QUARANTINE
BY
JOHN BRINLING
QUARANTINE
by
John Brinling
Published by John Brinling at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by John Brinling
Discover other titles by John Brinling at www.smashwords.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Quarantine is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance of the characters in this story to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this story may be reproduced, copied or posted anywhere on the Internet without the written permission of the author.
Chapter 1 of SHARED EMPTINESS, a family tragedy, is presented at the end of this novel. It had a working title of ALONE. It is a poignant look into the harrowing despair and resilience of a middle-class family tormented beyond endurance by a mindless act of violence.
Chris Carter, at 24, a medical student, had it all. Good looks, intelligence, a winning personality, a loving family. His girlfriend, Louise, is his dream girl, and he has everything ahead of him, everything to live for….
Until he is mugged after walking Louise home after his sister’s birthday part--and his world and the world of all those who knew him is changed forever.
His brain damage is significant, and it is touch-and-go whether he will ever again be the person he was, ever again be able to leave the hospital bed and walk outside in the summer sun.
His family and friends—simple, good folk— struggle to come to grips with their changed reality, and are forced into decisions that no one should ever have to make.
REVIEWS FOR SHARED EMPTINESS
Review by: Lisa Briggs on June 16, 2011
“Shared Emptiness,” by John Brinling shook my heart and my guts. I’ve never read a book quite like this and it is not one I’ll ever forget. From the beginning I found myself passionately engaged in the Carter family - Vince, Frannie, Jeannie and Chris. These were people I could have easily known. They seem familiar and I immediately felt comfortable with all of them. They could be my neighbors or acquaintances but one thing is for sure, they were easy to connect to because Brinling gives the reader some of their most intimate and private thoughts. He’s gifted at this. I love how the author puts me in close contact with each character’s darkest thoughts, worries, concerns and fears. Their vulnerability unravels me into a pool of compassion, understanding and gladness and then at the same time, because of some of the most unexpected, shocking things that happen in the book, I find myself horrified and have a pit in my stomach. But I love it! I can’t stop reading, I must find out what is going to happen to these people. Brinling threaded ongoing suspense throughout the book from the moment I was privileged to get inside the brain of one of my favorite characters, Chris, 24, who was in a coma. The story forces me to face and ponder some of the most mind-boggling, traumatic and cynical things that could happen to a family. I don’t dare tell you how things turn out but you’ll be fraught and tense with wanting to know. I’m not a nail-biter but I very well could have become one. Oh, and be prepared to be on edge of your seat as the story slides you into subjects you might normally want to avoid: faith, violence, rape medical malpractice, gambling, sexuality, euthanasia, marital issues, suicide, depression, lies, scandal and coverup.
Review by: M Foland on June 16, 2011
Loved the book, it kept me reading wanting to see what happens next. It has such a surprising ending. It is a must read. There is something in for everyone. Characters that everyone can relate to. Good Job.
Review by: gloria marotta on June 10, 2011
This was my first read by John Brinling. Can't say enough about it! The characters are captivating, in that we can all relate to them in certain aspects of our own lives. John even throws in an unexpected twist at the end. This is a MUST read that will leave an impression on you long after you put it down! Thanks, John! Looking forward to reading your other works!
Review by: sandigrn on June 07, 2011
Wow, this story is so relevant in 2011 as it would have been in the 1970's.
Have you ever doubted when to act on your gut feelings or leave it up to God on matter of merciful death & assisted suicide? If you have had those moments, this is a story for you. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, it doesn't matter, the eternal question is always there in our hearts.
DO you wonder how the other person can "be" so happy and you aren't? The characters in this book will take you into their own personal thoughts and lives showing you the turmoil of the average "joe".
Then when you think the end is clear one more element is added that will grab you and make you rethink.
Excellent book, this was a first time read for this author and I will look at reading more of his books!
Review by: Alice W on June 06, 2011
A story of a family whose life seems pretty normal until tragedy strikes the one member of the family who has seemed to always keep them all together
The struggle the family goes through with their own guilt, the church, their every day living, which has changed so dramatically overnight.
Every one has their own way of handling it, or at least they think they do, until things seems to get worse instead of better. That's when things seem to start crumbling piece by piece.
One by one, you get to know each member and
friend involved and learn their secrets, their problems, their
thoughts.
The priests do not agree and the church becomes very
involved, not necessarily in a good way.
The author has done a fabulous job creating his characters and brings their personalites together and yet apart.
He shows us how each one of them has crutches and how they use them to try to 'deal with the situation'
He gives you an ending you will not expect, coming out of left field as the story closes but yet seems so right and fitting so when you close the book, you can put your hand on it and say "This book was great".
It was my first book by John Brinling, but it will not be my last.
Review by: Nelda Smith on June 04, 2011
Excellent book, well-written. Follows a family through hardship to a surprise ending.
Review by: dag64 on May 30, 2011
As the other reviewers have said SHARED EMPTINESS is a very complex story, it covers alot of controversial subject matters that arise for this family and also for their extended family. We get to see that as with any family, there is alot more going on behind closed doors than meets the eye. Along with how this family is dealing with the trauma of what has happened to their son, you also see a perfect example of the butterfly/ripple effect, where one action sets off a chain reaction of events. There is also a twist that I didn't see coming. This story will stay with you long after you have read the last page, and it may make you look at things a little differently than you did prior to reading it.
Review by: Nancy Eriksen on May 30, 2011
In a world of long lived Catholicism the choices are never easy. When the oldest son, the “Golden Boy” is terribly injured no one knows where to turn except the Church. The Church, as often happens; falls short. By a mile or two.
