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  Hybrid

  Brian O’Grady

  The Fiction Studio

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Fiction Studio

  P.O. Box 4613

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2011 by Brian O’Grady

  Cover design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  ISBN-13: 978-1-936558-04-9

  Visit our website at www.fictionstudio.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Fiction Studio.

  First Story Plant Paperback Printing: March 2011

  Publication Date: March 15, 2011

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Margaret; here’s a little sex.

  Writing a novel obviously requires a great deal of time, and no matter how much I would want the world to simply stop and let me “finish this chapter,” it continues to spin on. The grass grows, the paint on the fence begins to peel, and children become young adults. Life is about balance; writing a novel is about indulging a burning desire that does not recognize balance. For all those who “picked up the slack” while I was locked in a room alone so no one would disturb my aura, I thank you for this great indulgence.

  To Shannon, Brian, and Erin – the time I spent writing Hybrid was yours.

  I would also like to apologize to all the people that I forced to read the various versions of my musings. I know some of you suffered in silence out of a sense of misguided loyalty, while others, Jerry, simply suffered.

  I would especially like to thank Doug Burns, Christy Bates, and Dalice Lewis: it was your professionalism, talent, and humanity that created the success that gave me the opportunity to write Hybrid.

  Of course I would like to thank my publisher, editor, critic, and guide: Lou Aronica. Despite the fact that you are a New York Yankees fan, an irredeemable character defect in most educated circles, I appreciate your patience, experience, and expertise, but mostly your foresight in creating a vehicle for others to succeed.

  To my wife Margaret: without you, nothing has meaning.

  From: [email protected]

  Sent: March 5, 2012, 2015 MST

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Viral outbreak

  Nathan A. Martin, M.D., Director of Special Pathogens, Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta, Georgia:

  Dr. Martin, perhaps you remember me, Amanda Flynn; although it occurs to me that you may have “detained” so many people in your career that my name may only be a distant memory. It has been almost seven years since you and your staff held me against my will at the Tellis Medical facility on the pretext of treating me for a viral exposure that occurred in the jungles of Honduras. I was imprisoned for three months before the army released me over your objections. I don’t want to cloud the issue with what I know and with what you will deny; let me simply say that neither one of us behaved in an entirely forthright or ethical manner.

  Despite the fact that even with the passage of time I can’t bring myself to trust you, events have forced me to take a calculated risk and contact you. I’m hoping that the health and welfare of the American public means more to you than pursuing me. Simply put, the virus that you tried to find in me, the one that killed hundreds in Honduras seven years ago, has reappeared in Colorado Springs.

  I realize that taken at face value this is a fantastic statement and that your first inclination maybe to ignore it, but as the only survivor of this virus, I am in a unique position to make it.

  A number of important and pertinent details were lost in the chaos that Honduras had become after Hurricane Michael. Perhaps you never knew that as a member of the American Red Cross I had a legitimate reason for being there. I was in charge of a team of specialists who were delivering supplies to a relief center in a coastal village about twenty kilometers south of Tela, Honduras. All communications with the town had been lost, and the only road in had been lost to the flooding. It was completely isolated from the outside world, and we had to be ferried in by helicopter. We were a group of fourteen: two Red Cross logistic supervisors, six nurses, two physicians, and four volunteers. A squad of soldiers had been assigned to protect us, but as it turned out, they weren’t needed. Everyone in the village was already dead. Some had died from a type of hemorrhagic fever, but most had died violently. We contacted the command center, but instead of evacuating us, they quarantined us. Ten days later, every soldier and every one in my group had died, except, of course, for me. When I was finally flown out, I tried to explain what had happened, not only to my group, but also to the Hondurans, but no one, including you, would listen. Your sole interest was the hemorrhagic fever. Of the thirty-one people who died in my group, only seven died as a direct result of infection, the rest died violently, and probably unnecessarily.

  As of last Thursday, there have been no cases of hemorrhagic fever reported in Colorado, and the only reasonable explanation is that no one is looking for it. The Colorado Health Department is reporting an unusually high number of deaths from a particularly virulent form of the flu, and I believe that many of those cases are, in fact, related to the Honduran Virus.

  There has also been an unprecedented spike in the rate of violent crime in Colorado Springs. In the past six weeks, there have been forty-two murders and suicides—that’s twenty-five times their average. This is not a simple statistical anomaly.

  If you check, you will find that the Colorado Health Department and Colorado Bureau of Investigation have already started investigations, and not surprisingly, neither one has found anything. You need to help them make the connection; you need to tell them what happened seven years ago!

  I can imagine how an unsolicited e-mail asking for an investigation into an obscure virus will be received, but as I see it, you are in my debt. I also want you to consider the source; no one else knows what really happened in Honduras. I’m not asking a lot. Do your job, and let the Colorado Health Department do theirs. I’m certain that the results will confirm what I’m telling you.

