Plague

After the plague hits San Fransisco's LGBTQ community, it quickly spreads across the USA and the world. It is up to Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot to locate the source of the epidemic and stop it.

 

Plague

by Lea Sheryn

 

Chapter One

 

     Waking up in a cold sweat, Ivy Masterson pulled her plaid quilt around her. She rolled over in bed. It must be the flu, she thought to herself. Coughing into her pillow, she ejected a blob of phlegm. The flu had been spreading for several weeks.

    "Trouble and bother,” Ivy thought through delirium. Her mind fogged. Roughly, she snuffled her nose, feeling another globular flow down her throat.

     Dealing with an illness had not been on her agenda. Sickness never appeared on anyone’s agenda. For Ivy, it became the height of inconvenience.

     Sure, she had a slow start getting her life together. However, since moving to San Francisco, things suddenly turned upward. Yesterday, Ivy landed her first job at a Union Square small but popular dress shop. She was supposed to begin on the morning shift.

     Ivy laid out her clothes in the bathroom. On the vanity counter, the panties and bra sat neatly folded. Her new suit and white frilled blouse hung on the shower rail. How could she call Maureen Tapper, the owner, to explain her unavailability on this day of all days? It was impossible. It meant starting on the job search again. Groaning, Ivy rolled onto her other side.

     A big girl six feet five inches in height, two-hundred and seventy pounds, Ivy was built like a brick. Her size and strength were intimidating for a woman. The gruff quality of her voice turned people’s heads. Whether in the relationship or career areas, it turned many prospects away. Although she put tremendous effort into moderating her tone and making her shape a little more appealing, landing a job became difficult. Any attempt at femininity was a losing battle. 

     San Francisco opened doors for someone in Ivy’s position. It was the country’s foremost all-inclusive city.

     Ivy led an incredibly complicated life. In her younger days, no one understood her, not even her parents or her younger brother, Oliver. It was all about personality with her. Finding her place in the world led her to the City By the Bay. Landing an interview in the dress shop was a huge step forward. Maureen Tapper’s acceptance had boosted her self-esteem. Ivy’s jubilant good fortune faded in a puff of smoke or, rather, a cough in a pillow.

 

     Born Ivan Geoffrey Talbot, he realized he differed from the other boys he encountered. He did not share any obvious resemblance with his brother, Oliver, who was all boy from the very beginning. Ivan had no interest in playing football or with trucks in the spacious backyard of his family's multiple homes during his childhood. He longed for Barbie dolls and playing dress-up in his mother's clothes and shoes.

     His mother, Beatrice, worried when she caught him putting make-up on in the bathroom. Calling him into his home office, his father sternly scolded him. Oliver simply ignored him. His younger brother would not acknowledge the boy who appeared at school wearing girl’s clothing. His parents did everything possible to "normalize" Ivan. However, nothing worked. He wanted them to come to grips with him being who he was.

     Life could be difficult for Army Brats under normal circumstances. Moving from pillar to post every three to four years meant a new base school and a whole new set of friends. Occasionally the two Talbot boys would meet up with children they had known in various places during their world travels. When they did, rumors flew the moment they set foot in their new place of learning.

     Being different in a military setting was challenging at the best of times. Ivan endured a myriad of endless teasing, and not-so-funny pranks repetitively played on him. Meanwhile, Oliver kept his distance. When he reached high school, all he could think about was breaking away. He longed to escape an intolerable situation and find a place where he fit in with similar people.

     The facts remained the facts. Ivan's father was too important a man to have a son who wasn't a son. Retired General I. Jeff Talbot had a reputation to keep. His life must remain without a blemish. While Oliver was the perfect replica of his father, Ivan was the zit on the family's backside. Despite the prompting he received from his father, it was apparent that he wasn't going to follow in the paternal footsteps. Best leave that to Oliver, who was happy to plan for a military career. Ollie fit in with the other boys and girls in his class.

     Ivan had to transition into his own person. When he turned eighteen, he settled everything for the family. He left home to attend Swarthmore University in Pennsylvania with a view toward a liberal arts degree. Then, six months into his junior year, he abruptly dropped out. There wasn’t anything wrong with the school or his ability to achieve his degree. He needed time off to find himself. He promised that he would return to school to complete his education in time.

     However, it remained impossible. Ivan’s inner conflicts became too great to overcome. Without his family to support him, he drifted from place to place. Picking up odd jobs, he worked his way south. In New Orleans, he discovered a patron in Acatus Evergreen. His new friend understood him as no one had previously.

     Ivan met Acatus at the annual Pride Parade. The joyous day brought him into contact with others who shared his fate. Linking arms with two male companions, he skipped along the outer edge of the procession. Rainbow-colored beads hung from his neck. He felt as though he were part of something big, something exciting.

     When the celebrations ended, his acquaintances asked him to join them for drinks. He accepted with alacrity. However, as they headed toward the nearest watering hole, a sleek black limousine pulled up alongside them. The shaded window rolled down, and an emerging hand beckoned Ivan. Cautiously, he approached. His companions waited on the sidewalk.

     "Get in," a male voice invited, and the back door swung open.

     “I’d rather not,” Ivan answered, stepping backward.

     “I said, get in,” the voice reiterated.

     “I’m not a gigolo,” Ivan returned, glancing toward his lingering friends.

     “I’m not looking for a gigolo,” the man calmly stated. “I have a proposition for you.”

     “Yeah, well, no thanks.” Ivan began to grow nervous. He knew better than to approach a strange car.

     “You’d rather be a woman, wouldn’t you?”

     Ivan's back drew up, his shoulders squared. How did this stranger know his deepest desire? Inadvertently, he stepped toward the limo.

     “Get in.”

     Throwing a look toward his nameless friends, Ivan waved them on. For a second, it looked as though they wanted to intervene. Then, they grasped hands and walked away. Ivan slid into the back seat.

     The sixty-something man next to him inched close enough for their thighs to connect. Behind eyeglasses as thick as old coke bottles, his nearsighted eyes ogled Ivan. His bald head gleamed beneath the vehicle's doom light. Ivan placed a little distance between them. Suddenly, the offer made him nervous. 

     "Acatus Evergreen at your service," the gentleman courteously introduced himself. "I don't believe I caught your name."

     "Ivan Talbot," Ivan responded. Instantly, Acatus lifted his hand in a hearty shake.

     "Ivan Talbot?" Acatus questioned. "Now, where have I heard that name?" Leaning back in his

seat, he racked his mind for information.

     “My father is Gen. I. Jeff Talbot,” Ivan supplied.

     Mirthlessly, his companion chuckled. It delighted Acatus to discover the General's son mingling amongst the Pride celebrants.

     "Well, now, Ivan Talbot, son of General Jeff Talbot, today is your lucky day," his companion remarked, suddenly becoming serious. "I intend to make you my special project. Your fairy godfather is going to make a woman out of you."               

     Moving into Evergreen’s massive mansion became an actual turning point in Ivan’s life. Acatus laid out the course of his life in stunning detail. For the first time, he freely expressed his true sexuality.

     Ivan underwent a sex change operation at age thirty-six with the Evergreen fortune behind him. After undergoing hormone therapy, he changed his name to Ivy Masterson�"utilizing his mother’s maiden name.

     Ivan remained Acatus Evergreen's protégé for the next seven years. The older man delighted in their relationship.

     Born in the deep south, Acatus grew up beneath the same prejudices that haunted Ivan. In the long ago past, people did not accept homosexuality or other such proclivities as natural. Acatus, the son of a wealthy father, carefully hid his true desires. He dutifully married Maybelline Froman and gave her three beautiful children. Although he cherished Allen, Tom, and Karen as a father should, he couldn't keep himself away from handsome young men. He employed a pimp who kept him freshly supplied with all he could desire. He also kept his secrets well hidden.

     When Maybelline died of breast cancer, Actus loyally held her hand as she drifted away. Before she left him, she revealed her knowledge of his clandestine life in a whisper. With his wife's passing, he openly became a part of the LBGTQ community.

