressed
his lips firmly together and captured his breath. Then, his wild chortles broke
forth when he could not hold them in. Jafari stormed toward him. Angrily, he
slapped the man's face. Sgt. Amiri's heavily hooded eyes flew wide
open. Gasping, his hand flew to his cheek. Its heat penetrated his palm. At the
moment, he hated Jafari. Instinctively, he reached behind him for an assault
rifle leaning against the wall. Then, hesitating, he drew in his emotions. "Imbeciles surround me," Captain
Ahmed Jafari announced. Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, he strode outside. As he
sipped, he contemplated the area. His roving eyes noticed nothing amiss. ‘A fools’ errand,’ the Captain thought,
sipping his hot drink. Then, he steeled himself against fate. He disliked the
idea of an American force penetrating his lonely outpost. However, a staunch
military man, he accepted his duty.
******
The Sikorsky MH-60M Blackhawk helicopter
hovered above the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain range.
Captain Ahmad Jafari watched as it moved closer into range. The door of the
suspended helicopter slid open. A prominent figure silhouetted in the egress.
Several others grouped behind him. Then, they began to descend. "Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot," the
leader introduced, snapping to attention. His alert eyes traveled across the
scene. Boldly, he entered the small outpost. “Captain Ahmad Jafari,” the Iranian
responded, his back rigid. He immediately disliked the American invasion.
Talbot appeared as a take command type of soldier. “Welcome to
Takht-e-Soleiman.” “Pleased to make your acquaintance,”
Oliver stated, his face devoid of expression. Swiftly, he began to introduce
his team. “Major
Alberto Gonzalez.” Gonzalez stepped out of rank and saluted. “Master
Sargeant Emil Hollister.” Hollister repeated Gonzalez’s gesture. "Sgts.
Bud Cassidy, Tyrone Jones, and Carl McMillian." Each man acknowledged
their name.
Suspiciously, Jafari studied Delta Force Squadron G. They seemed capable
of their duties. However, his hackles were up. He did not appreciate the
usurpation of his position. He should have dealt with any unwarranted activity
occurring during his assignment. The Americans had no business in Iran. The tension
dragged on while the minutes ticked past. Lt. Col. Talbot detected a hostile
environment. Nevertheless, he patiently waited for Jafari to speak. “Coffee?”
Sgt. Farzin Karimi offered, stepping forward with a cup. Hastily, he pushed it
toward Talbot. Oliver
smiled and accepted the steamy drink. Placing it against his lips, he sipped.
Then, frowned. Jafari and Karimi anxiously watched him. In a draught, Ollie
emptied the cup and handed it back to the Sergeant. "Many
thanks," Lt. Col. Talbot stated with a grim smile. The salty taste took
him aback. However, he adequately masked his disgust. Captain
Ahmed Jafari exchanged a questioning look with Karimi. The Sergeant shrugged
his shoulders and placed the used cup in the sink. A mouthful of salty coffee
should have provoked a sour expression. However, Talbot remained as cool as a
cucumber. “My men,
Colonel,” Jafari stated. Swiftly, he introduced his team. “Lieutenant Arsha
Mehri, Sgt. Farzin Karimi and Sgt. Razban Amiri. I am Captain Ahmed Jafari.” “Pleased to meet you,” Talbot
acknowledged. “Now, if we may get straight to business. I understand there is a
lone wolf operating in these mountains. Let’s go over the region and set a
plan. I wish to strike swiftly and leave as swiftly. We don’t intend to remain
in your hair, Captain.” A small, tight smile curved Jafari's lips.
The sooner the Americans departed, the better, he thought. Talbot and Jafari sat across from each
other at the outpost’s small wooden table. Captain Jafari spread out a ragged
old map. Together, the men poured over it. Jafari pinpointed the cave system
they sought. Nevertheless, he still could not believe the lone wolf theory. He
willed the American Delta Force to failure. Motioning for Major Alberto Gonzalez to
join him, Talbot laid out his plan of attack for the following morning. The
setting sun glowed orange through the outpost door. The men bedded down on the
floor to wait for dawn.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arastoo Mazanderani crouched against the
rock wall. His remaining eye fixed upon the cave opening. Behind its lid, the
other orb throbbed painfully. He did not mind. He awaited his destiny. Devoid of emotion, the chemist focused
solely on his duty to Allah. All his doubts disappeared, and his misty mind
cleared. “Insha-Allah,” he murmured, his frozen
lips barely moving. “Death to America.” An assault rifle lay within easy reach.