  I’ve reviewed your biography on the Internet, and despite what you’ve done to me, I believe you can be motivated into doing the right thing. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to deal with this in my own way.

  Amanda Flynn

  Response: [email protected]

  Sent: March 7, 2012, 0554 EST

  To: [email protected]

  Ms. Flynn, I’m not sure how you got my personal e-mail address, but it has long been suspected that you were more than what you appeared. As far as remembering you, rest assured there are many who remember you well, myself included. I not only knew of your situation, I authorized your treatment. We actually met briefly, shortly after you arrived at Tellis Labs. I’m sure you don’t remember, as you required heavy sedation at the time.

  I’m not in any way apologizing for what we did for you, and please note, I didn’t say “to” you. When you were flown out of the jungle, you were in severe shock from blood loss and exposure. Neither the U.S. government nor I had anything to do with your quarantine. When we learned of your plight, we evacuated you to the best facility in the world for such problems.

  As far as what you think you witnessed before we arrived, you must realize that your impressions were heavily influenced by the infection that very nearly killed you. There was no evidence that anyone died because of anything other than the EDH1 virus.

  As far as being indebted is concerned, I think I’ve shown that it
is you who are indebted to us. So, I will rely upon your honor and ask that you allow us to re-examine you so that we can find out how you survived this universally fatal infection. I am sure you know that a number of people have been trying to find you for seven years.

  Finally, I have contacted the Colorado Department of Health, and they have noted an unexplained rise in acts of violence. However, there is no evidence to suggest that an infectious agent is the cause. They assured me that they have specifically looked for one and have carefully reviewed all the autopsy results. I trust what they told me, and I don’t do that lightly. If it makes you feel any better, I will admit to having a deep institutional bias and a basic distrust of everyone outside of my little world, but in this situation, the CDH did their job. I’m sure there is an explanation for this worrisome cluster of violent crime, but it’s not EDH1.

  I have hesitated contacting the FBI. By all rights I should, since they want to see you very badly. From my perspective, at best, you are key to answering some critical medical questions, and at worst, you could pose an overwhelming public health risk. Seven years ago we were unable to find any evidence of the EDH1 virus in your blood, yet you had all the clinical features. This makes you quite unique. We have made many technical advances in the last seven years, and there’s a very real probability that we can determine why you alone survived. I think you owe it to the thirty-one people who didn’t.

  N. Martin

  Response: [email protected]

  Sent: March 7, 2012, 0403 MST

  To: [email protected]

  I appreciate that you contacted the local health authorities, but it’s frankly not enough. They are not equipped to evaluate this threat. You are. Trust your institutional bias.

  You were wrong about what happened down in Honduras. I was not sick when the marines arrived. They made that assumption, an honest mistake, but one that was propagated down the line until it became viewed as fact. My memories were not affected in any way. If your records show that all the deaths occurred due to EDH1, then they are either incorrect or have been altered, for whatever reason. I am not some conspiracy nut. Things were incredibly chaotic, and for now, I choose to believe that the soldiers saw what they were told to expect. Certainly, they recovered the remains of my team, didn’t they? They did take their bodies home?

  Amanda Flynn

  Response: [email protected]

  Sent: March 7, 2012, 0612 EST

  To: [email protected]

  Apparently, I’ve caught you awake. I’m not in the habit of exchanging e-mails back and forth like some adolescent, but for you I’ll make an exception.

  Without something concrete, I’ve done all I can. I do not have the authority or inclination to demand that the Colorado Department of Health do any more. You have given me nothing but unsupported recollections and statistical anomalies. I can’t commit resources based on that.

  Just so you know—the bodies of your Red Cross team were destroyed on site. We did not have the ability to bring them home. For that I am sorry.

  I’ve read your file many times and know that you’ve experienced more than your share of tragedy, but I have a responsibility to the health and welfare of the citizens of this country. If you are right, and EDH1 has found its way into the population, we need to see you now more than ever, not only to identify your unique resistance, but because YOU are the only natural reservoir for this virus. If there’s an outbreak, it is because you have chosen to remain at large. I regret that I have to take such a hard line, but if I can’t persuade you to come in voluntarily, I will contact the FBI before the end of today.

  N. Martin

  Response: [email protected]

  Sent: March 7, 2012, 0419 MST

  To: [email protected]

  Call them.

  Amanda Flynn

  Phil watched the tiny bead of sweat slowly track down Dana’s cleavage as she leaned in to refill his coffee cup. He knew he should be repulsed; sweat was a bodily secretion composed of oils, sloughed skin, and bacteria, but he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like on the tip of his tongue. For an instant, he could actually feel the heat of her breasts on his cheeks, the tiny blonde hairs tickling his skin, and the taste of salt. Then it was gone. He filled his mind with white noise to banish the invading hallucination and its attendant disgust. He was getting so bad that even eating lunch posed a risk.

