Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

“I know who and what you are,” Reisch said in a slightly threatening tone. He wanted to regain the upper hand. Amanda simply stared back at him with a questioning look. He repeated himself, only louder, and she still didn’t understand. She mouthed some words at him, and now it was Reisch who didn’t understand. Out of nowhere, a wave of hostility struck him, the heat of animosity prickling his skin. He looked back at Amanda, but her questioning expression hadn’t changed.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, but her only answer was an even stronger wave. His face actually felt singed. This was getting out of hand. He took a step toward her, but she didn’t back away. She looked more than frustrated and started to speak again, but all he could hear was a screeching sound. The screeching only got worse as a third wave of hate hit him. He stumbled backward from the intensity of it. Somehow, she could cause him pain, a great deal of pain. A blinding rage overwhelmed him, and he lunged for her.

That was the last thing he remembered before waking up in his hotel room, blind, unable to move his right arm, and screaming. He was certain that somehow his arm had been torn off and that his upper body had been set on fire. He rolled to his left and continued rolling until he found himself on the floor entangled in the sheets, his maimed arm beneath him. He tried to move, but it only made the agony worse. He was going to die on the floor of a cheap hotel room, wrapped tight in bed linen, screaming in pain, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the blackness starting to envelop him. He struggled with all his remaining strength, but the pain and the darkness overwhelmed him.

There was no doubt in Nathan Martin’s mind: EDH1 had mutated into a new virus, and now it was working its way through the population of Colorado. They would do more testing, get fresh specimens, and do their own cultures, but he knew in his heart that none of it would disprove what he already knew. It had taken the FBI less than an hour to determine that Amanda Flynn’s e-mails originated from an Internet café in Boulder, Colorado. There wasn’t much mystery in figuring out from where this new strain had come. Agents were looking for her all over Boulder and Denver; with a snowstorm stopping all travel, they had a reasonable shot of finding her. They had to find her; he didn’t even want to imagine the consequences if she remained at large.

“You’re late,” said his secretary, suddenly popping her head into his office and then just as suddenly disappearing. He had assembled most of his staff and all the department heads of his section for a meeting. It was the second one of the day; the first had been with his boss and the secretary of health by videophone. Both had listened to his hastily prepared presentation politely, but neither was overly impressed with his dire conclusions. He was told that if he wanted to mobilize his section, that was his prerogative, but until he had something more substantial, they were hesitant to provide more resources. Their response was eerily similar to the one he had given Amanda just a few hours earlier, and the irony did nothing to improve his mood.

“I know,” he said gruffly, in no mood to spar with his secretary. He spent several more minutes finishing his organizational plan, then stood and gathered his notes. No one was going to be happy with this, but that didn’t matter. All the pet projects, all the special interests were about to be put on hold until he said otherwise. This new virus was most definitely a special pathogen, and it was his responsibility to deal with it. The secretary had made that abundantly clear; he was to do whatever it took to investigate and eliminate the threat from this new virus, and he was going to do it without outside help. It had been an excellent political maneuver. Martin would receive all the blame for not preventing the disaster after being given a ”free hand,” and the secretary all the credit for having mobilized the Special Pathogen Section personally.

“Politicians,” he scoffed. He shut down his computer and grabbed his coat, hoping that after the meeting he would get a chance to get home before dark. Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was already after six. He glanced out his window and watched as the final rays of the setting sun disappeared into the dusk. “So much for that hope,” he said as he left his office.

“Dr. Martin, these men are here to see you, and they are very persistent,” his secretary said while scowling at two tall and very determined-looking marines. Martin took the whole scene in at a glance and was reminded of a high-school principal being called upon to discipline two football players.

“At ease, gentlemen, and come back tomorrow, I don’t have time for the boy scouts.” Martin turned back to his secretary, who continued to glower at the soldiers. “Martha, I’m going home after the staff meeting. I sent all department heads an e-mail outlining their new responsibilities. I would like you to call each of their secretaries in the morning and get them to—”

“Excuse me, sir, but we need to speak with you. Now,” the nearest marine said, his last word spoken as an order. He turned to Martha and added, “Alone.”

Martha jumped to her feet, rising to her full five feet two inches. “Listen to me, corporal—”

“I am a captain, ma’am,” he responded with restraint. Martin couldn’t help but smile broadly. He knew what was about to happen.

“Well, I am a colonel in the Army Reserve, and if one of my officers addressed a civilian like that, they would be a corporal, but only after I made them a eunuch. Do you understand me, jarhead?” Her face had become scarlet, and Martin could easily imagine her on the parade grounds, scaring the hell out of new recruits.

“Yes, ma’am, I understand what you’re saying, but our orders come directly from Lieutenant-General McDaniels. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I must insist that we speak with Dr. Martin alone. If you would like to hear it from him directly, I can get him on the phone.” The captain was more than a foot taller than Martha was, and he stared down that long distance, not giving an inch.

“Here, use mine.” She stepped away from the desk, pushing the phone towards him.

“Martha, I don’t have time for this,” Martin said. “Go home. I can handle it.” She glared back at him.

“Go, now.”

Very reluctantly, she gathered her purse and coat and stomped out of the office.

“Dr. Martin, I am Colonel Scott Simpson.” The second marine spoke for the first time. “Captain Winston and I have been ordered by Lieutenant-General McDaniels to invite you to accompany us to a meeting called by him.”

“And by invite, do you mean I have a choice?”

“No, sir. Our orders are quite clear that with or without your permission, you will come with us. I am hoping you make this easy on all of us.” Colonel Simpson was polite, but his tone made it clear that he would do whatever he had to.

“Let’s just say for argument’s sake that I don’t wish to accompany you. What do your orders tell you then?” Martin was half a foot shorter than the colonel and probably a hundred pounds lighter. A vision of being thrown over the marine’s shoulder and carried out kicking and screaming popped into his head.

“In that case, we were to give you this,” Simpson said. He extracted an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Martin.

“What’s this?” He opened the envelope and scanned the heading. “Impressive. The Office of President of the United States, and down at the bottom is his actual signature.”

“Perhaps you should read what’s in between, sir,” Simpson suggested.