Reassuringly, Arastoo's grasping fingers caressed the stock. As soon as a
figure appeared in the aperture, he would fire. He intended to take out as many
as possible before igniting his suicide vest. Arastoo did not doubt he awaited death.
Knowing gave him peace for the first time in his life. Closing his eyes, he saw
his father and mother. Sternly, Gulzar Mazanderani looked down upon him. His
strong image appeared upon the rock wall. From an early age, the family
patriarch urged his son to follow Muhammad’s teachings. Arastoo nodded. Zealously, he believed he
worked toward ridding the world of Western transgression. Hatred continued to
boil within him. He did not consider his mistakes with the plague virus. If it
raged out of control, it was Allah’s Will. It was Allah’s way of cleansing the
world. His mother would weep for him. Gentle
Anahita gave love instead of hatred. Although significantly repressed by his
father's will, she provided comfort to her children. Arastoo wished for a
moment to speak to her, to assure her of his chosen path. Paradise, he
believed, awaited him. His mind turned unsympathetically toward
his younger sisters. Flighty BahAr rarely paid attention to religion. When he
discovered her desire to become a pole dancer, he chastised her. Her lewdness
brought embarrassment to the Mazanderani family. “You mean to shame our parents,” Arastoo
shouted at BahAr. Discovering her plan, he stormed into her bedroom. BahAr sat crossed-legged on the bed,
brushing her long black hair. Dreamily, she spoke of traveling to America. Many
considered freedom for women sacred there. She could live as she pleased. “Imagine not wearing the hijab?” she
wistfully asked Mahasti. “Imagine flexing your naked limbs and dancing
exotically for an audience of men.” Widening her doe-like brown eyes, the
younger sister stared at BahAr in astonishment. Young and still innocent,
Mahasti idolized BahAr. The older girl seemed more experienced, more in control
of her destiny. The younger wished to cling to her childhood. Although she
yearned for male attention, she did not understand it. Perhaps, when she grew
older like BahAr, she would have the same desires. BahAr frequently spoke of Iranian
repression against women. She railed against her mother’s sub-servitude and
Yasmina’s obedience to Arastoo. Determined, she would not bend to a man’s rule.
The Mazanderani daughter clung to Western Civilizations’ high esteem for
women’s rights. “We should have the right to do as we
please,” BahAr exclaimed, heedless of her brother’s severity. “Why should we
live under repression? Why are we unequal to men?” “Because you are stupid and insipid,”
Arastoo hissed, asserting his superiority. “Both of you.” Turning his eyes on
Mahasti, he included her in the conversation. “You’re stupid, Arastoo,” BahAr exclaimed,
leaping from the bed. Storming toward her brother, she shook her brush in his
face. “And backward. All of Iran is backward. I want to dance and show off my
beautiful body. Men should…” Arastoo backhanded her. Screaming, BahAr cupped her cheek with her
palm. Then, she spit in her sibling’s face. Arastoo backhanded her again. Mahasti screamed. Arastoo scared her.
Cowering on the bed, she grasped her pillow in her lap. It provided little
comfort. "Both of you bring disgrace upon the
name of Mazanderani," the brother coolly announced, "I feel ashamed
of you.” “What goes on in here?” Anahita abruptly
demanded. The scream brought her to the bedroom door. Behind her, Yasmina tried
to peer inside. "Just teaching my sisters civilized
behavior," Arastoo returned, striding toward the door. As he passed, he
grabbed hold of his wife's wrist. Forcefully, he dragged her into their shared
bedroom. The door slammed. Running from her room, BahAr raced into
the corridor. Realizing her brother’s temper, she wished to save Yasmina.
Instead, her mother grasped her arm as she tried to pass. “Leave them,” Anahita murmured,
restraining her daughter. “A man has the right to sleep with his wife.” "But he is going to beat her,"
BahAr breathed, struggling to free herself. "He's going to hurt her."
"A man has that right," the
mother dolefully responded. BahAr's eyes flew wide. She came face to
face with her mother's reality for the first time. Often, she heard cries and
whimpers issuing from her parents' suite of rooms. Always, she dismissed them
as tricks of the mind. Suddenly, she understood how her father treated her
mother. And she hated it. “Mother,” BahAr whispered, aghast. “How
could you let him do such a thing?” Nonchalantly, Anahita rolled her
shoulders. The same thing happened to her mother and her grandmother before
her. Women accepted their husband’s harsh treatment. In the back of her mind,
she hoped her daughters would not face the same brutality. She wanted her girls
to escape to America.