In Shared Emptiness, author John Brinling shows us both sides of the coin. The daughter, outshone on every level by her older brother, who clings to Mass as a life jacket. Mom who has grown up in the Church and feels herself damned for thinking of killing her only son. Dad who isn’t as strict on going to Mass (even if right across the street) but loves to play the horses and loves his family even if he does a piss-poor job of showing it. Then the aunts and uncles and cousins weigh in and they are as torn as the Carters. They have their own issues of pregnancies, dead children, unloved spouses and are getting no answers there, either.
Chris Carter somehow kept this whole group
connected. He wasn’t a staunch Catholic, either’ but his grins
and personality tied them all up in a nice, neat bow and delivered
them to each other. When Chris is hurt and ultimately survives in a
vegetative state; everyone at one time or another thinks of pulling
his plug. Can one of them actually do it and face retribution from
God? Can his agnostic fiancé get up the nerve to free herself from a
lifetime of servitude?
This book brings to light many levels of
compulsion from the Church, each other and our parents. Brinling has
written a special novel and I do encourage all of you to read it.
It’s a large story, but it needs to be to explain our needs and
wants through the Carter family and its satellite characters.
Novels and Short Stories by John Brinling
The Ghost Of A Flea
Quarantine
The Watcher
Shared Emptiness
Death In The Arena
War Of Choice
The Hitler Project
Nation At Risk (Winter, 2011)
His First Kill: A Short Story
Coffin Humor: A Short Story
A Memorable Weekend: A Short Story
A Whale Of A Myth: A Short Story
Occam’s Razor: A Short Story
The Robbery: A Short Story
Free To Die: A Short Story
Sinkhole: A Short Story
See Author’s Website: http://johnbrinling.wordpress.com
QUARANTINE
By
John Brinling
PROLOGUE
The constellation Perseus, a rough K-shaped figure, lies close to Cassiopeia. The downward side of its K points to the Pleides. The upper arm ends in Algol, an eclipsing double star that waxes and wanes at intervals of three Earth days. The Demon Star.
One day not long ago, two silvery objects left a small planet named Regulus in the Demon Star System and headed for the third planet in the solar system surrounding the star named by the inhabitants: the Sun.
It was a mission too long delayed. A mission that might well determine the fate of millions of Regulians, since the advance party hadn’t been heard from in five Earth years.
Aboard The Ine Vessel Regulus II En Route to Earth
The blue and green and white lights in the control room flashed at random intervals. The eerie whine of the engine droned constantly, part of the other background noise. Out the starboard portal was Earth, ringed by dark, photochemical clouds.
"The Mbili vessel will arrive shortly," Rak said, crawling over the control panel laid in the floor. "I want to know the results of the test before then."
His lone companion, Arak, his son, stared at the cloud covered sphere through a starboard porthole, nodding slowly, his excitement intensifying. "We will enter Earth's atmosphere momentarily. Sixty Earth minutes later we will know."
"Why do you think we haven't heard from Earth in five years?" Rak asked.
Arak shook his head. "Transmitter trouble," he suggested unconvincingly.
"Perhaps something more serious...something we did not anticipate. Either way, it isn't good that the two Moja observers haven't reported back in so long. It raises too many questions...causes too much suspicion."
The two Ine silently checked the controls. It had been a long voyage from Regulus, a Planet in the Algolian Star System, and they were tired, apprehensive.
"What if the Mbili have triumphed?" Rak asked.
"Impossible!" Arak snapped irritably.
"You constantly underestimate them," Rak said. "Or do you think your intervention will have made the difference?"
"A definite difference," Arak said cockily.
"The Mbili are very resourceful. They will have found a way around the problem."
"Their solution won't be enough."
"If the Moja arbitrators find out about your treachery, the test will be declared invalid! They will insist upon another. Ten Earth years will have been lost."
"They will not find out," Arak insisted vigorously. "They will blame the Lassa fever."
"I hope so," his father sighed. "For your sake, as well as mine, I hope so. It would be a direct violation of the agreement between the Mbili and Ine elders. Discovery would mean disgrace...death!"
The lights dimmed, as power was funneled to the shields. The Ine vessel had pierced the Earth's atmosphere and the computers were controlling the descent to Uhuru in East Africa.
"Think the worst, Arak," the senior Ine suggested. "Think--despite the edge you have given our people--they have failed. What can we do? Our world will be enslaved."
"I cannot think the unthinkable. The Ine mutants will not fail us--even if I must intervene again!"
Rak showed surprise and consternation. "I won't support more treachery," he warned grimly.
"Do you think the Mbili would do less?"
"We are not Mbili!" Rak said solemnly. "That is what the war is about."
Arak shrugged. "We will know in fifty-eight Earth minutes what the truth is...what must be done." He stared at the complex of lights and gauges. "How far away is the Mbili vessel?" he asked thoughtfully. "Regulus I?"
"Five Earth days," his father answered. "Not enough time to alter the results of the test."
"That depends on many factors."
Rak shook his head slowly. "If you weren't my son, Arak, I'd have you dumped into space with the next garbage load. You would gamble our people's future on the roll of a die. I prefer war to Mbili-styled peace!"
"Ssshhh!" Arak cautioned, suddenly alarmed. "Hominid is coming. If he hears us--"
Hominid, also known as Moja I, was the Mbili arbitrator aboard Regulus II. He crept slowly through the starboard door, and stopped a few feet from the two Ine. "Did I hear you speak of war, Rak?" he asked, scowling.
"Only in the context that peace is preferable to war."
"Any peace?"
Rak hesitated. "Any peace," he said finally.
"How about you, Arak? Do you want war or peace?"
"Peace, my dear Moja," he said with proper deference to one of the two Moja arbitrators who would decide the future of Regulus. "Any peace!"
CHAPTER 1
Aboard Uhuruan Airways Flight 100 To Uhuru, East Africa. January.