 

 

     Ivy's happy days living with Acatus Evergreen abruptly ended. Suffering a massive heart attack, his wealthy benefactor passed away. The old billionaire neglected to leave her a legacy despite many promises.

     The three surviving children swooped in, forced the mansion's sale, and left Ivy on the sidewalk with her meager belongings. She found a small apartment in the French Quarter and prepared for her next move. As soon as she was ready, Ivy headed to San Francisco.  

     The City by the Bay! Ivy thrived in the nightlife. She met like-minded people who understood her struggles and inner conflicts. However, she missed a meaningful career. The arduous job search finally brought her into Maureen Tapper’s boutique. She filled in an application and achieved an on-the-spot interview.

     Maureen Tapper invited Ivy into her office. Surrounded by cartons of newly arrived merchandise, she looked the new applicant up and down. The shop manager knew the score right away but did not let on. She did not care who came from where, or who they were before they arrived. In her business, she had already seen it all.

     Maureen opened Che Boutique fifteen years ago with her lesbian lover, Jackie Wentworth. The couple held meetings and organized rallies promoting LBGTQ awareness after the shop closed. Behind the scenes, they worked as political activists. Maureen had the mayor and a local senator in her back pocket.

     Surreptitiously eyeing Ivy, Maureen made a mental note to discover all available information on the newcomer. If she could utilize a controversial background to promote her agenda, Maureen would readily use it. Little did she realize what was hidden in Ivy's past�"a military background and a high-ranking officer father. However, she knew people who knew people. And her people could dig up plenty of dirt.

     Dropping her horn-rimmed glasses from her forehead, Maureen studied Ivy’s job application. Too many blank spaces greeted her.

     "Where did you attend university?" she asked in a clear, calm voice. She didn't wish to alarm her potential team member. Still, the required information was necessary.

     Ivy nearly said Swarthmore, then bit her tongue. If Ms. Tapper decided to check references, she would discover Ivy Masterson had not enrolled there. Furthermore, she would not request Ivan Talbot’s transcripts. Dejectedly, Ivy shook her head and explained she hadn’t attended university. Nor had she ever held down a job.

     Maureen paused a moment for thought. Immediately, she noticed Ivy's potential. References did not concern her. All she required was an ability to run a cashier register and an outgoing personality. She saw both standing in front of her.

     Maureen hired Ivy on the spot.

     "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock." Employer and newly employed shook hands.  

     Pleased with her new position, Ivy had her hair set at a nearby beauty salon and treated herself to a new outfit. Happy to start the next day, Ivy went home to her small apartment and prepared for her first work day.

     Ivy laid out her new navy skirt and matching jacket. Her frilly white blouse hung on the shower rail. A DDD cup bra and brief panties lay folded on the vanity counter. Serviceable brown square heeled shoes waited on the floor.  

     Feeling a little woozy, Ivy stumbled into bed at one o’clock in the morning. Brushing it off as the extra activity of the day, she thought she would feel better in the morning. However, sometime in the night, she awoke to a miserable feeling. Thinking it was the flu, she felt the deep disappointment of having to phone Maureen in the morning. It devastated her to beg off from work. Indeed it was not the way to start a new career.

     Ivy tossed and turned in her blankets, racked with intermittent fever and chills for five days. A small round bubble appeared underneath her left breast on the sixth day. The next day, a second bubble appeared on her groin. At first, she didn't understand. Then it occurred to her that it must be a side effect of her operation. No big deal, she decided. Once she was well enough, she would see a doctor and have it examined.

     In her delirium, Ivy's mind wandered. Visions of her mother's worried looks floated behind her eyes. Her brother, Oliver, kept his distance. Once again, her father's sharp words cut into her heart.

     As Ivan, he longed for acceptance. He loved his parents and his younger brother. In that, he had no doubt. All his life, he questioned their love for him.

     Re-emerging as Ivy, the past lay in the past. She moved forward without a history, without a family. Acatus Evergreen held responsibility for her new life. Ivy remained grateful to her benefactor. Eventually, Maureen might take Acatus' place in her heart.

     Tossing and turning, Ivy sweated beneath the plaid quilt. The bubbles grew and throbbed beneath her armpit and in her groin. Her tiny apartment pulsated as an incubator for the plague.      

     On the seventh day, Ivy Masterson passed away.

     By the end of the following week, the lead stories on all the San Francisco newscasts declared that nine people, all a part of the LBGTQ community, had died of the plague.

 

Chapter Two

 

     Plague.

     The word hung in Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot’s mind. On the desk lay a classified memo. It arrived early that morning. Picking it up again, he studied it in consternation. The word “plague” stood out, stunning him. He believed the eradicated disease finally disappeared around 1959.

     Sitting at the edge of his chair, Lt. Col. Talbot considered his knowledge concerning the malady. The illness consisted of three different types: the bubonic plague that infected the lymph glands. It received its name from the bulbous that grew beneath the armpits and on the groin. The bite of fleas by regurgitation of infected blood into the veins transmitted the pestilence. The Septicemic variety occurred when the lymphatics drained into the bloodstream, causing clots throughout the body. And finally, pneumonic plague occurs when the lungs become infected.

     In 1347, the bubonic plague first appeared in Europe. Also known as the Black Death, it carried away nearly twenty million lives in the course of five years. Throughout history, it continued to appear, most notably in 1665. Its sudden reemergence took many by surprise.

     The news broadcasts around the world grew alarming. The plague rapidly spread through San Francisco. Causing the death of nine people, it first appeared in the LBGTQ community. Swiftly, it moved into the general population.

     In the City by the Bay, the pestilence took thirty-three lives. Another hundred and fifteen remained quarantined in local hospitals. In the United States, additional plague cases began appearing in New Orleans, Seattle, and Key West. From the world perspective, Liverpool, Lima, Marrakesh, and Hong Kong counted further victims.

     Unofficially, hushed voices spoke the word Pandemic behind closed doors. Soon, John Q. Public would begin muttering it on an everyday basis. If the disease continued its speedy spread across the globe, world panic might set in.

     What had suddenly caused the unexpected occurrence of the Plague? It was a question the Intelligence community grappled with during the weeks since the disease commenced.

      Beginning with a port of entry in San Francisco, it apparently arrived on an incoming flight from Tokyo.

     At first, fingers pointed toward the Japanese as the source of the epidemic. However, the theory swiftly terminated as the trail led back to Bangladesh and Ethiopia. Finally, a trajectory concluded in Iran, where the strain originated. Then, clandestinely, it purposely spread into the LBGTQ community of San Francisco.

     Lt. Col. Talbot and his highly trained team stood ready to storm the facility. They awaited the final directive to arrive from the Pentagon. 

     Team Leader of Delta Force Squadron G, the Clandestine Operations Group, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot, commanded an elite team. It consisted of Major Alberto Gonzalez and Master Sergeant Emil Hollister. Sergeants Bud Cassidy, Tyrone Jones, and Carl McMillian rounded up the group. Recently recruited from the Rangers, McMillian joined the team as the newest in the group. Capable and determined, they were warriors focused solely on their duties.

     Receiving training at Ft. Bragg, a member engaged for Delta Force must be twenty-one years of age and a US Citizen. An officer achieving the rank of Captain or Major must accomplish twelve months of successful command, complete advanced courses and be a college graduate with a BA or a BS. With four years of minimum service/2 years of active duty remaining, NCOs must rank as an E5-E8 sergeant and receive a passing SQT score in primary MOS (Military Specialty) with a minimum GT (General Technical) score of 110. Furthermore, they must pass a HALO/SCUBA physical, have Airborne Qualifications, and pass security checks with no history of disciplinary action. A rigorous physical fitness test rounded out the qualifications.

     “Plague, that’s a tough one,” Major Gonzalez’s voice broke the silence. He burst unannounced into the space Talbot used as a temporary office. Sgt Jones entered on his heels.

     No matter how many missions they accomplished, the waiting seemed the most challenging part. Major Gonzalez showed his impatience. Each step in their formulated operation received approval from the Pentagon. However, they could not proceed without the support of the President. Until the final call came through, they waited in an undisclosed location.