******
The hours
ticked slowly forward. Arastoo Mazanderani lost all conception of time. In the
stillness of the cavern, he took a deep breath. Impatiently, he awaited the
arrival of his foes. Day and
night slipped past. Dawn, noon or dusk, Arastoo did not notice. On the alert,
he neither ate nor slept. He focused his eye on the cave opening all the time.
Ever attentive, his ears strained for a sound"a footfall or a hushed voice.
Neither came to him. “O Allah,
let Your Peace come upon Mohammad and the family of Mohammad, as you have
brought peace to Ibrahim and his family,” Arastoo muttered the memorized
prayer. “Truly, You are Praiseworthy and Glorious. Allah, bless Mohammad and
the family of Mohammad, as you have blessed Ibrahim and his family. Truly, You
are Praiseworthy and Glorious.” The ancient
prayer bolstered the chemist. Silently, his stiffened lips formed the words
three more times. Death felt close now. Arastoo found peace with his God and
prepared to ascend into Paradise. Martyrdom
came easily. Fear of the unknown never occurred to Arastoo Mazanderani. The
evil doubts that penetrated his mind took wing and flew away. He regulated his
breathing and allowed his head to loll. Then, he righted himself and
straightened his spine. Arastoo
held the assault rifle in his lap. Cradling it, he pressed it against his
chest. Flattening
onto his stomach, the zealot crawled toward his cave's entrance. A slight noise
from the cavernous laboratory attracted his attention. The rifle rasped against
the rock floor as he slithered forward. Arastoo stopped and listened. Nothing. Five
minutes passed before he moved again. Arastoo Mazanderani inched forward.
Peering into the cavern, he strained his one eye. Zeeba Bahrami's body remained
against the rock wall. In the shadows, she appeared as a hump. He did not
notice the presence of anyone else. Breathing a
sigh of relief, the chemist returned to his original position. The assault
rifle lay across his lap. He gripped it in a death hold.
"Soon," Zeeba's hollow voice assured him. Arastoo
looked up at his lab partner. Spector-like, Zeeba Bahrami stood over him. Her
cheek held the marks of his whip. Jagged red welts painfully crossed her face,
slanting from her forehead to chin. They undulated slowly on her flesh as she
spoke. “Soon,”
Arastoo repeated, comforted. He wished she were with him to join his fate.
However, she would surely greet him at the great gate of Paradise. Arastoo
reached out to Zeeba, and she vanished.
******
"Dead." Arastoo Mazanderani heard the word as clear as a bell.
Again, he crawled toward the cave's entrance. This time
uniformed men crowded the laboratory. One squatted before Zeeba’s body and
rolled her over. “A woman?”
Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot questioned. He crouched next to Sgt. Razban Amiri. “A
woman did this?” “Hush,”
Captain Ahmad Jafari cautioned. Motioning with his hands, he waved the men to
silence. Talbot
swiftly scanned the area. Lab equipment lay shattered across the hard floor.
The occupant had flown into an apparent rage. Killing his partner, he proceeded
to destroy his equipment. Determinedly, he strode toward a corridor branching
off the main room. Jafari’s
hand stayed the Lieutenant Colonel. Again, he motioned for caution. Talbot
formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger. In his
hidden lair, Arastoo relaxed. He wanted the group of soldiers to approach
him.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot waved his team to
silence. Gritting his teeth, Captain Ahmad Jafari obeyed the command. Although
he resented Talbot, he upheld his superior’s authority. In the hushed cavern,
the men ranged out. They gripped their weapons, prepared to fire. Talbot stepped cautiously over the ruined
lab equipment. Glass crunched beneath his combat boots. He paused and shifted
his eyes from left to right. Gonzalez shadowed him. Sgts. Emil Hollister and Razban Amiri
covered the two men. Jafari and Jones kept watch from the rear. Detecting a glimmer of light from a nearby
cave, Talbot and Gonzalez advanced. Arastoo Mazanderani held his breath. Only
the rock face separated the zealot from the soldiers. Arastoo aimed his M4 assault rifle and
trained it upon the intruders. Talbot and Gonzalez stepped out of range. “Nobody here,” Lt. Col. Talbot remarked,
addressing Jafari. “The cave system runs deep,” the Captain
responded. “He could hide anywhere.” “Spread out, check everywhere,” Talbot
ordered. “Advance with caution.” Slowly, the team moved around the cavern.