The dream gas wore off and I awoke ravenously hungry.
Hunger was a well publicized side effect of the gas, but not one I generally experienced. The sexual component of the dream sleep was also more intense than usual: I had an orgasm. I concluded that Uhuruan Airways, since their flights were invariably longer due to the slower aircraft, used a slightly more potent mixture than the other international airlines and wondered why none of the Information Bureau's introductory material had mentioned it. It seemed a curious oversight, since the Uhuruans took great pains to see that everything, even the most trivial detail, was thoroughly explained before they accepted anyone for emigration to Uhuru.
Most of the window shades were drawn and locked in place, but bright sunlight streamed in through the few that were up. They had been torn free, apparently by irate passengers unwilling to fly blind. Why the Uhuruans bothered to fasten them down puzzled me. What didn't they want us to see? And why, if it was so important, didn't they repair them afterwards? I had no answers, but I was glad to have peepholes to see out, to perhaps glimpse my new world before we landed.
The cockpit door stood ajar, as it had when we took off, and inside was the green glow of the control lights. No one was inside. I shook my head, still refusing to believe that no one was piloting the aircraft.
Directly across the aisle from me was Mrs. Johnson--an English woman--and her two young children, a boy and a girl, all fast asleep, presumably enjoying their last few minutes of dream sleep. I felt a strange kinship for these three strangers embarking on the same odyssey as myself and was glad they were there.
I looked around the cabin at the mass of empty seats, reminded that there weren't any other passengers. Uhuruan Airways couldn't be making any money on this flight, not with four paying passengers--even with prices what they were! Luckily, RACE--Royal Accounting Enterprises--was paying my fare; I couldn't have afforded it on my own--not even the one-way ticket!
On the seat back in front of me and scattered throughout the cabin were instructions to all the emigrants. They were printed in ten languages: English, French, Italian, German, Spanish, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic and Swahili. For a time I tried to draw a parallel between the Chinese and the English, but they were so dissimilar I finally abandoned the effort. A comparison of the Swahili and the English proved more fruitful, undoubtedly the result of my crash course in the East African language during the past month. I could read the Swahili without recourse to the English at all, and concentrated on that version alone.
All emigrants to Uhuru should take note of the following rules, regulations and procedures:
1. Your period of quarantine began the moment you boarded this aircraft and from that moment you were assumed to be on Uhuruan soil. You are therefore now Uhuruan citizens and subject to all the laws of Uhuru.
2. Until you have completed your stay in quarantine and have been completely immunized and cleansed, you are a danger to both your self and the inhabitants of Uhuru. No physical contact with any person in Uhuru will be permitted until then.
3. This aircraft is remotely controlled. There are no Uhuruans aboard, no one to cater to your needs. In the event of a medical emergency, you will have to make do for yourselves until the aircraft lands. Full medical services will be available at the point of disembarkation. We apologize for any inconvenience, and hope you will appreciate the need for these rather unusual measures.
4. A dream gas will be administered shortly after takeoff. It will keep you asleep until we have landed in Uhuru and you have been transferred to your quarantine cells. Some of you may find this procedure psychologically distressing, but it is our experience that it is the best and only way to affect your entry into Uhuru. No deviation will be tolerated!
5. If you awake prematurely from the dream sleep, you must alert the Uhuruan personnel assigned to monitor your flight by pressing the Alert button above your head. Failure to do so may have serious consequences.
I glanced at my watch: two-thirty in the afternoon. Just over eight hours since we left London's Heathrow Airport. At Mach 1 that was sixty-two hundred miles--but we weren't flying at Mach 1. Uhuruan Airways couldn't afford the newer jets and was forced to settle for hand-me-downs, rejects from Saudi Arabia and Israel and China. Like this Lockheed L-1011-500 Tristar. Thirty-five years ago it was something. Three 48,000 pound Rolls-Royce RB.211-524 Turbofans; a cruising speed of 550 miles per hour; a range, with maximum fuel and a 42,000 pound payload, of over five thousand miles. But today it was a second class airplane, unique only by virtue of the modifications Uhuru's peculiar situation had forced upon it. The plane had been re-engineered for greater fuel efficiency. Where it once carried up to 300 passengers, that figure had been reduced to 50, the extra space being utilized for additional fuel, so that the Tristar could now fly over 10,000 miles without landing or refueling. The original specs called for a cockpit crew of three, plus eight cabin members, now the craft was operated totally by remote control. Heathrow took it from London, across France and Italy, out over the Mediterranean to North Africa. Uhuru picked it up there and brought it across what used to be Libya, Egypt and the Sudan to East Africa and Uhuru.
Its age and limitations aside, the Tristar was a remarkable aircraft. Totally reliable. And it had done its job well. In no time at all it would set me down near Mombasa and I would be transported to my quarantine cell!
It always struck me as ironic that my first months in Uhuru--which means freedom in Swahili--would be spent in captivity. Six long months of it. A staggering amount of time considering that only four weeks ago I was securely ensconced in a Madison Avenue accounting office, living a nine-to-five existence that didn't tax me intellectually nor, in my considered opinion, support me adequately, quite unconcerned and uninformed about the mysterious nether world of Uhuru, completely oblivious to the great adventure that lay ahead. How totally alien that situation at RACE seemed now! New York, with its thirty-five million people, its polluted atmosphere, its shrinking coastline, was the dream world, not Uhuru, and I had that queer feeling of detachment that comes to anyone suddenly jerked out of his life's rut and thrust upon a new and unfamiliar course....
I was an only child and lived in Yonkers in a two story, white brick house not far from Van Cortland Park. My father, a C.P.A. for Peat, Marwick and Mitchell, always had people coming to him to help prepare their taxes. "Sure," he would say with a broad smile. "Let me get my glasses and a pencil and we'll see what we can beat those bastards out of." I don't think I ever heard him say no to anyone.