     “Does anyone know someone, a friend or family member, who has it?” Tyrone Jones asked.     

     They concurred on a negative response.

     Trained to keep their private thoughts out of their assignments, no one entailed further details. What they were about to do would not affect anyone personally. Oliver felt relieved. 

     However, an incoming text message turned Lt. Col. Talbot’s attention to his private life.

     "Hank arrived at 1340 hours,” his mother announced.

     D****t! Oliver chucked his personal cell phone onto the desk. It clattered noisily.

     It occurred every time a crucial assignment arose. Where had Elizabeth gone this time? Why did his wife feel free to disappear with her clique of girlfriends? However, his mother had sense enough to inform him of his son’s whereabouts.

     Continually, Oliver found himself in similar situations. In the face of an imminent deployment, his wife forced him to halt his activities to locate his only child. Was Hank with one of his grandmothers? a friend of Liz's? or was he with an enlisted man's wife? His spouse knew how to wheedle favors. On her worst day, she could sell snow to Santa Claus.

     Spending precious time searching for the whereabouts of his child did not top his priority list. Finally, after finding Hank in the care of an enlisted man’s thirteen-year-old daughter, he put his foot down.

     “PFC Rodrigez had transfer orders, Liz,” Oliver confronted his wife. At the time, fury filled him. “What did you think Inez would do with Hank? Was she supposed to take him with her?”

     “She could have remained behind. I paid her enough,” Elizabeth petulantly responded.

     “What?!” Oliver advanced on her. For a moment, he believed he would strike his wife. Then, he stayed his upraised hand. “Are you out of your mind? Inez is thirteen.”

     For the first time in their marriage, Liz held her tongue.

     “If you have to play truant,” Ollie patiently stated, “Hank goes to one of his grandparents and no one else.”

     Frequently, his mother messaged him far too often.   

   

     From the beginning, the marriage failed. The second of General Thomas Amberley's three daughters, Elizabeth Ann pinged his parents' radar. Highly suited as the wife of an upcoming Army Officer, they pushed for a relationship between their son and their long-time friend’s daughter. However, Oliver feigned interest. Someone else appeared in his sights, someone equally as qualified.

     Beautiful and charming, Nicola Prescott had a calming personality. Oliver Talbot fell head over heels in love. Meeting by chance on the Champs-Elysees in Paris, they instantly hit it off. On many occasions, they met in different European settings. He enjoyed biking through the Cotswolds with her and skiing in Switzerland.

     Nicola provided a breath of fresh air. Joyfully, she took him away from his everyday life. Military concerns weighed him down. He grew up an army brat and, as an adult, transitioned into an officer's position. A graduate of West Point, service to his country flowed in his blood.

     Oliver required the occasional distraction. During his leave time, he wished to forget the Army. Nicola planned fantastic excursions for him. When he left her, he felt refreshed, alive. Finally, Ollie made up his mind to propose. However, before he finalized his decision, he planned a family introduction.

     "Mom, Dad, this is Nicola Prescott," Oliver introduced, stepping up to his waiting parents. Deplaning at Dulles Airport, the couple brimmed over with joy. Entwining their hands between them, they stood hip-to-hip.

     The Talbots arrived at the air terminal to greet their son. Inadvertently squeezing her husband's arm, Beatrice worried her lower lip. An unexpected companion unnerved her. In her mind, she counted ten. Then, she held out her hand to Nicola. They exchanged warm, friendly greetings.   

     “Pleased to meet you,” Nicola remarked, smiling pleasantly. “Ollie speaks highly of both of you.”

     "Thank you, Ms. Prescott," the mother curtly responded. She nearly added, "Funny, he never mentioned you." However, a swift glance from General Jeff Talbot halted her tongue. 

     Cordially, the Talbots accepted Nicola’s presence. However, other thoughts filled their mind. Beatrice intended for Ollie to marry a woman well versed in Army life. The one in front of her arrived with no apparent connections. Oliver’s rigorous life required an experienced protégé. In her mind, Liz Amberley appeared as a much better choice.

     “She’s unsuitable,” Beatrice hissed to Oliver when they were alone.

     Once his mother hooked onto a subject, she didn't let off. For a thousand reasons, she urged Ollie to give Nicola up. First and foremost, she had no military affiliation. More than likely, she would not understand the rigorous lifestyle. Moving from place to place would become a chore. An inexperienced young woman would bog him down. Upheaving children and placing them in new schools presented difficulties. And so on and so on.

     Finally, Oliver agreed. His mother won her argument. With a heavy heart, he informed Nicola that the marriage was off. He took the coward’s way out; he emailed her. Then, he blocked her.

     Taking his parents’ advice, Ollie courted Liz and proposed to her. He chose a romantic setting: Honolulu. The couple, brimming with joy, made the announcement. Immediately, his fiancée planned a huge ceremony. They took their vows and exited the church beneath an arch of swords.

     Within six months, the newlywed Talbots’ were expecting their first baby, a boy. His wife christened the child Duff, utilizing her mother's maiden name. Since Ivan or Oliver traditionally appeared in the generations of the Talbot family, Ollie anticipated naming his son accordingly. Then, while he completed a mission, Liz gave birth. His mother-in-law's following text message shocked him. In his heart, he knew she did it for spite.

     Lt. Col. Talbot flew home as soon as his mission ended. He discovered Liz snuggled up in bed with the baby at her breast.

     "Never Duff," Oliver roughly stated. He refused to greet his wife, and he did not kiss her hello. The long flight home provided him plenty of time to incubate his anger.

     Over the course of Liz’s pregnancy, the couple discussed names at many junctures. The name Duff never appeared in any of their conversations.

     “It’s my mother’s maiden name,” the new mother countered. “I always intended to name him Duff.” Her temper rose to the occasion.

     “You never mentioned it,” Ollie flatly mentioned.

     “Why should I?” Liz pertly responded. “I carried this thing in my womb for nine months. I suffered and bloated up like a whale. Under the circumstances, it’s my choice.”

     Sure, Liz bloated up. She spent six out of the nine months in bed. Under cover of supportive visits, her girlfriends kept her supplied with chocolate-covered cherries. Oliver confiscated gallons of Rocky Road ice cream. She refused all activity, claiming her pregnancy as an excuse.

     Ollie kept long hours. Finding every excuse, he remained in his office long after everyone had left. He went home only when he had to.

     "You keep your Duff," Oliver finally conceded, "but, from now on, we use his middle name, Henry."

     After a time, Henry became Hank.

       

     The marital relations between Oliver and Elizabeth Talbot ceased after the birth of Hank. While Ollie put all his energy into his career, Liz plotted a separate course. They shared a home and a child, but a thin line remained between them.

     Oliver's heart raced when he bumped into Nicola Prescott in a DC hotel elevator. Following several dinner engagements, they renewed their old relationship. After completing challenging assignments, the couple met up in clandestine places. Nic arranged a rendezvous when he texted the code words ‘Elysian Fields’.

     Dear sweet Nicola! Patient and kind, she never questioned him or expected the impossible. Oliver Talbot wished he had pledged his life to her. Instead, he shamefully caved to his parent’s wishes and linked himself with Liz.

     Once he completed the current assignment, Ollie anticipated a flight to Naples. Nicola arranged her transportation and rented a villa.

     Firmly ensconced in the military life, Oliver led an exceptional life. He attempted to keep his outstanding officer image as clean as possible. However, he found himself a fallible human being. He had needs and desires. Emotionally he felt attached to Nicola Prescott. Cold-hearted Liz could never comprehend his strong passions.

     Nicola understood him. As his marriage worsened, Oliver realized how much he required her. He longed for their clandestine meetings. They thrilled him as much as his military missions.

     “Colonel?” Master Sgt. Hollister broke into his personal thoughts.

     “Yes,” Lt. Col. Talbot responded, dropping his feet to the floor. He sat up straight behind his desk. 

     “The European Union enforced a travel ban. No one in or out of any EU nation for the duration of the epidemic,” Hollister exclaimed. “A similar ban effective for the US by the end of the day. This thing is spreading and spreading fast.”