  Dana had paused, coffee pot suspended between them, as Phil went rigid, his knuckles whitening on the fork and his face turning a dark shade of red. Control re-established, he felt her hesitation and consciously relaxed his grip, mechanically returning the fork to the counter. He glanced up slightly and found her studying him. She gave him a playful, disapproving smile; Phil wasn’t the first man she’d caught looking down her blouse. Then she whisked away, her smile broadening with the realization that Phil was human after all.

  He waited until she was a safe distance away and then quietly, slowly, exhaled. His heart hammered in his ears and he had trouble breathing. His vision began to narrow, and he broke out into a cold sweat. He had violated the rules of their relationship, and she had caught him. He tried to clear his mind, but it was filled with shame. It was a familiar feeling, and one of the few he could fully appreciate.

  He wanted to flee, to jump from his stool and run to some dark place where he could be alone in his madness, but that would only make matters worse. He still had enough control to know that he had to finish his Tuesday Lunch Special. It really wasn’t anything special; in fact, it was just north of edible, but it had to be done. The Routine had to be maintained; any deviation was an invitation to Chaos. His mistake with Dana may have already taken him to the edge, and he could ill afford another.

  It took him two minutes and thirty seconds to finish; a little fast, and he would probably pay for it later, but he was now free to leave. He carefully reached for his wallet, moving slowly so as not to disturb either of the men sitting next to him. The physical contact, while disagreeable, would be relatively harmless as he still wore his coat, but the obligatory conversation that followed would be another impediment to his return to Sonny’s Café. He extracted a new ten-dollar bill, placed it face up immediately in front of his now clean plate, and waited for Dana to retrieve it. Phil stared straight ahead, focusing on his distorted reflection in the stainless steel panel that lined the kitchen. He identified with the warped image of himself and in some strange way was comforted by it. Parts of him were stretched to absurd proportions, while others were pinched together, but it still managed to remain a discrete entity—at least for now.

  A minute passed, and Dana hadn’t collected the money. The man to Phil’s right slid off his stool, tossed a number of crumpled bills onto his dirty plate, and left without a thought. Phil didn’t move. He sat frozen to his stool, looking neither left nor right, taking up a minimum amount of space, waiting for Dana to dismiss him just as she had done nearly every workday for the last four years. Only today, she had missed her cue. He could hear her down the counter fending off the clumsy advances of some construction worker. He listened for her approach, not daring to glance lest she misinterpret his need to leave for something else. A minute passed, and he felt it go. The clock in front of him began to accelerate. Phil glanced down at the bill and confirmed it was where it should be. Two more minutes passed, and now he couldn’t even hear her. She must be mad, he reasoned. Three minutes passed, and the world began to collapse in on him. Heat began to build in his chest, and he started to count. He was at forty-eight when Dana blew by, snatched the bill despite an armload of dishes, and disappeared into the kitchen. Phil climbed off his stool and left as fast as the busy restaurant would allow. No change would be coming. He refused to have money in his wallet that had passed through countless hands.

  Phil popped out of Sonny’s door in such a rush that a couple of thirty-somethings had to jump out of the way. He ignored their sarcastic “excuse me” and hurried into the dwindling snowstorm. Fortunately, the sidewa
lks were nearly deserted: the majority of the workforce heeding the National Weather Service’s warning of a late winter snowstorm. Up to eighteen inches were expected, but only a paltry three inches had fallen before the fast-moving storm had pushed off to the east. Still feeling the aftereffects of his encounter with Dana, Phil lengthened his stride. He glanced at his watch: 12:52— eight minutes to make it to the office. The possibility of being late suddenly flashed through his mind, and his heart raced even faster.

  You don’t need to be ruled by fear, said a small voice in his head. It really doesn’t matter if you’re late. Nothing is going to happen, so just relax and enjoy the world around you. The small voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed to magically resonant in his mind, weakening his will, and in an unexpected moment of independence, especially considering what had just happened, Phil obeyed. He shortened his steps, and for a long, wonderful second he was the master of his own mind. A thrill rushed through him as he intentionally ignored the growing panic that screamed at him to hurry. He drew a long luxuriant breath, and almost, almost felt relaxed.

  “Pardon me,” a voice said gruffly as he was bumped first by one and then by another person as the human traffic began to stream past him. A wave of fear drowned out the small voice. The moment of normality forgotten, he looked at his watch again: 12:54. Six minutes to do four blocks. He could just make it with a brisk walk; he wouldn’t have to start running, yet. He lengthened his stride, brushing people as he passed them. It can’t be helped, he thought. Besides, he hadn’t actually made physical contact with anyone. Three blocks: 12:55:25. If he kept this pace, he’d make it. He allowed himself to anticipate the relief he’d feel after making it to the office safe and on time. No pounding in his chest, no roaring in his ears, his mind free to focus on something less trivial than getting back from lunch on time.