My mother, a wispy woman with short brown hair and a pretty face, was not quite as charitable and I still recall her constant admonishment to my father: "Why do you do that. Your time is valuable. You should get paid for it."
Both of them were killed in a hit-and-run car accident when I was ten and my aunt Jane took me in. She and my uncle Joe tried their best to give me a good home but, with both of them forced to work just to pay the rent on a rat-infested, dilapidated Brooklyn tenement, eating, sleeping and a little hurried sex Sunday mornings before mass was about all they had time for. I was their latchkey kid and television my disinterested sitter.
Never a committed student, I once must have seemed terribly ungrateful, trouble prone, chronically afflicted with wanderlust. I joined the Navy immediately out of high school. The college degree requirement to get into flight school had been waved in the rush to arm and I became one of the new breed of carrier pilots. Unhappily, for me, I was stationed in San Diego, saw no combat, and got to travel very little. Some of the guys who enlisted with me fought in the Columbian drug war; some went to Panama and Cuba; others helped the Taiwanese in their war against China. I hated every last one of the sons-of-bitches!
Following my discharge, I spent a year in Greece, island-hopping the Aegean, working in a taverna during the day for my supper, immersing myself in the classics at night. Let me not die ingloriously and without struggle, Hector said before Achilles killed him, but let me first do some great things that shall be told among men thereafter. And that's just the way I felt back in those carefree days.
Following my Greek period, I spent several years crewing transatlantic sailing races, bullfighting in Portugal, serving in the Peace Corp in Guatemala, and digging with an archeological team in the Brazilian rain forest, where I was stricken with malaria and confined to my bed for three agonizing months.
The darkest shadow on my life occurred shortly after my recovery. A jeep accident, in which I caused a young boy, a fellow worker, to be permanently crippled. He lost both his legs and his right arm because, half-drunk, I missed a turn in the road, drove over an embankment, and flipped the jeep on its back. As luck would have it, I was thrown clear, unharmed, but my companion was pinned helplessly under the vehicle, the four wheels spinning wildly in the hot, dusty air as he cried out his anguish to me. "Do something, Paul! Do something! It hurts! It hurts awful!" But there wasn't much I could do except run for help. And it was far. Over seven miles. It took me nearly three hours to get back to him. By then he was in a coma, curled up in a ball under the jeep. But he had scrawled me a message in the sand: "Why did you drink so much, Paul?"
That sobering episode changed my life. I returned to the states and City University where I got my accounting degree in less than three years, forsaking the summer interludes, so eager was I to complete my schooling and establish myself in some worthwhile organization. RACE interviewed me before graduation, and made me what, at the time, seemed an offer not to be refused.
RACE, deeply involved in the Third World, was growing fat and rich on global warming and the thinning ozone layer. Countless people, exposed to dangerous levels of ultraviolet radiation, had died of cancer. Millions more became vulnerable to exotic, new diseases spawned by the disruption of the environment. Decades of drought scorched the earth and turned once fertile agricultural lands into parched desert. New desert claimed large areas of central Europe, the American Midwest, and central Africa. Entire nations experienced massive depopulation and starvation in the wake of prolonged droughts. Forest fires raged out of control in the U.S., South America and Southeast Asia for months on ends, blackening the skies over half the world. The water level rose an average of three feet around the globe in the past twenty years, and low lying coastal areas were being lost at a frightening rate. Torrential rains and rising flood waters killed millions, sending the survivors to higher ground where they remained in makeshift refuge camps. Hordes of people had been forced to trek north to higher latitudes. Canada was overrun with the northward migration; its population had increased four fold in twenty years. Bangladesh had ceased to exist. Parts of the Netherlands reclaimed from the sea early in the twentieth century were once again under water. Islands all over the world were sinking beneath the waves. The Maldives, the Seychelles, many Caribbean and Polynesian islands. Humankind had altered the climate of the planet and there was a terrible human price to pay--and lots of money to be made.
The World Bank and other relief organizations funneled large sums into the worst hit areas for food and shelter, rebuilding infrastructure, and trade expansion. RACE somehow got involved in most of these deals. They had a network of offices worldwide and were opening new ones all the time. I had become an expert in helping governments complete the paperwork for these huge loans, and RACE sent me everywhere. Five or six times a year, I would fly to India or Thailand or Indonesia or some place in South America to lend a hand. I got to see the world--what there was left of it--but it wasn't what I wanted anymore....
I looked over at Mrs. Johnson again. She sighed pleasurably, and I wished I could peek into her dreams to see what had titillated her. There was a childish attractiveness in her plump face, a voluptuousness in her Renoir body. Nearly forty, she was obviously used to the good life. Her make-up, meticulously applied, wasn't even smudged from the journey and her khaki pantsuit didn't show a wrinkle. Not an auburn hair was out of place. She looked as prim and proper as she had the first moment I spied her back at Heathrow.
Her kids looked remarkably alike, although separated by two years--the boy, Ian, being ten, the girl, Dillys, eight--both resembling their mother in face and body structure. No Solomon's decision was needed to link them to their mother and I couldn't help wonder what, if anything, of their father's genetic makeup they had inherited. It seemed likely they were the product of tailored artificial insemination, where the sperm--the father's or a donor's--had been doctored to near neutrality, allowing the female's genes to predominate.
I regretted not having asked her about it when we chatted back at the airport. At the time, it seemed terribly presumptuous, a preposterous thing to do, especially when she confided, "I'm very worried about going to Uhuru, Mr. Henry. About all I don't know of the people and the life down there. About never being able to leave! It's one thing for my husband and myself--quite another for the children! I hope it's the right thing to do. God, I hope it is." Her eyes glistened with tears, with apprehension. "I haven't heard from my husband in three weeks. The mail is so awful! I can't wait until we're all together again...even if it is in a quarantine cell."