     “Thank you, Sergeant,” Talbot stated, his tone dismissive.

     Without a word, Hollister departed. Gonzalez and Jones, who stood by ready for orders, shadowed him.

     Oh dear God, Nicola, Oliver thought, leaning back in his chair. He templed his fingers beneath his chin.

     Lt. Col. Talbot hoped his lover had not reached her Italian destination. The declared EU travel ban would trap her on foreign soil. It would kill him if anything happened to her. In his most hidden places, he felt guilty for the distress he caused her over their breakup.

     Liz’s name never entered his mind.

 

Chapter Three

 

     "Death to America," Arastoo Mazanderani muttered under his breath. "Death to America."   

     His white lab coat swirled as he turned away from his chemistry lab. Arastoo held a beaker in each hand. Success lay within his grasp. He had concocted the form of the plague currently surging in San Francisco, California, USA. In his mind, he viewed himself as a hero. In his hands lay the destruction of the Muslim world's long-time enemy.

     Arastoo aimed to destroy those who openly flaunted the words of the Quran.

     "If two men among you are guilty of lewdness, punish both of them. If they repent and amend, leave them alone" (Quran 4:16).

     Bile rose in Arastoo's throat as he thought of the PRIDE parades in major American cities such as San Francisco. News broadcasts of the celebrations irked him. A white fire rushed through his blood.

     The sins of America railed against all the sacred teachings of Mohammad. Instead of repenting, the American people created a festival for those who exhibited their vulgarities. They deserved a horrific punishment. Allah provided Arastoo with the brains to concoct such a retribution. His strong willpower would rebuke those who disregarded Allah's holy word. If his concoction destroyed more than those he aimed for, all the better.

     Arastoo Mazanderani did not view himself as a fanatic. His goals, he believed, were perfectly sane. In his dreams, Allah spoke to him. If he succeeded in destroying the LBGTQ community, his name would appear on every true Muslim's lips. Arastoo would become venerated as a true prophet of Allah. He imagined the praise Ayatollah Ali Khamenei would bestow upon him. 

     For three long years, he worked on a new strain of the Plague. Shut up in a laboratory deep within the mountainous Takht-e-Soleiman range, he perfected his concoction. His assistant, Zeeba Bahrami, remained isolated with him.

     A solitary outpost perched across the way containing four guards. They did not suspect the presence of the laboratory. Arastoo and Zeeba remained well concealed. No one could discover their hidden lair among the maze of natural tunnels within the mountains. Amongst many blind alleys, only one clear path led to their hideaway. However, no one would think to look for them in Takht-e-Soleiman. 

     Other than Zeeba Bahrami, no one knew his location. His father, Gulzar Mazanderani, believed he worked on a secret assignment. He allowed the family patriarch to believe he received orders from the Ayatollah himself. However, that was not the case. Arastoo took his orders only from the Prophet Mohammad and, ultimately, Allah.

     "Allahu Akbar," Gulzar exclaimed when Arastoo gave him the news. Although the father was not as fanatical as the son, he firmly believed in the teachings of Mohammad. He did not understand how the Ayatollah chose Arastoo Mazanderani for such a divine purpose. However, the honor pleased him.

     Gulzar raised Arastoo in the teachings of the Quran. As long as his son followed the correct procedures, Allah assured him a place in Paradise. Five times a day, they knelt facing Mecca and prayed. Fajr (at dawn), Dhuhr (following midday), Asr (during the afternoon), Maghrib (sunset), and, finally, Isha (nighttime) marked their days.

     Arastoo did not mind locking himself away from civilization for a long duration. Believing his delusions of grandeur, he bent to his holy work. The separation from his family in Bandar Abbas did not bother him. Although he did not fully understand, his father, Gulzar Mazanderani, believed his work was necessary. Anahita, his mother, placidly accepted his absence, and his wife, Yasmina, had no say in the matter. A true believer, she lived solely by her husband's rule. It never occurred to her to question Arastoo's actions. His sisters, BahAr and Mahasti, obeyed their father.

******

     “Allahu Akbar,” Arastoo exclaimed as a form of greeting.

     Zeeba Bahrami entered the laboratory to begin the day. She covered her knee-length black skirt and white blouse by donning a white lab coat. Her bespectacled brown eyes met Arastoo’s, and she repeated his pronouncement. For a brief moment, they grinned. Then they turned solemn.

     Zeeba was brilliant. If she had not shown potential, Arastoo would have passed her up. He did not particularly like to work closely with women. He believed in the inferiority of the opposite sex. However, his female companion provided an exception.

     Similar to Arastoo, Zeeba received her chemistry degree at Oxford. They shared many classes there and became acquainted through their common interests. When he felt he could completely trust her, he filled her in on his zealous plans. She immediately concurred.  

     Fanatically against Western Civilization, Zeeba cast a critical eye on the Brits. Her first-hand experience confirmed her beliefs. It strengthened her faith in Allah, Mohammad, and the Quran. Alone, in the evenings, she spoke to Arastoo about her misgivings. The lewdness of the American people troubled her.

     "Without them, the world would be a safer place," Zeeba firmly declared. Someday soon, she believed, Sharia Law would replace their evil practices. Muslims would overcome the Christian-run countries.

     Arastoo heartily agreed.

     Together, they planned to annihilate the LBGTQ community in San Francisco. It presented a beginning. If their theories concerning the plague worked, they planned to move on to other cities, such as New Orleans and Key West. They never counted on the virus swiftly spreading by itself in their simple minds. Shut off from the rest of the world, Arastoo and Zeeba naively planned further attacks.  

     However, the epidemic sent its tentacles forth. Whole populations sicken. Multitudes died. Continuing its journey across America, unsuspecting travelers carried it to Europe and Asia.

     Leading scientists remained baffled by the new strain of the once eradicated disease. They had no means to fight it immediately. President Abraham Q. Morton ordered America to shut down. Working people obeyed the order to return home and isolated. The economy slid to an instant standstill. All over the world, travel bans appeared. Civilization focused on stopping the spread. However, once it started, it became impossible to stop. 

     “Here’s to success!” Zeeba announced, raising a beaker. Arastoo grabbed one and clinked it against hers.

     Absently, she pushed her thick-cut glasses back on her nose. They constantly slid down, irking her.

     “Death to America,” Arastoo practically shouted. His voice eerily echoed back from a deep tunnel. “Death to America.” 

     Fortune played a part in bringing them to the Takht-e-Soleiman range. Arastoo believed Allah cloaked their journey. Stealthily under the dark of night, he and Zeeba moved their equipment into the caves. The climb proved treacherous. However, they succeeded wonderfully. Even the guards across the way had no idea they hid there. Allahu Akbar indeed.

     Arastoo felt Zeeba's eyes on him. He smiled pleasantly in her direction. Other than a working relationship, he did not find her attractive. Deep in his heart of hearts, he did not like women. Dutifully, he married his wife, Yasmina, through an arrangement. But demons possessed him. While he studied at Oxford, he felt drawn to London. In the nights, an unseen force set his footsteps toward Soho. Convincing himself he wished to leer at the gay men, an alien pulsation throbbed in his groin. His desires awakened, and he fled.

    Back in Oxford, Arastoo prostrated himself before Allah. Chastised, he solemnly promised to annihilate lewdness from the earth. Cleansed by faith, he concocted his plan to develop the plague and spread it into LBGTQ communities.     

     Zeeba Bahrami, on the other hand, deeply loved Arastoo. She entered upon his fanatical plan to get closer to him. The severe young woman rarely felt passion. Her mind flowed with chemical equations, not romance. Even as a youngster, she remained an outsider amongst her schoolmates. In America, nerd or geek described her perfectly.

     Short and slim, Zeeba kept her dark hair trimmed and serviceable. Her thick glasses caused a googly appearance in her eyes. Young men avoided her. Defensively, she declared she hated them. She looked at Arastoo differently.

