He watched now in fascination as Troy Lee's hands clawed insanely at his own throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and resembled no eyes Dexter DeMille had ever seen.
Then, as with Kuru and mad cow, the rages started to subside and Troy Lee began to lose his balance, each time falling on his right side. During the next hour came the onset of tremors and dementia.
"The patient has gone into the severe ataxic stage," Dr. DeMille said into his tape recorder.
Twenty minutes later, Troy Lee was on his back, gurgling fluids out of his mouth as occasional grand-mal seizures ravaged his trembling body.
"It is four thirty-five," Dexter said softly into his tape recorder. "The subject now has badly impaired swallowing and has gone into status epilepticus."
At five-fifteen, Troy Lee Williams was pronounced dead. He was put into a bio-containment bag and removed to the hospital for autopsy.
The entire course of the disease, from infection to death, was less than six hours.
Despite over twenty mosquito bites, Sylvester Swift was unchanged. His good health proved that Dexter DeMille had done something that had never been achieved before… he had successfully targeted a bio-weapon to a specific genetic group by hitting Troy Lee and not affecting Sylvester at all.
Admiral Zoll called Dexter DeMille and congratulated him. "I'm very pleased," the sandpaper voice said. They both knew the weapon would devastate the enemy, first with the terrifying homicidal rages, then with the horrible death cycle.
"Thank you," Dexter replied.
Then the Admiral asked to speak to Dr. Lack. Dexter handed the phone reluctantly to his assistant, who asked softly, "What do we do with Sylvester Swift?"
"He has to be collateralized," Zoll replied.
Five minutes later a gunshot sounded in the empty corridor of the fifth tier of center block.
Dexter DeMille didn't hear it. He had already returned to his quarters.
He poured a strong drink of Scotch and sat on the edge of his bed. His hands shook, while his mind wandered. He had started studying Prions in New Guinea, trying to save lives, but after that there was almost no practical application. Nobody seemed to care about his discovery, except for Admiral Zoll. Somehow his once humanistic science had led him to Fort Detrick, and then to this gruesome new discovery.
"Dear God, what am I doing?" he finally whispered to himself. Then he got off his bunk, walked into his bathroom, and threw up.
Chapter 7
Hollywood Mike glowered. "My old man. What a prick!
Know what the worst day of that asshole's life was?"
"Whaaa?" Lucky slurred.
"The day Heidi Fleiss got busted."
Lucky took another pull on the half-empty bottle of Gallo Red Label.
It was seven A. M. Sunday morning. They were both drunk, sprawled against the wooden slats of an empty boxcar coupled in the middle of a manifest freight-a train with many different types of cars-that was making a slow climb up the face of the Black Hills of East Texas. The train creaked and groaned as the scenery drifted lazily past the open door, strobing fingers of pale sunlight into the boxcar and across both of them.
Somebody had recently done a job on Lucky. One of his front teeth had been knocked out; his lip was split and maybe needed stitches. He also had some open sun sores on his lips, caused by passing out in the park on a ninety-degree day. Most of the discoloration and swelling from the beating was hidden under his tangled blond beard. He was thirty-seven, but seemed ageless. Greasy, shoulder-length hair hung limp; his blue eyes were rimmed in red and remained unfocused as he rocked with the motion of the car.
Lucky didn't know who had beaten him up, because he'd been passed out in a hobo encampment, known as a jungle, when it happened. He woke up just in time to be knocked unconscious again. He'd lost five dollars that he'd earned in Waco, Texas, chopping wood, but more important, he'd lost his torn Nikes to the vicious unseen jungle buzzard who'd attacked him. Now his feet were wrapped and tied in black plastic garbage bags that he'd stolen from containers behind the Salvation Army mission, known as a "sally." The mission director had thrown both him and Hollywood Mike out after a two-day visit, two days being the limit you could stay in one of those preachy "ear-bangs."
They had gone to the switching yard in Waco and had "caught out" on this manifest train.
Hollywood Mike, at twenty-two, was fifteen years younger than Lucky, and he still had his shoes, but aside from these two advantages, there was little difference between them. He was just as scruffy, and almost as drunk. His curly hair was plastered on his head with just as much road muck. His one wardrobe statement, which was responsible for his nickname, he wore under torn coveralls. It was a movie premiere T-shirt that read:
ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER
IS
"Heidi Fleiss, man, Heidi fuckin' Fleiss," Lucky said, in mindless reflection. Then he straightened up and took another hit from the bottle, being careful to pour the wine down the right side of his throat to avoid the open cut and festering sun blisters.
"Gimme a hit off that," Mike demanded.
Lucky leaned to pass the bottle and the two of them, drunk as they were, almost fumbled the prize. Both lunged to catch it. Finally Mike wiped the neck with his dirty palm, a concession to proper oral hygiene, then took a deep swallow. "Yeah, everything in that prick's fucked-up life is only about him. I might as wella been dead."
"Selfish motherfucker," Lucky commiserated dully.
"I only stayed with the prick one summer, but that was enough. Know what his drug bill is in one day? Just one lousy day?"
"One fuckin' day?" Lucky repeated, his dull eyes locked on the bottle of Red Label.
"Thirty-two thousand dollars."
"Thirty-two…" Lucky stopped and looked up at his friend. "Huh?"
"I'm not sayin' like every day he spent that." Mike took another hit from the bottle. "I'm sayin' I found this one bill like in the pool house, or some fuckin' place. I can't remember now where it was. Bill from a Malibu pharmacy, March tenth, thirty-two large. This shallow cocksucker is stickin' it up his nose, or in his arm, and then he has the balls to piss on me about one little misdemeanor pot bust. Fuck him." Mike took another swallow.
"Fuck him!" Lucky repeated. "Gimme it back."
Mike reluctantly handed the almost empty bottle to Lucky, who was now so gone he was lolling against the side of the empty boxcar, swaying with the rhythm of the rails, his lidded eyes half open.
"Fuckin' guy has, whatta they call it…? Acute mania," Mike went on. "No shit. From all the drugs. Acute fuckin' mania. He takes Thorazine every four hours, and Valium and Vicodin and lithium and fuckin' Xanax and Desyrel and fuckin' who knows what else? He's on more shit than the Russian weight-lifting team… and this doofiis gets all bogged down over my one crummy pot bust. Dear ol' Dad. Man, if I never see that shallow fuck again, it'll be two months too soon."
The train was slowing for the summit now, and out the door they could hear footsteps running up the gravel embankment beside the track. Then four heads appeared alongside the train, running for all they were worth.
"Giddyap, motherfuckers!" Lucky yelled drunkenly.
One of them dove into the boxcar, followed by two more. They then turned and grabbed the last guy, who was hanging by the door handle, skipping along just above the gravel. They finally got him in. The new arrivals were just as scruffy as Lucky and Hollywood Mike, but they weren't anywhere near as drunk.