Now she slept so soundly--and I was fully awake, all effects of the dream gas gone. Having a natural tolerance to most medication, I usually required larger doses of a drug to show the usual effects. As far back as I could remember, I had good resistance to infection and rarely got sick. I had few fevers or earaches, and my bout with chicken pox was inconsequential. For a long time I thought this was some special gift from the gods, something that set me apart, but the malaria shattered my illusions. I was mortal after all.
Suddenly, I got worried. Might not my wakefulness complicate things? We were supposed to be transported to the quarantine shelters while still asleep. The Uhuruan authorities might get irritated, complain to RACE, dock my salary.
My apprehension gradually faded. So what? The consequences weren't that terrifying. My mood swung in a positive direction as I entertained hope that I might see something of my new world without anyone being the wiser. I could even feign sleep while being moved; that way I'd learn things none of the other RACE agents had written back about. Memories for the long months of isolation ahead.
It was strange that disembarkation was clouded in such mystery--embarkation wasn't! Uhuruan Airways had its own separate hanger at Heathrow and all of its aircraft were kept well isolated from others on the field. British Airways personnel, wearing special NASA-styled spacesuits, serviced the planes while in constant radio contact with Uhuruan authorities over six thousand miles away. Strict health regulations were in force all the time a plane was on the ground and elaborate procedures had evolved regarding their treatment. Immediately upon landing, the plane and the runways were sprayed with strong chlorine disinfectant and irradiated with ultraviolet light. Similar care was shown for all fuel pumps, baggage loaders and gangways used in the servicing. Outside of those directly involved in refueling and minor repairs, no airport personnel were allowed onboard the aircraft. In force for nearly a decade now, these safety precautions were still rigorously adhered to and, since no case of the dreaded Lassa fever had been reported in the U.K., they were presumed adequate.
It was generally assumed the same rigorous safety procedures were followed in Uhuru prior to takeoff, but no on site verification was ever possible, since no foreign observers were allowed in Uhuru.
Passport control and security checking were standard for a passenger leaving the U.K. for Uhuru; however, once a passenger entered the cabin of an Uhuruan Airways plane, he was not permitted off again for any reason. It was deemed simply too hazardous! Since no one ever returned from Uhuru, there was no problem with passenger arrivals.
Somewhat nervously, I unbuckled my seat belt and slid over the two seats to the window. The blind was up and I could see where the fasteners had been pried up with a sharp object, probably a nail file.
The plane was quite low, descending, and I could see the bright blue of the Indian Ocean beneath me, its surface flecked with whitecaps. We might already be on our final approach, but there was no land in sight--at least not out this port window. I toyed with the idea of going across the aisle to another window but quickly decided against it. If I was serious about my charade, I had to limit my movements. There were probably heat sensors aboard to detect someone prowling about, and it would be safer to return to my seat and pretend to be asleep. I felt intensely excited as I buckled my seat belt and glanced about the cabin. The woman and her children were still asleep. The only sound was the dull roar of the turbofans outside. Apparently I hadn't been observed.
Sitting there, trembling with expectation, I again had second thoughts about pretending to be asleep. No specific punishments were stated for contravening the rules regarding transportation to the quarantine cells, but there was definitely an implied threat. I wondered what they would do if I breached their security measures? They couldn't very well send me back to where I came from, so they might imprison me. But for how long? And would the quarantine period count as part of it? I didn't think they'd go to all the trouble of bringing me here just to lock me up and throw away the key. The warning must be only a deterrent; that's why it was so vague. If they scared you badly enough, you'd go along. Most people would, anyway. You had too much at stake.
I concluded I would alert them that I was awake. After all, this was the beginning of an entirely new life for me, and it wasn't worth jeopardizing that for childish reasons. I could live without seeing the beach and Mombasa Airport. And, who could say? The Uhuruans might have damned good and valid reasons for transporting us the way they did. I shouldn't whimsically assume the contrary.
The plane banked sharply, and I saw the shimmering water out a window across the aisle to my right. In the distance was land, green and lush against the hazy cerulean sky. A great sweep of white coral sand, pierced by a meandering river creek, rimmed the bay between two coral headlands. Inland, the coast was dense with waving palm trees, mangoes, and casuarinas. Gorgeously flowering hibiscus, oleander, frangipani and bougainvillea sprouted everywhere. It was a magnificent first glimpse of my new world, far surpassing the pictures I'd seen and raved about in the Bureau's brochures and films.
I reached overhead for the Alert button. My finger danced in the air beneath it. There was still plenty of time before we landed. I knew I was taking a bit of a chance, but I just couldn't resist seeing as much as I could before they put me to sleep again. Even if they caught me, these brief glimpses from the air couldn't be punishable offenses. I had awoken prematurely and looked out the window. It was that simple. Natural curiosity. Nobody could misconstrue that. Nobody could judge me guilty of anything very serious. Why did I worry so much?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I wished Oneida was there with me. How marvelous it would have been to share this first taste of Uhuru with her.
It was still difficult to understand why she just didn't curtail her activities and arrange to leave with me. What was so important? Two weeks couldn't have made that much difference. We would be together now, sharing the thrill of our new adventure. And, even more importantly, we would be together in the days and weeks ahead.
My presence, so Mr. Hotchkiss insisted, was urgently needed in Uhuru; my special expertise vital in a rapidly deteriorating situation. Delay was out of the question. RACE's whole relationship with Uhuru was at stake. I had to leave when I did. And, despite the rigors of quarantine, I was expected to immediately play an important role in the day-to-day operations of the office. I came with an attaché case loaded with work, much of which I hadn't had a chance to read. So these first two weeks would give me a chance to establish a modus operandi before Oneida came. Once she did, I had grave reservations about my capacity to concentrate on business and organize my time efficiently.