     Arastoo ignored her 'come on' glances. Zeeba held back her desire to advance the situation. She did not realize Arastoo viewed her only in the professional sense. They shared a love of chemistry and conversed on that topic. Other than chatter, she meant nothing to him.

     The mountain laboratory reeked of sexual tension. More attune than Arastoo, Zeeba's emotions rose. Lacking male attention in her youth drew her to reckless behavior. A declaration of love hung on the tip of her tongue. The right look or word from Arastoo would set her off. She felt sure he would reciprocate.

     Arastoo and Zeeba continued to refine their new plague strain. As soon as they unleashed it on New Orleans, they would become lovers. Success would drive Arastoo into her arms. Zeeba believed it.

     Hidden in their mountain hideaway, Arastoo Mazanderani and Zeeba Bahrami innocently laid their devious plans. A half a world away, the foremost American Intelligence Agencies zeroed in on their location within the Takht-e-Soleiman range. Working around the clock, they quickly tracked the origin of the plague. The Pentagon formulated a mission to reconnoiter and destroy the secret laboratory. Congress's approval and the President's signature were the last necessity. 

     Headed by Delta Force Squadron G, Lt. Col. Talbot prepared his team to move at a moment’s notice.

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot hated waiting; his men felt the same impatience.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

     BahAr Mazanderani felt awful. Sweat beaded her forehead, dripping into her eyes. Her cheeks, resembling maraschino cherries, glowed red. Hurriedly, she crossed The Embarcadero and headed toward Jefferson street. Her hotel, The Radisson, loomed before her. Stumbling inside, she hunted in her handbag for her room key.

     When her brother, Arastoo, offered the trip to San Francisco, she thought he was joking. Then, he surprised her by producing plane tickets. He only required one small thing. Neatly wrapped in her luggage, ten small vials hid. Each contained four to six fleas. If she could spread them around, he would pay all her expenses. BahAr found the prank amusing. Readily, she agreed.

     Fourteen days prior, BahAr arrived in California. Departing from Tehran, she traveled to Addis Abba, Ethiopia. Then she changed planes for Dhaka in Bangladesh. Deplaning in Tokyo, she hastily abandoned her hijab. She boarded her next plane to San Francisco wearing skinny jeans and a crop top.

     BahAr Mazanderani adored Western Culture. Along with her sister, Mahasti, American sitcoms and pop music enthralled her. Even in Iran, blocked internet sites were not obstacles. Topping her list of favorite pop groups, she admired the Yum-Yums. The three young women, wearing tiger-printed leotards, strutted across the stage and sang provocative lyrics. Then, they shimmied up long dance poles.

     BahAr dreamed of becoming a pole dancer in a Las Vegas club. When she arrived in California, she deleted her return ticket. Once she reached the States, she knew she would never re-enter Iran.

     The city enthralled her. BahAr walked to Fisherman's Wharf every morning. Through a morning mist, the Golden Gate Bridge soared. Alcatraz Island sat across the channel. The harsh bark of the sea lions filled the area. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, BahAr hugged herself and twirled. America meant freedom. Freedom from hijabs and calls to prayer.

     In the afternoon, BahAr shopped. Wandering through Union Square, she spent lavishly. Gathering several garments, she locked herself in fitting rooms. Once or twice, she released a vial of fleas. Arastoo cautioned her to let them go a few at a time. Imagining the next customer getting bit, she chucked. Her severe brother thought of the funniest games.

     BahAr met Ivy Masterson in a coffee shop restroom. A tall figure stood beside her as she washed her hands in the sink. She'd never encountered such a muscularly built woman. At first, the young lady believed a man hovered next to her.

     “Have you been in San Fran long?” Ivy asked, turning toward the hand dryer.

     BahAr's languid brown eyes roamed upward along with her companion's husky figure. The grey skirt and paisley blouse convinced her. In the states, women appeared in all shapes and sizes. Relaxing, she continued to soap her hands.

     “Only fourteen days,” the Iranian responded. “My brother’s treating me to a vacation.”

     "I've been here a month," Ivy remarked. She took her time beneath the warm blowing air. "I have to get a job soon. My funds are beginning to run low."

     “Yeah, well, good luck,” BahAr cheerfully answered. Although heavily accented, she spoke perfect English. Taking a swift glance behind her, she emptied a flea vial into Ivy’s opened handbag.

     “Good luck to you too,” the former Ivan Talbot called. Snapping her bag closed, Ivy slung it over her shoulder.

     Nonchalantly, BahAr dug in her bag for a lipstick. She applied her make-up and exited. She did not notice the open vail or the four fleas that crawled amongst her belongings.

     BahAr Mazanderani and Ivy Masterson never crossed paths again.

 

******

     Three days later, BahAr felt a chill, then a fever. Passing it off as excitement, she crossed the Embarcadero and entered Fisherman’s Wharf. At the Codmother, she ordered a fish and chip lunch. She left a balled-up napkin containing six fleas by way of a tip. Believing she emptied the tenth one, BahAr mentally patted herself on the back. It finalized her obligation to Arastoo.

     New plans filled the frivolous Iranian's head. Freedom beckoned her. In her mind, BahAr imagined her sleek olive body unrestrained. Wrapped around a tall silver pole, she slithered. The cascades of black hair enveloped her near-naked body. Music pulsated around her; green, pink, and yellow lights flashed across the dance floor.

     Frequently she had practiced belly dancing in her Iranian bedroom. When her father caught her, he harshly whipped her. Gulzar Mazanderani did not tolerate lewdness in his daughter. Angrily BahAr resented his cruelty. Amongst her peers, she railed against injustice toward women. She viewed her insipid mother as intolerably weak. Her sister-in-law, Yasmina, fell within the same category. Longing to escape, she used her brother’s offer as a path to freedom.  

     “America!” BahAr shouted at San Francisco. Spreading her arms wide, she ran down the sidewalk. Then, a sudden flash of heat throbbed beneath her glistening skin. Skidding to a stop, she held her trembling hands out to steady herself.

     After a moment, the feeling passed. Slowing her step, BahAr crossed Jefferson and approached the Radisson hotel. The cool air-conditioned lobby froze her. Goosebumps appeared on her arms. Reaching into her handbag, she searched for her key. Something pricked her finger; she ignored it.    

     Stumbling over her feet, BahAr fell into the opened elevator. Pressing the third-floor button, she slumped against the back of the car and slid to the floor.

     A strong arm forced the elevator door open, and a man stepped in. Kasra Anvari knelt beside his best friend's sister. Covertly, he kept an eye on her since her arrival in San Francisco. Arastoo would not appreciate his report. He abhorred her lewd behavior. Dressed in Western garb, BahAr flaunted her sensuous body. He noticed roaming male and female eyes traversing her petite form. Hot, angry blood pulsated in his veins. Many times, he stepped forward to intervene. Then, remembering Arastoo's words of warning, he remained unobserved. He'd kept his distance until he spied her staggering gait.   

     Luckily, no one else noticed the two Iranians. Kasra managed to drag BahAr into her room. Carefully he placed her on the bed and covered her. For three days, she tossed and turned beneath the blankets. He bathed her forehead with a wet cloth and kept vigilance. She lost consciousness and never awoke. A bubble appeared on her armpit; another formed on her groin.

     Kasra wrapped her in the hotel bedspread when his friend's sister died. He felt no emotion toward her. Dutifully, he cleaned up the room, removing all traces of the young Iranian woman.

     During the silent overnight hours, Kasra Anvari dragged her downstairs and out a side entrance. Borrowing a boat, he took her out into the treacherous waters surrounding Alcatraz Island. After lowering her into the Pacific, he watched the makeshift shroud bob. It sank beneath the hefty anchor tied to her ankle. The unpleasant business behind him, he returned the boat to its moorings. Hidden in the shadows, he re-entered the hotel. No one suspected his midnight activities.

     In the morning, Kasra Anvari settled BahAr Mazanderani’s bill.

     "The young lady went ahead to New York City," he casually told the hotel clerk. "I plan to join my sister in a few days. I still have a little business to attend in San Francisco."