Never putting their guard down, the soldiers crept around the defunct
laboratory. Out of sight, Arastoo waited with his back
against the wall. He grasped the rifle and pointed it toward the rocky ceiling.
Impatiently, he bided his time. Shadows played against the walls. Twice his
adversaries moved within range. Twice he considered firing. However, a voice in
his mind warned him to hold back. “Over here,” Sgt. Hollister stage whispered. Motioning for the others to wait, Talbot
stepped forward. A stillness hovered within the cavern. In the distance, a
stone fell. Along a dark corridor, a stone avalanche tumbled down a wall. The
team stood rigid, waiting for it to stop. Then, they began to move slowly. “Zilch, nada,” Talbot responded. Taking a
stride backward, he bumped into Captain Ahmad Jafari. “Watch it,” the
Lieutenant Colonel hissed. "Watch it yourself," the Iranian
Captain mocked back. He found it difficult to hide his resentment. Slitting his eyes, Lt. Col. Talbot glared
at his counterpart. Although he understood the bitterness, he expected
professionalism. Talbot wanted to wash his hands of the situation"the sooner,
the better. However, instead of exchanging harsh words, he focused on his
mission.
******
Arastoo’s lips formed the words of his
prayer. Fanatically, he dedicated his life to Allah and cleansed himself of
sin. He prayed for God’s mercy and forgiveness. Soon…soon, he would stand at
the Gates of Paradise. Boldly, Arastoo Mazanderani stepped into
the cave's entrance. Moments ticked past with no one noticing him. Sgt. Razban
Amiri spotted him. Zealously, Arastoo pressed the trigger and muttered ‘one-thousand-and-one.’
Abruptly, thirty rounds sprayed the cavern. The sound echoed loudly. Amiri went
down like a rag doll. Jafari stepped toward his fallen comrade.
Roughly, Talbot dragged him down. Crouched on the floor, the men covered their
heads. Then the Lt. Col. and Captain rose. Arastoo stepped further into the
cavern. “Halt!” Talbot commanded. Arastoo Mazanderani ignored the order.
Stepping over Amiri’s body, he re-aimed his weapon. “No one move,” the mad chemist instructed,
sweeping the room with the M4. “I will blow you straight to hell.” At first, Lt. Col. Talbot believed the
Iranian extremist meant to fire again. Then, he spied the suicide vest. “You don’t want to do that,” Talbot called
out. With great difficulty, he kept his voice calm. Visions of Nicola
Prescott played in his mind's eye. He focused on his love for her. At that
moment, he visioned himself knocking on her door. A bottle of champagne and an
armful of roses gathered in his arms. It all boiled down to survival…and the
future. Talbot's eye traveled stealthily to his
team. Major Alberto Gonzalez crouched behind the overturned lab table. Next to
him, Sgt. Tyrone Jones sat with his back against it. Frog-like, Captain Ahmad
Jafari crawled toward Amiri's limp body. All accounted for except Sgt. Emil
Hollister. Hollister! The Lieutenant Colonel's eyes
traveled around the scene. Where was Hollister?
****** Captain Jafari dragged Amiri’s body across
the stone floor. Reverently, he sat against the wall and cradled the head. He
realized he faced instant death. Repeating Arastoo’s prayer, he prepared to
enter Paradise. Arastoo Mazanderani boldly stepped further
into the cave. Aiming his assault rifle, he pointed it at each man. Teasingly,
he lightly pressed on the trigger but did not fire. His insane laughter
reverberated back and forth. “Are you ready to die?” the chemist
jeered, pushing the rifle’s nozzle into Gonzalez’s face. “You will die,
Infidel.” "Go ahead, pull the trigger,"
Major Gonzalez advised his face a deadpan. "And I'll get to hell before
you." Working his jaw sideways, Arastoo
considered Gonzalez’s threat. Then, he lowered his weapon. “Why should I kill you one-by-one?” the
zealot remarked, stepping into the cavern’s middle. “I can take you all at
once.” Arastoo fumbled with the suicide vest’s
cord. His sweat-slicked palm slipped. Angrily, he wiped his hand against his
pant leg. Then he grabbed the cord again. Tensely, Talbot awaited the explosion.
******
From the corner of his eye, Lt. Col.
Talbot detected a movement. The barrel of a sniper rifle came into view. The
single shot caught Arastoo Mazanderani in the middle of the forehead. Staggering backward, he fell against the
wall and slid to a slumped position. Sgt. Emil Hollister stepped out of hiding.
Talbot breathed a sigh of relief.