I sank back in the seat dreamily. Could it only be six weeks since we met? Forty-two blissful days? Would I have dared accept this assignment if she hadn't agreed to come with me? To marry me? It was one thing to start a new life with a girl like Oneida, quite another to brave it alone. What incredible good fortune that we met and fell in love just before this opportunity presented itself.
The Tristar leveled off. Much lower. There was sea outside the port window again, land out the starboard. We were definitely flying south along the East African coast. I should see the hotels soon. Some fledging industry.
I closed my eyes again. I could see Oneida, naked and lovely, her ample breasts erect and excited, framed against blue satin sheets. A study in classical beauty; a woman beautiful enough to arouse passionate envy in the female and unfailing interest in the male. Barely thirty-six. Tall and well proportioned, with long blond hair reaching to below her shoulders; almond-shaped, green eyes, ever changing with her many moods; a straight, high-bridged nose; glowing, sun-burnt skin. A dream of a woman; an incredible human being; much more than the sum of her parts. Yet one part always stood out in my mind. Her mouth. A mouth so large and warm and hungry that I often felt she was going to devour me with it. More than once, in her unrestrained excitement, she had bitten me. On the lip, on the throat, on the shoulder. Wanton, passionate bites that spurred her lust and excited my fury. Love making with her was an act of abandon, one that went on and on until, spent, we collapsed from exhaustion. Sleep didn't follow naturally; it demanded itself upon us. There wasn't energy in our bodies left to do anything else. Never had I know such a woman. With few words, often without words, she understood my thoughts, my wants, my needs. And she loved me as much as I loved her. She said so repeatedly.
I took a colored snapshot of the two of us from my wallet. On a lark, two weeks ago, we visited a shrunken Staten Island and were photographed leaning against the railing of the ferry. The wind buffeted the craft as it backed away from the slip at the tip of Manhattan Island, turned and headed across the choppy water separating the two islands. Oneida clung tightly to my arm, her blond hair whipping furiously in the bracing wind. In the background was one of the massive dikes New York City had built around Manhattan in a frantic effort to hold back the rising sea. A thick photochemical haze hung over the city, shrouding the tops of buildings, obscuring the horizon.
Oneida, an inscrutable smile on her face, wore a blue gabardine suit with pleated pants and blue leather gloves. I had my arm around her waist as we stared love-struck into each other's eyes.
I was three inches taller than her, exactly six feet, but slouched enough to hide the difference. Mentally, I took inventory of myself. A mop of sandy brown hair showing the first signs of thinning, matched both the color of my eyes and the Irish tweed suit I wore. My nose, slightly too large, counterbalanced a square jaw and a toothy smile. People said I reminded them of the Kennedy brothers, the ones who had dominated U.S. politics in the early sixties. From TV and newsreels I had seen, that seemed a fair assessment, and I even tried combing my hair like John F. My usual winter pallor was my Achilles heel, and contrasted sharply with Oneida's magnificent dark Jamaican tan, of which I was openly envious. Despite this painful color contrast, I thought we made a handsome couple. Even the passerby whom we collared to take the photo remarked gratuitously how good we looked together.
In two weeks she would arrive to share my quarantine and we would be reunited, to be parted again only when my quarantine period finished and she still had two weeks to complete. After that, we would be together everyday the rest of our lives. Yet, one of the first things she ever said to me was that she didn't want any real entanglements with their inevitable heartache and misery, the pain and uncertainty. She was in the midst of a bitter and protracted divorce, soured on men, and wasn't looking for a long term relationship. "Once was enough for a lifetime," she said solemnly. "Once was more than enough." And I believed she meant it when she said it.
But how absurd that declaration seemed now!
The plane rolled again and I caught another glimpse of the coast--a frighteningly unexpected one! The burnt-out hulk of a once elegant hotel. It looked like it and all the surrounding buildings had been bombed or shelled; only a heap of rubble remained. As far as I knew, there wasn't supposed to be any remaining destruction from the Great War; everything had been rebuilt and modernized. This specter from the past jolted me, made me wonder what else the Information Bureau had conveniently forgotten to mention.
"Use runway two." A voice crackled over the loudspeaker. He spoke Swahili, but I understood it, and felt sure it wasn't intended for us. Inadvertently, I guessed, a wrong switch had been thrown and we were privy to communications in the tower.
"The transport van is standing by," the voice continued. ”But one of them is awake!"
"What?" a second voice snapped urgently in hard-edged English.
Why would he speak English? Who was he speaking to? Not me!
"The gas wore off." The first voice again. Still in Swahili.
"Did he signal you?" Authoritarian Oxford English.
"No."
Shit! I reached for the Alert button, hesitated. If I pressed it now they would surely get suspicious. Why hadn't I done it when I had the chance?
"Which one is it?"
"Paul Henry. The RACE accountant."
"The fucking bastard's playing games with us. Give him another dose of the gas. We'll sort him out when he gets down here."
Christ! What did he mean by that? Despite the cooled air-conditioned comfort of the cabin, a band of perspiration dotted my forehead. Why had I been so stupid? I wasn't dealing with a bunch of morons. These people, in less than a decade, had rebuilt a destroyed civilization and I chose to play kindergarten games with them. I reached up and pressed the Alert button, holding my breath. After an interminable pause, the first crackly voice appeared again. "He just called us."
"Damned good thing! I hate those smarter than thou types."
Maybe it was all right. I had played the game. I could always fall back on that. I had pushed the Alert button.