     The clerk hardly paid attention. He never listened to the guests’ chatter or explanations. After working at the reception desk for twenty-five years, the multiple check ins and outs became routine. Dismissing the Iranian patron, he smiled at the young couple waiting patiently behind him. 

 

Chapter Five

 

     "This is the life!" Elizabeth Talbot exclaimed as she raised her Mai Tai glass. “Jamaica, Mon!”

     On either side of her, two bikini-clad women perched on barstools. Middle-aged, they retained a youthful appearance. Glanced at from afar, they fooled many a roaming eye. Smiling happily, they tapped their glasses in agreement.   

     “No worries, Mon," Gayle Murray responded with a giggle. She had accompanied Liz on many previous jaunts. Adventurous by nature, she followed her friend into mischief. 

     Allyson Michaels buried her laughter by pressing her napkin over her mouth and nose. When she began to snort, she felt her nostrils fill. Fearfully, she imagined snot blowing across the bamboo-decorated pool bar. Dutifully, her mother taught her never to spread her germs in public places. Her instinct set in. Containing her the mucus, she glanced timidly at her friends. Already three sheets to the wind, neither noticed her swift movements.

     “Where did Karsyn get off to?” Liz asked, referring to Karsyn Crane. 

     The fourth and youngest member of their little party had not appeared.

     "Beats me," Allyson responded, rolling her shoulders in a shrug. Swaying on the barstool, she raised her glass in the bartender's direction.

     Understanding her request, the bartender nodded. Swiftly, he prepared three fresh rounds.  

     Allyson could not resist the opportunity to wink. Flirting with the widely smiling Jamaican came naturally.

     Muttering a tune to himself, Davy cheerfully replenished their drinks. He had a proposition for Allyson if he caught the little sweetie on her own. Nevertheless, he hardly cared which one he singled out�"he would proposition any of them. In the past, many young women crossed his path. He invited several to his lodgings. They were putty in his hands when he tipped something special into their drinks. As long as he succeeded, he continued to do it. No one complained, at least not yet.  

     "Karsyn said she had a headache this morning. She intended to stay in bed for a while. When she feels better, she’ll meet us later this afternoon," Allyson informed the group.

     Allyson shared a hotel bungalow with Karsyn Crane. Next door, Liz and Gayle occupied a similar one.

     "When we woke up, she looked like death warmed over,” Allyson continued. Casually, she sipped her cocktail. “We were all pretty drunk last night. When we rolled in from that last disco, Karsyn complained. She said she felt woozy."

     “We’re still pretty drunk,” Liz exclaimed. Lifting her third Mai Tai to her lips, she gulped it down. Slamming the empty glass on the bar, she ordered another one.

     “I sh…sh…sheckoned that,” Allyson slurred, swaying in her seat. Her companion had a habit of suddenly falling off her barstool. Gayle caught her arm.  

     “Think I should check up on her?” Gayle wondered. Immediately she became conscientious about her friend.

     “Nah, Karsyn’s all right,” Liz responded with a lackadaisical shrug. “She’ll find us when she’s ready.” Raising her glass toward the bartender, she indicated yet another round.

     “Shuttin’ down, ladies,” Davy Robinson exclaimed, rushing toward the intoxicated women. A big white grin lightened up his dark face. Swiftly, he reached up to roll down the bar’s security screen.

     “What’s the meaning of this?” Liz imperiously demanded. At the abruptness of the bar closure, she instantly sobered up. “No one, and I mean no one, closes down this early in the afternoon. Not in Jamaica, not anywhere.”

     “Orders, Mon…I mean mum.” Davy answered, still flashing his grin. “Orders,” he jovially repeated.

     "Whose orders?" Liz asked, her voice arrogantly rising. "My husband is Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot, US Army; I'll have you know. You can't shut down on us. We're all Army wives here. We know a thing or two…"

     Davy swiftly shut her down.

     "It's the plague, lady. Plague. Do you get it?" the bartender remarked with a severe tone. “We're under mandatory orders to shut down. Immediately. All guests will be ordered to their bungalows and told to stay there. Best be shuffling off in that direction, mum."

     "Plague? You must be kidding," Elizabeth Talbot scoffed.

     Beside her, Gayle and Allyson nodded in agreement. Deferring to Liz as their leader, they hovered uncertainly. Authoritatively, their friend took up the argument for them.

     "You have rocks in your head. There's no plague,” Liz coolly stated. “Years ago, the medical field declared the plague eradicated, or perhaps, centuries ago. There's no plague in the 2000s."

     "Google it if you don't believe me," Davy responded. Rolling his eyes, he disdainfully muttered about stupid tourists. Swiftly containing himself inside the bar, he brought down the security curtain.  

     "Hey, yeah, it's real," Allyson exclaimed, her voice rising with excitement. Turning her smartphone so Liz and Gayle, she forced them to view the screen. "A plague outbreak appeared in San Fran a few weeks ago. It's spreading like wildfire across the States and in Europe. Bellevue Hospital, Kingston, Jamaica, confirmed six cases and two more possibilities are waiting for confirmation in Baywest Wellness in Montego Bay.”

     “Montego Bay?” Gayle questioned. “That’s us, right?”

     “Of course, it was right,” Liz impatiently screamed at her friend. She considered Gayle stupid and naïve. Allyson, too, for that matter.

     Although she disparaged her companions, Liz Talbot kept them around. She enjoyed feeling superior. Resembling little ducklings, they blithely followed her lead. She considered Karsyn her newest duckling. Karsyn, the youngest of the group, recently came within her sphere. Willingly she shadowed Liz’s every movement.

     Liz�"the perfect leader�"judged herself the smartest and shrewdest of the foursome. Using her father’s position as a General over them, she forced their obedience. If they did not jump to her command, her temper flared forth. They quelled and kowtowed to her demands.

     “What are we going to do?” Gayle asked in trepidation. Her anxiety began to show.

     "Go back to our bungalows, then get outta here," Elizabeth Talbot announced, grasping her smartphone. Fingers flying, she dashed off a text message to her husband, Oliver. "IN MONTEGO BAY. GET US OUTTA HERE!"

     Sliding from her barstool, Liz determinedly marched toward her cabin. To her left, the pool stood empty beneath the blazing Jamaican sun. Hastily, bathers gathered their belongings. The irritated military wife rudely cut between a mother and her toddler son, breaking their linked hands. Ignoring the mom’s angry remarks, she strode onward.

     Liz’s shoulder-length frosted hair jounced across her back. The strap of her neon pink string bikini slipped down her arm. Impatiently, she swiped at it. The matching bottoms stretched out of proportion and clung to her buttocks. Liz continued to believe herself to be a perfect size four, although an eight made a better reality. Oblivious about her appearance, she strode onward, feeling she looked imperious.

     Soberly her two companions followed her. Although hers fit less snugly, Gayle wore a similar bathing costume. A red, white, and blue striped poncho covered Allyson's navy one-piece suit. Swinging at her side, she carried a straw catch-all bag.

    Both women lacked their friend's confidence. Inwardly, they worried about the plague. Their situation seemed dire. 

     Allyson called a hasty goodbye at her bungalow. Liz and Gayle continued to the one next door.

     “So what next?” Gayle asked, entering their shared space. With the plague spreading quickly, she hated the idea of remaining trapped on the Caribbean island. “What if we can’t leave?” 

     "We wait," Liz nonchalantly exclaimed. She dragged her suitcase onto the double bed and flung her clothes into it. "It's up to Ollie to get us off this stinking island."

     It always remained up to Ollie to get her out of every mess she created.

     "I sent him a text telling him to get us outta here,” Elizabeth Talbot blithely continued. Her confidence surged. “He'll order an EVAC for us, you'll see."

     “What if he can’t?” Gayle moaned, falling further into her anxious state of mind.

     "He has to." Liz shrugged dispassionately. "Hey, don't worry about it, Gayle." Suddenly, she noticed the worried look etched across her friend's face. "I love you."

     Liz and Gayle had been secret lovers for years. Folding her companion into a warm embrace, Liz kissed the top of her head. Her warm, soft lips traveled to the tip of Gayle’s nose. Finally, passionately, she captured her mouth and thrust her tongue inside.