Squatting next to the body, he checked for a pulse and declared Mazanderani
dead. “Good job, Hollister,” Lt. Col. Talbot
declared. Rising, he slapped the Sergeant on the back. Gonzalez and Jafari
echoed the compliment. “We can go home now and get out of your
hair.” Talbot turned to Jafari and shook his hand. The Captain stepped back and saluted his
superior.
Chapter
Thirty
Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot stood in front of
his brother’s grave. Reverently, he knelt and bowed his head. Allowing tears to
escape, they rolled silently over his cheeks and dripped off his chin. The grey granite
monument reached solemnly toward the cloudless sky.
IVY
MASTERSON Formally
known as: Ivan
Talbot Beloved
Son (and Daughter) of Gen.
I. Geoffery Talbot and Beatrice Talbot Born
October 27, 1985 Died
June 8, 2022 A
Beautiful Soul
Nicola Talbot bent to lay a bouquet of
forget-me-nots before the grave. Tenderly, she placed her palm on Oliver’s
back. He glanced up at her, his lips forming a thin smile. Then, grasping her
hand, he brought it to her lips. Eight months passed since Lt. Col. Talbot
and his team faced life and death. The Iranian cave seemed a distant memory. A
happy future spread before him. However, he could not move forward until he
reconciled himself with Ivan’s death. “I love you, bro,” Ollie whispered. His
hand trembled as he reached to caress the heated granite. The San Francisco sun
beat warmly on his bent neck. “I…I’m sorry…sorry for everything.” Nicola stood back and watched. She, too,
allowed her tears to flow freely. Although she never met Ivy, she understood
Ollie's need. She encouraged the San Francisco stop-over. Nicola Prescott became Nicola Talbot on
the previous day. The couple departed for a Hawaiian honeymoon following a
small, intimate wedding ceremony. Although she waited many long years for the
marriage, she readily agreed to visit Ivy's gravesite on the way. Solemnly, Nicola looked across the
cemetery. Maureen Tapper placed flowers on Jackie Wentworth’s nearby grave. Nic
liked Maureen at once. The boutique owner met the couple at the airport and
brought them directly to the cemetery. She seemed genuinely interested in
assisting the couple. “I am sorry for your loss,” Nic stated,
stepping up behind Maureen. "Thank you," the older woman
whispered in return. "Damn the plague." Briskly, she stood and wiped
the dirt off her hands. "Too many lives worthlessly
lost," Nicola somberly agreed. Her mind flashed to Milt Kromesky and Gabby
Sanchez. Both of her good friends succumbed to the virus"vibrant lives that
left too soon. "Such a shame." Maureen and Nicola sighed simultaneously.
******
“Love you, darling,” Nicola Talbot
whispered, pressing her nose against Oliver’s. For a moment, they rubbed them
together, then Ollie’s arms tightened around her waist. Then, they kissed"deep
and long. “Love you back.” Oliver kissed her new wife again and
rolled onto his back. For a prolonged time, he stared at the ceiling. In the
darkness, Nic waited for him to speak. "I'm sorry I mistreated you,"
Ollie stated, his voice choked with fresh tears. "I should have never left
you. I should have stood up to my mother." “Hush, love,” Nicola cooed, snuggling into
the crook of his arm. “It’s all behind us now.” Silence filled the hotel room. Rising,
Oliver stole toward the floor-to-ceiling window. He slid it open and stepped
onto the balcony. The silver moon glowed down upon him, casting his silhouette
across the floor. Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the Embarcadero. Oliver thought back on his life with
Elizabeth with regret. He never loved her. However, he accepted her at his
mother's urging. In his heart, he knew he belonged to Nicola. The fact weighed
heavily on him. He wanted to talk about it, make her see his weakness and
wrongdoings. "You have nothing to worry
about," Nic stated, wrapping her arms around Ollie's waist. "Nothing at all. Elysian Fields
Forever." She pressed her face into his warm flesh, placing a kiss on his
shoulder. “I want you to know…to understand…I…” “I don’t have to know or understand
anything, love,” Nicola assured, smiling and kissing him again. Oliver remained silent. The moon continued
to hang above them, casting its warm glow. “Moonlight and Love Song, Never Out of
Date,” his wife sang, her voice low and sweet. The old song, ‘As Time Goes By,’
meant a lot to her. Throughout the lonely years without him, she kept the tune
as a reminder of their love. Ollie turned and snuggled his face into
her hair. His tears mingled with her soft strands. In his chest, his heart
pounded a steady staccato. Nicola placed her warm hand against it and felt its
beat. He walked her toward the bed and lay her down on it. Passionately, the
lovers melted together as one.