A slight hiss filled the cabin as the dream gas was pumped in. I took a deep breath and a slightly sugary flavor filled my mouth. I welcomed it, eager to escape the near catastrophe, and inhaled deeply a few times, hurrying the gas into my lungs. The first pleasant stirrings of an erection against my trousers relieved any lingering anxiety. Induction was usually accompanied by fantasies of whatever one found most arousing. In my case it was Oneida. There she was on the blue satin sheets again. I settled back against my seat, basking in her smile. In a few seconds we would make love; beautiful love. Why hadn't they perfected the dream gas to stop in this stage? I would dearly love to enter Uhuru in the arms of my Oneida. But that stage would pass only too quickly and I would float carefree on a cloud of cotton, feeling the pleasantness of being alive, just existing. And when I finally awoke, I would have arrived; I would be where I would spend the next six months of my life. Fleetingly, I wondered what that place would be like.
The plane dipped, turning. A long expanse of coral beach came into view.
A horde of diminutive black, shriveled bodies waving spears came streaming out of the trees. They charged down to the water's edge shaking their weapons at the Tristar, running in parallel with it along the beach as its giant bird shadow swept over them.
I squinted through the dream haze at the hundreds of frantic figures, vaguely aware of the fear clutching at me, demanding recognition.
The grotesque figures weren't human!
CHAPTER 2
When I awoke, I lay on a small bed in a dimly lit room, strangely lethargic, much more so than when I had awakened onboard the Tristar. The second dose of dream gas must have been particularly strong or else they had given me something else before bringing me here from the airport. A slow, syncopated drumbeat floated in through the partially opened bedroom door, contributing to the sluggishness of mind that afflicted me.
With difficulty, I sat up and discovered I was completely naked. Even my watch was gone. I rubbed my eyes briskly with the heels of my palms, and tried to refocus, to remember whatever I could about the landing and my subsequent transfer here. All that I could recall was those few brief moments of wakefulness aboard the plane and some remnants of my dreams. Creatures streaming along a beach waving spears. A frightening image, to be sure, but one totally imaginary. Occasionally the dream gas gave form to the darker side of the mind, and this was apparently what happened after my scare at being discovered. I shuddered slightly. The Uhuruans had succeeded in their intent. I knew nothing about the details of my arrival in Uhuru. The mystery remained.
On the wicker chair by the bed was a wide-brimmed straw sunhat and a kikoi--a brightly printed length of cloth intended to be wrapped around the waist like a skirt. I got up and wound it around me, marveling at how comfortable it was.
The small, windowless room would have been claustrophobic except for a hanging garden of opaque, silky fabric draping the wall where windows ought to have been, the airy, white plaster walls and two marvelously large, primitive, seascape paintings. It also would have been stiflingly hot if not for the robust air-conditioning.
Besides the bed and chair, there was an empty Arab chest bound and studded with brass, a low night table, and a dresser without a mirror, all constructed of teak. A large empty closet was built into the wall opposite the bed. The indirect lighting was controlled from a rheostat near the door.
My suitcases, my attaché case, and the clothes I had worn down were nowhere to be found and I suspected they, along with my watch, had been confiscated.
The bed--slightly larger than a twin--was certainly not large enough to comfortably accommodate both Oneida and myself. Uhuruan Immigration had been advised well in advance of the arrangements we desired and had agreed fully, so their failure to provide for that eventuality was very disturbing. I would have enjoyed lying in a big double bed anticipating Oneida's arrival; in this tiny one I would only grow progressively more annoyed and frustrated.
A sudden thought brightened my mood. Perhaps this was a temporary accommodation? Maybe I would only be kept here until Oneida arrived, then we would both be put into larger quarters. Space was an acknowledged problem in the quarantine compound and the Uhuruans might be utilizing whatever there was to the fullest. I had read there were seasonal influxes of immigrants, and the November through March period was the busiest.
The bathroom was huge compared to the bedroom. There was a gigantic tub and shower, a toilet and bidet, and a generously stocked, mirrored cabinet filled with various toiletries--a razor and razor blades, a nail file and fingernail clippers, scissors, several combs and brushes, dental floss, suntan oils and lotions, moisturizing creams, assorted soaps. Several large fluffy cotton towels hung from the sides of the sink, while an equally large bathmat was draped over the side of the tub. Fluorescent lighting illuminated the blue-tiled walls. It was a sumptuous place, everything considered.
But neither the bedroom nor the bathroom prepared me for my next discovery. The living area was immense, lavishly furnished and decorated, with sliding glass doors, framed by floor length blue drapes, opening out onto a large, covered veranda. The sun shone brilliantly, filling the room with a white fire. It was one of the most spectacular room settings I had ever seen.
The walls, a muted white, had jungle motif paintings and a magnificent leopard skin to relieve their bareness. Two large cushioned sofas, several cushioned chairs, a roll-top desk, and a mahogany table occupied the plush gold carpet, but allowed ample space to move around unimpeded. Several triangular Pemba stools with leather-covered seats were scattered decoratively around the room. Sundry knickknacks of African extraction dotted every available resting area, contrasting sharply with the elaborately Arab-carved arabesques, door frames and lintels. A modern air-conditioning unit hummed quietly against the wall below the leopard skin.
A stereo setup that included speakers, amplifier, an AM/FM tuner, a tape deck and a rack of classical records filled one corner. It was the source of the syncopated drumbeat. Someone had apparently tuned the AM radio to a music station. I flicked the dial through the available spectrum. All the stations presented the same African-styled music. Evidently, I was not going to hear the voices of my new homeland--at least not at that moment--and I turned it off.
The wall opposite the sea front contained no door; there didn't appear to be any way out. Several large pictures, one of Lake Manyara, the other of Ngorongoro Crater, hung about eye level and nearly reached from one end of the wall to the other. Below them was the outline of a small panel, something like a laundry chute, about four feet on a side. I pushed against it but it didn't budge.