     A loud banging sounded at the door, interrupting the fervent couple. Angrily swinging it open, Liz scowled at Allyson.

     "What do you want?" Elizabeth snapped, leaning impatiently in the doorway.

     “You better look at Karsyn,” Allyson stated, her voice rising to a scream. Panic appeared in her usually calm blue eyes. “I think she’s got it.”

     "Knock it off, Ally. Stop trying to scare us." Annoyed, Liz began to swing the door closed. Allyson thrust her hand out to stop her.

     "Seriously, girls. She's got this thing�"like right here." The frightened Army wife indicated a spot in her armpit. "It's repulsive."

     Nervously, the three friends crowded over the bed in the small, neat bungalow. The damp, sweat-covered sheet clung to Karsyn's naked form. Her vacant eyes stared at the ceiling.

     Twenty-five-year-old Karsyn Crane never traveled without her husband. Newly married, she clung to the young Lieutenant. Greyson meant the world to her; separation from him left her lost and alone. Her friends claimed she would become accustomed to his departures. Perhaps, in time, she would. However, her loneliness during deployments left her depressed.

     Feigning concern, Elizabeth Talbot befriended Karsyn. Swiftly, the younger woman fell beneath her dominating presence. In short order, Karsyn joined Gayle and Allyson in Liz's shadow. She became part of "The Crew," as Liz called them.

     When the Jamacia trip came up, Liz practically bullied Karsyn into participating. She had not wanted to go. While her husband deployed overseas, she believed she should remain at home. Her infant son required her attention. She promised Greyson she would care for the child.

     Under pressure, Karsyn finally relented. She left baby Gerald with Gayle Murray’s sitter. Gayle’s three children�"twin girls aged six and a boy around Gerry's age--adored their caregiver. Her mind constantly drifted to the child she left behind. She faked having a good time. In and out of consciousness, she muttered her son’s name. Then, her thoughts became too muddled inside her foggy head.

     "What are we going to do?" Allyson whispered, wringing her hands. Along with her companions, she hovered over her sick friend’s bed.

     “Nothing,” Liz coolly responded, shaking out her shoulder-length hair. Abruptly, she headed for the door. “She’ll get over it.”

      "What if she doesn't?" Allyson whined, feeling the tears begin to well in her eyes. In a flood, they flowed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. "It's the plague. I don't think people get over it."

     "How would I know?" Liz snapped, grasping the doorknob. "Are you coming, Gayle?"

     “You’re not going to leave me here?” Allyson practically shrieked, rushing to stop her friend.   

     “Why not?” Liz coldly stated. “You’re already exposed.”

     “Well, so are you and Gayle,” Allyson countered, grabbing her friend’s hand. “She’s probably been walking around with it for days.”

     “Ollie will get us out.” Liz swung the door opened and stepped outside. “I told him to.”

     As soon as Liz and Gayle disappeared, Allyson sank onto the bed's edge. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed for her sick friend. ‘How was this going to end?’ she questioned to the still room.

     They traveled to Jamaica for a bit of fun. Their husbands’ absence permitted a little VaCay of their own when the men went away. According to Elizabeth Talbot, they deserved to have a good time.

     “Life is here for the taking,” Liz frequently exclaimed.

     Allyson and Gayle happily obliged. Karsyn voiced her misgivings but joined in nevertheless. For once in her life, they might have listened to the voice of reason. A multitude of past incidents flashed through Allyson’s mind, warning her. The plague caught them off guard. How was this thing going to end? Biting her lip, she stared at her sick friend. 

     Straightening her back, Allyson picked up the phone and called for emergency assistance. Her friend lay desperately ill; someone had to help her. If Karsyn entered the hospital, she had a chance of survival. It was not a wait-and-see situation. Within moments, a siren wailed in the distance. Allyson flung open the door and allowed the two Jamaican EMTs inside.

     “What have you done?” Liz screamed, barging inside. “I told you Ollie was going to evacuate us. I told you to wait.”

     “Karsyn couldn’t wait,” Allyson countered, taking control. “She’s sick, Liz.”

     “So you send her to a civilian hospital? Great.”

     "Shut up, Liz," Allyson responded, sudden command entering her voice. Honestly sick and tired of her friend's commandeering attitude, she stepped up to the plate.

     The friendship skidded to an abrupt halt. Allyson would never again fall under Elizabeth’s thrall. Her participation in Liz’s extraordinary schemes ended. Her eyes hotly flared as she made her stance. 

     Elizabeth grabbed ahold of Allyson's brown bob and pulled her companion to the ground. Allyson poked her fingers into Liz's steely blue orbs. Both women rolled on the floor beside Karsyn's sickbed. However, before the fight commenced any further, the authorities arrived. Roughly pulling the aggressive women apart, Police Officer Lamont Bolt roughly pulled them apart. Dragging Gayle Murray from the next-door room, he informed the three women to remain in quarantine. Then, warning them to linger, he forced them into the other bungalow.

     "Your friend is dead," the uniformed Jamaican informed them. Firmly he closed the door upon the three women and posted a guard.

     At the abrupt announcement of their companion’s demise, Allyson Murray and Gayle Michaels burst out in tears. As they mournfully wailed, Elizabeth Talbot glared at them disdainfully. Steely-hearted, she felt a glimmer of emotion barely. Her friends' show of weakness revolted her.

     Liz drew out her smartphone. Using all the expletives in her vocabulary, she demanded Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot respond to her immediately.

    

 

Chapter Six

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot glanced at the consecutive text messages his wife sent. Fifteen in a comparable matter of minutes. In each, the expletives became fuller and more complicated. Reading between the lines, he understood the situation. Liz and her friends remained stuck in Kingston, Jamaica. Quarantine orders held them. She demanded the orders lifted and that he EVAC the group stateside.

     As far as Ollie was concerned, she could stay there. From the moment he married her, Liz became a thorn in his side from the moment he married her. Sure, daddy rescued her from all her follies as a child. She expected her husband to continue the practice. Previously, he jumped at her command. However, he must draw a line in the sand somewhere. Mentally, he envisioned a sandy Jamaican beach and, harshly, drew that imaginary line.

     The last thing he needed was yet another distraction. Elizabeth provided a wealth of distractive possibilities. A strict lesson hovered on her horizon. Frustrated, Oliver prepared to provide her with one.

     Time and again, he explained the situation to her. Dramatics did not occur in his life. In his line of work, he must remain at the top of his game. It became a matter of life and death�"not only for himself but also for his colleagues. A disruption during a sensitive mission could result in loss of life. Although he made it clear, Liz continued on her self-destructive course. Too often, he found himself jumping in to save her.

     “Any news yet, sir?” Major Gonzalez questioned from the doorway.

     “Not yet,” Major,” Talbot responded. His irritation peppered his voice. “Unless finding your wife quarantined in Jamaica is news.”

     Rarely did he bring his personal life into a military surrounding. However, this time, he spoke without consideration.

     "You gotta be kidding," Alberto Gonzalez breathed. Then, he whistled through his teeth.

     “Do I look like I’m kidding,” Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot smartly responded. Leaning his elbows on his desk, he pushed his hands through his bristled brown hair.

     “Jesus Christ.”

     As Alberto turned away, Oliver’s private smartphone buzzed again. Glancing down, he received the news of Karsyn Crane’s sudden demise. The following message revealed the illness of Gayle Martin. His wife’s expletives halted. The subsequent texts contained only straight information.

     “Did you know Karsyn Crane?” Lt. Col. Talbot abruptly asked.

     “Can’t say so, sir,” Alberto responded, his flat voice emphasizing the negative.

     “She died of the plague,” Talbot flatly stated. His professionalism rose to the surface.

     “Sorry to hear it.” Gonsalez returned, equally as flat.

     “Gayle Martin is sick.”

     “Damn.”