******
Nicola Talbot woke up in the warm California
morning. Sprawled out beside her, Ollie slept like a baby. She smiled and
cuddled into his curved body. "Good morning, sunshine," Nic
exclaimed, rising on her elbow. Oliver returned the greeting. "So, what's
on the agenda this morning?" "Loving you," her husband
exclaimed, grabbing her and pulling her close. “Have it your way.” Nicola grinned. Her
banter came quickly and easily. “Honolulu tomorrow.” Nicola looked forward to beginning their
honeymoon. Many states had already lifted their plague mandates, including
Hawaii. The Talbots planned to spend their time on the beach, relaxing.
However, Nic planned on attending a few shows and a luau. Oliver left the
entertainment organization up to her. “And no writing!” Ollie exclaimed. Before
the wedding, he extracted the promise from her. “All work and no play makes
Jill a dull girl.” "Oh, not that Jill again," Nic
exclaimed, giggling. She had heard the expression many times before; Ollie
favored it. "How did she get mixed up in this?" “You promised.” “Okay, okay.” Surreptitiously, Nicola eyed her traveling
bag. Her laptop, tucked inside, waited for her. She saved the final draft of
'Cricket Madison' in MS Word. She planned on completing it during their
honeymoon. Her publisher expected it by the end of the month. “Do you know what Hank asked me?” Nic
asked, changing the subject. "Besides, are you my new
mother?" Oliver replied with his question. “Besides that.” Nic’s smile widened to a
grin. Nicola immediately loved Hank on their
first meeting. The boy seemed to accept her without question. His mother's loss
affected him deeply. However, he appeared ready to consent to a new woman
taking his parent's place. At first, Nicola felt nervous about
meeting the Talbot family. Following Lt. Col. Talbot's return from Iran, he
appeared at her door with roses and champagne. She fell into his arms in
relief. Always in the back of her mind hung the thought that he would not come
back. Nic often feared for Ollie's safety. However, he always returned. “Mission accomplished,” Oliver exclaimed,
relieving the tension. After a pause, he continued, “Liz died in Jamaica.” “I’m sorry,” Nicola demurely responded. “Me too.” Oliver sat on the couch and grasped his
hands between his knees. Nic perched beside him. She wondered if Ollie realized
his newfound freedom. Although she did feel sorry, gladness enveloped her. “If you are agreeable, we’ll wait about
six months,” Ollie stated, anxiety tingeing his words. “I hope you don’t mind,
but I want to marry you immediately.” “Yes, oh yes!” Nicola exclaimed, full of
excitement. Leaping up, she threw her arms around her lover’s neck and kissed
him. “You’ll have to meet my family, of
course.” Oliver’s anxiety increased. Unsure of his mother’s reaction, he
suddenly grasped Nic’s hands. “My mother…she…” “Don’t worry, darling,” Nic announced,
hugging him tighter. “I’ll take care of her.” Nicola did not have to 'take care’ of
Beatrice Talbot. Oliver's mother welcomed her with open arms. Inviting her
inside her Naples, Florida home, Bea kissed Nic on both cheeks. Then, the two
women hugged. Standing in the lanai doorway, Hank Talbot
watched. His blue bathing suit dripped onto the tiled floor. No one noticed
him. For a moment, shyness overcame him. Then, he rushed into his father's
arms. By the end of a week, Hank realized he
loved his father's fiancée. He still loved his mother. However, his acceptance
of Nicola occurred swiftly. Warm and inviting, she included him in all their
activities. Day after day, they visited theme parks and rode amusement rides.
Then, he discovered his father's preparations for a new marriage with Nicola
Prescott. “Are you going to be my new mother?” Hank
asked Nicola. His child’s hand stole into her palm. “Yes,” Nic answered, smiling warmly.
******
Oliver waited patiently for Nicola’s
answer. Her continued silence began to unnerve him. Realizing she teased him,
he kept his lips sealed. Finally, Ollie could not bear it any
longer. He played along, but he wanted to know. “So, c’mon, what did he ask?” he finally
urged. "He wanted to know if we really would
have five cats." Smiling, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot realized
his newfound happiness.
THE
END © 2023 Lea SherynFeatured Review
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StatsAuthorLea SherynSarasota, FLAboutI love to write! To have the ability to put words together to express myself is an ability that I cherish. Working for years to strengthen my talent, I am a self taught Word Weaver. Up until now, I.. more..Writing
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