Daniel Kalla: Pandemic

It’s a long and occasionally bumpy road from glimmer of idea to published novel, but I can’t imagine a more fun ride. Along the way, so many people have generously lent their time. ideas, and moral support that I haven’t the space to name everyone, but I do need to recognize a few in print.

I am fortunate to be blessed with several good friends-cum-readers, but I would like to single out the most dedicated and burdened of the bunch, including Dave Allard, Rob King, Duncan Miller, Geoff Lyster, Kirk Hollohan, Bin Lim, Jeremy Etherington, Jeff Jacobs, Alisa Weyman, Chiara Hnatiuk, Brooke Wade, and Alec and Theresa Walton. For the medical background, I relied heavily on the advice of an excellent microbiologist, Dr. Marc Romney. And I am so grateful to have found terrific mentors in Beverly and Bill Martin (of agentresearch.com) and Michael McKinley, whose generous advice proved invaluable. Of all the readers in my corner, though, the one who went farthest above and beyond the call was Kit Schindell. Her tireless reading and re-reading, insightful feedback, and gentle steering ensured that I got the story as right as I could. Thanks, Kit!

I would like to acknowledge Susan Crawford for bringing my manuscript to Tor, where thanks to people like Paul Stevens, David Moench, Seth Lerner, and especially Tom Doherty—a publisher whose hands-on approach exceeded all expectations—I was made to feel very much at home. A special thank you goes to my marvelous editor, Natalia Aponte, who has patiently guided this neophyte through the process of publication while helping to make the novel that much better.

Finally, I could not have done this without the unwavering support of my family. My wife Cheryl’s honest feedback and resolute belief in me kept me balanced and focused as I wrote. My brother Tony has been a key advocate for this book. My brother Tim and sisters-in-law, Becca and Tammy, along with the rest of my extended family and in-laws all provided much needed encouragement and support. And none of this would have been possible without the guidance and love of my parents, Judy and Frank.

The SUV rattled along the dusty road, twelve miles south of Jiayuguan’s city limits. There was little to see in the unvarying dirt hills rolling past. Besides, Kwok Lee was too agitated to take in the scenery. He cringed with each rock that pinged off the windshield, and he cursed every pothole that rocked his precious new vehicle. Where was all the money the State Council promised for infrastructure ? In their pockets, Lee thought miserably, never considering that as an inveterate black marketer he fueled the province’s systemic corruption. He consoled himself with the thought that in a few hours he would be able to replace this vehicle with ten more like it. Not that he needed a fleet of SUVs, just one for his girlfriend. Maybe that would quell some of her nagging, the way it had his wife’s.

Lee glanced in his rearview mirror at his two backseat passengers. Since loading into the car, neither had spoken. Two hours driving, and not so much as a word out of them in Mandarin or even their native tongue, which they had claimed was Mongol though Lee knew better. Dressed in cheap suits, the men had darker skin, rounder eyes, and broader noses than the local Chinese. They could have passed for brothers, except the one who answered the questions was half a head taller than his colleague. Lee considered the possibilities, concluding they must be Malays. He guessed they were reporters. Why else would they want to see the godforsaken place? But their identity was of no concern to Lee. What mattered were the wads of crisp American bills that he’d seen in the briefcase of the shorter one.

In the distance, a building burst through the dust cloud. A bleak concrete structure, fenced and gated, it could have been one of a million such in China. It wasn’t until Lee slowed for the approaching gate that he noticed a difference. If not for the semiautomatic rifles slung over their shoulders, the. soldiers manning the gate could have passed for surgeons. All three wore gowns, plastic caps, gloves, and surgical masks.

One of the soldiers leaned his head through the open driver’s window and eyed Lee’s passengers suspiciously.

“Missionaries,” Lee explained cheerfully. “They’ve come to pray for their brother.” He laughed and waved his documents in the soldier’s face. “Like prayers will help the poor bugger!”

The soldier grunted a humorless chuckle, and then grabbed the documents. A few moments later, Lee slid his filthy car into a parking spot in the gravel lot. Outside the building’s entrance, Lee and his passengers went through a similar security screen. And again one hundred meters down the corridor, but this time their papers were more thoroughly scrutinized by soldiers who wore lab hoods. At each checkpoint closer to the patients, Lee sensed a higher degree of disquiet among the guards. Inside the building, the tension in the air was palpable.

A guard led the three of them up the stairway to an office, where a small, balding, bespectacled official sat at a huge desk, which accentuated his diminutive size. He introduced himself only as Dr. Wu, but Lee knew he was the associate director of the regional hospital.

Wu studied Lee’s silent companions for a few moments. “You are aware of the risks?” he finally asked.

Both men nodded.

“And yet you still want to see the patient?”

More nods.

“To pray for him?” Wu said with a raised eyebrow.

“He is our brother, sir,” the taller man said in halting Chinese, leaving it unclear whether he meant the patient was a blood relative or a member of the same religious order. “We can’t offer our blessings unless we see him in person.”

“I see.” Wu nodded, but his frown questioned the man’s sanity. “By protocol, no one, not even family, is allowed to visit.”

Lee shifted in his chair. What is this nonsense? he thought. Was this tiny bureaucrat renegotiating his price at the eleventh hour? Lee reached into his case and pulled out the thick envelope. “Doctor, I think these papers explain everything.” He slid it across the desk allowing the envelope’s flap to flash a glimpse of greenbacks.

In one motion. Wu swept the envelope into an open drawer and pushed it shut. He rose from his desk without gaining much height. “You will have five minutes. No more. Do not touch anything. You will wear full protective gear. You will need to decontaminate—” Seeing the confusion on their faces, he rolled his eyes and said, “You must shower after the visit.”

The men nodded. Lee bowed his pudgy form toward the. associate director. “Thank you, Dr. Wu. You are most accommodating.”

Wu’s eyes narrowed in disdain. “Five minutes” he reminded them. “One of my men will stay with you. He will tell you when—”

The shorter of Lee’s customer, though much taller than Wu, spoke up for the first time. “No. Doctor. This is between our brother and God,” he said in near-perfect Mandarin. “We need a few minutes of privacy.”

Before Wu finished violently shaking his head, the man had his hand extended, offering another fat envelope from his briefcase.

Wu hesitated. For a moment it seemed as if he might refuse the offer, but he snatched the envelope and scrambled back to his desk. He dropped the envelope as if it were on fire in the same drawer he’d deposited the other. “Five minutes, not a second more,” he said.