A good-sized kitchen, with a small window overlooking the beach, opened off the same wall as the bedroom. A long shelf, carrying a toaster, a spice rack and sundry utensils, stretched the length of the opposite wall. The cutlery drawer had a variety of carving knives and silverware for two. A Zanussi refrigerator-freezer in the corner was stuffed with fruits, various juices and three bottles of Italian wine. I ate a banana and a pawpaw before continuing my inspection.
The veranda abutted a white coral sand beach that ran down to the blue waters of the Indian Ocean. A heavy, thatched roof covered a wicker table and two chairs; an enormous pot of passion flowers hung over the table. The rustic, yet comfortable, construction of the veranda, obviously intended to contrast with the modern luxury of the interior rooms, was delightfully successful. My quarantine cell had superb comfort touched by the primitive, and I felt my hosts had done all they could to make my imprisonment enjoyable.
But disappointment tinged my enthusiasm. Two ten-foot high, whitewashed walls, alive with hibiscus, black-eyed Susans, and bougainvillea, stretched in straight lines from the edges of the cell far out to sea. The length of white beach was about fifty yards; the continuation of the wall arms another two hundred feet into the water. A heavy meshed, rope net, its bottom edge below the water's surface, joined the two walls at their extreme ends. The limits of my freedom were strictly described, and I imagined a long line of similar accommodations on either side of mine. I could have all the luxuries of a catered beach resort holiday except the freedom to walk where I wanted and the freedom to interact with the other vacationers.
Straddling the Equator as it did, Uhuru had no summer or winter extremes. Sunrise was between 6 and 6:30 a.m., sunset between 6:30 and 7 p.m. My days would have to be organized around these relatively fixed events. Since the sun rose and set much faster than in temperate latitudes, the nights would seem longer and I planned to work during these cooler periods, rather than fight the heat of the day. The temperature near the coast, according to the Bureau, was always between 75 F and 85 F; the humidity about 75%. The body needed more liquid than further north, I reminded myself, not necessarily all of it alcoholic.
Standing there, surveying my domain, I gradually became aware of something else. The sun was low, rising in the east over the ocean: it was early morning! I had been asleep since the afternoon the previous day. That second shot of dream gas, or something else, had put me out for over eighteen hours. And I was hungry. I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast yesterday in London.
In frustration, I kicked at the soft, warm, white sand with a bare foot, showering it out ahead of me. As the grains fell back, several small white crabs scurried for cover. I had never seen this particular species before and their hurried sideways motion intrigued me. My annoyance slipped away and I let the already hot sun envelope me in its comforting embrace and soon felt genuinely warmed. I tilted my head back, exposing my face to the penetrating rays, realizing that any sunbathing would have to be done in the kikoi or in the raw. The prospect was exciting, even arousing, and I had no trouble envisioning Oneida and me cavorting naked about the white beach, charging into the water for a swim or a splashing contest, then falling eagerly on top of each other to make love.
"Fuck!" I yelled, cursing the blue sky, cursing her for not coming with me. How wonderful it would have been to discover all this with her at my side, to share these first delightful moments together. If only I had persisted, I could have persuaded her to come with me.
I kicked the sand again. I was deceiving myself. Her work was important to her. An account executive in a big advertising agency, she had been working months to get a client to sign and, now, on the verge of succeeding, his decision expected by the end of the month, she wanted to be there for it, to insure there weren't any last minute snags. Her strong insistence seemed melodramatic, what with her resignation and planned departure for Uhuru, yet it was something she needed to do, she said. The client was a pharmaceutical manufacturer, a packager of RU-486, the abortion-causing drug, and part of the contract was a campaign to help women in the Third World learn how to safely terminate unwanted pregnancies. I had to admit I loved her all the more for her commitment, her sense of responsibility. My pique was asinine. Her decision totally understandable--just damned inconvenient!
Two weeks wasn't an unreasonable wait for the girl of your dreams.
I shook my head, amazed at the changes that had occurred in my life in the past month and a half. I had only known Oneida six weeks altogether. A chance meeting in Central Park, a whirlwind courtship, the surprise opportunity to go to Uhuru, the decision to get married.
New York City was in chaos. The drug scene was worse than it had been in the eighties and nineties, worse than before the Pan-American drug war. There wasn't room for the burgeoning population even with the mushrooming shanty towns that dotted the suburbs. And the steady encroachment of the sea threatened its very physical existence. During nearly every storm, both the Hudson and East Rivers overflowed their banks, the subways flooded, and Kennedy Airport suspended operations. Montauk and parts of eastern Long Island had become navigational hazards. Fire Island was under six inches of water and Staten Island had been reduced by half. Power outages following the flooding were predictable; brownouts associated with excessive power drains were daily occurrences. Yet a hard core of businesses remained and, with them, desperate people, people willing to do almost any jobs. No one chose to live in New York anymore, but the situation wasn't much better elsewhere. The cities of upstate New York--Albany, Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo--were equally overpopulated, and the air quality was frequently worse than New York's. New England had the additional problem of acid rain. All its lakes and streams were dead; fish populations were almost non-existent. And the soil acidity had leached so many of the essential nutrients out of the soil that farming and agriculture were hurting. Yet the price of land, land anywhere, had shot out of sight. Jobs were pitifully scarce. So were homes. The option to relocate wasn't really an option for most people anymore, and they clung to what they had because there wasn't much else available.
The Uhuruan offer couldn't have come at a better time for me. For nearly seven years I had worked quietly in the Overseas Development Department, minding my own business, doing only what was asked of me, putting in my time, then escaping into my real world at night and on weekends.