     Major Alberto Gonsalez knew Gayle Murray. During a Gulf War tour, he'd worked closely with her husband, Major Willis Murray. It remained an unspoken fact that Gayle was Elizabeth Talbot's secret female lover. The known fact remained deeply hidden from the Lieutenant Colonel. However, in the same way, Oliver kept his knowledge private. The truth dawned on him many years ago. Something Hank said clued him in.

     A slow, grim smile crept across Oliver Talbot's face. Leaning back in his chair, he dismissed Major Gonsalez. He picked up his regulation phone and began making calls. Once again, his wife dragged him feet first down the rabbit hole. He felt forced to coordinate an EVAC for his wayward spouse and her simple-minded group of girlfriends. Behind his temples, a slow staccato beat.

     Then, Oliver snapped the cell phone closed. Tossing it on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. Mentally, hands reached out of the earth and grasped the sides of the rabbit hole. A head and a set of shoulders rose above the short grass. The insanity had to stop somewhere.

     Throughout her life, Liz’s father rescued her from her folly. Closing the door on the enabling, Lt. Col. Talbot decided to pass the buck back where it belonged. The Amberley’s spoiled their three daughters. His wife received the worst of it. Moving from place to place created a lack of discipline within the household. Chaos reigned as June Amberley grappled to keep her family in check. In the meantime, the General allowed the girls to run all over him.

     It had been dissimilar to the Talbots. Considering Ivan's difficulties, Jeff and Beatrice worked together to overcome the bumps in the road. They held family meetings giving each member a voice in the situation. They worked and moved together. A natural-born organizer, Bea planned for all events and swiftly pulled them together.

     After all the misfortunes of his marriage, Ollie knew the time arrived to pull back. The word DIVORCE flared into his brain. He considered a separation many times. All too often, military marriages fell apart in the same way. However, Oliver consistently pushed the idea away. For some reason, it felt like a failure. Throughout the years, he tried to prompt Elizabeth to make the ultimate suggestion. Stubbornly, she held on with the fierce grip of a gorilla.

     Lt. Col. Talbot picked up his phone and searched for Tom Amberley's number. He rarely used it. However, it appeared near the top. Naturally, it was an "A" name.

    "Liz is stuck in Jamaica under quarantine. Requires EVAC," Oliver tersely typed. Then, he hit the send button. He sent the phone flying onto the desk again.

     There, he did it.

     Regardless of the tight churlish feeling in his stomach, Ollie believed his behavior righteous. A retired General still held more weight than a Lieutenant Colonel. Let him make the phone calls and give the orders. Tom’s reach remained long; he knew the right people. Little more than a child in an adult body, Liz still needed her beloved daddy.

     Despite his mother’s protests, Oliver realized he should have married Nicola. He sighed and ran his hands through his bristled hair again.

 

Chapter Seven

 

     Stateside, the President ordered a complete lockdown. The plague spread by leaps and bounds.  Hospital corridors filled with gurneys lined head to toe. Providing their patients with the best medical care, doctors and nurses worked overtime. Still, they lost more than they could save.

     Restaurants, grocery stores, and malls ran on a skeleton crew. They required only necessary employees to work. A limited requirement concerning the number of shoppers allowed inside became effective. Multiple businesses handed out layoffs by the dozens. People wondered how they were going to survive. The plague worried them, and so did the lack of a paycheck.

     Mask mandates went into effect.

     The words Plague and Pandemic became commonplace. The news readers, reporting from home, spoke of a vaccine. However, it might take years to develop one.

     Around the world, other countries enforced similar orders.

 

     The Pentagon recommendation Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot awaited lay on the President’s desk. Abraham Q. Morton, better known as President Shilly-Shally, lackadaisically pushed it aside. A raid into the mountainous region of Iran went against his political agenda. One false move and World War Three lay on his doorstep.

     A diplomatic approach seemed the better option. He requested the State Department seek peace talks with Iranian officials. His party backed him.      

     President Morton faced the plague pandemic only six months after taking the oath of office. He realized it could make or break his political career. Morton did not wish for his new position. His colleagues in the Senate pressured him into running for POTUS. They made him believe he remained their only hope to pull the country back to their agenda. Serving for thirty-six years as the lead Senator from Illinois, he sat on many committees and chaired a several. He gained the respect of his associates and his constituents.

     In a weak moment, Morton decided to crown his achievements by seeking the highest office in the land. Truthfully, he would rather retire. However, he decided he could give another four or eight years to the people he served. Throwing his hat in the ring, he felt surprised to find himself headlining his party's National Convention. Then, following a landslide election, Abraham Q. Morton became the duly elected President of the United States.

     Morton sat behind the Resolute Desk. Sweat beaded his bald pate. Anxiously, he dabbed it with an extra-large white handkerchief. He had not told anyone about his fever. It came, and it went. During the day, the fever varied with freezing sweats. Holding firm, he continued with his daily schedule. However, he wished he could crawl into bed and stay there.

     "Half an hour, Mr. President." A curly red head poked into the office. It belonged to his press secretary. The half an hour warning signaled a public address. Nervously, he shuffled his notes. Speaking to the public gave him the willies. The chills returned.

     A replica Resolute Desk sat in the center of a dummy Oval Office. The country believed President Abraham Q. Morton still resided in the White House. However, as soon as the plague pandemic broke, he swiftly moved into a Kentucky bunker. His wife, Mildred, shared his cramped quarters.

     Along with his eight grandchildren, his four sons and their wives resided with them. At first, the youngsters enjoyed what they referred to as "camping." After eight weeks, they became antsy. The whole group played on Morton’s nerves.

     The President spoke for two straight hours. Assuring the people they were safe, he outlined a rigorous course of action to avoid contracting the plague. He begged everyone to stay inside and shelter in place. Only necessary excursions out of the home would be tolerable. His family, he stated, would lead by example. They remained safe and sound in their homes. Mildred promised to pray to the All-Mighty to bring them through this difficult time.              

     President Morton did not refer to the military plan of action. He never mentioned the potential threat from Iran or the possible plague origin. According to his speech, the pestilence simply appeared as a twist of fate. He intended to deal with it as such. Secretly, he believed his assurances, although all evidence pointed directly to the Iranian source.

 

     Outside the White House, crowds began to gather. Rumor spread that the plague represented a means of mass extinction. The Iranians were behind it, the gossips claimed. Angrily, the mob protested the President's inaction. Many ignored the mask mandate. They wanted the truth and demanded it.

     “President Waffle Iron,” Abraham Morton chuckled, watching the news broadcast from his bunker. “That’s a new one.”

     Signs bearing his face with waffle indents rose above many others. Angry protesters yelled out the nickname. Their maskless faces showed their fury.

     "Do you think it's funny?" Millie asked. His wife perched in an armchair beside him. She had remained by his side from the beginning of his political career. All the ups and down of the election trail lay behind her. Never would she participate in another one. When she and Abe were alone in bed, she reminded him they had been on their last campaign.

     “Well, in a way…” Abraham began, then sealed his lips. The stern look on Millie’s face shut him down.

     Morton knew her opinion. Mildred had not been pleased about his presidential hopes. She believed he would leave the Senate quietly and live out the rest of his life in retirement. Arizona remained foremost on her mind. A lovely hacienda in the desert lay far away from DC and outside the beltway.

     Politics had been fun at first, but then it had gotten nasty. Millie had made many friends amongst the wives on both sides of the aisle. But, when election season came around, it was every man and woman for themselves. Mudslinging became a spectator sport. Millie did not like it, never had.

     The office of the President of the United States was a tumultuous one. The POTUS was either loved or hated. Ugly rumors flew. Ugly names described good men who tried to do their best. Impossible to make everyone happy. "Waffle Iron" was one of the mild ones.

     As First Lady, Millie Morton constantly stood under the spotlight. Dissenters ridiculed her clothes and shoes continuously. She had been dowdy her entire life. Buxom and running plump, she knew she was not attractive. People oinked at her when she appeared in public and yelled, "This little piggy went to market." Millie cringed.

     “We’re getting out of politics when your term is over,” Mildred abruptly stated, rising.       

     Without awaiting a response, she disappeared into their makeshift bedroom.

     The room was not a definite replica of the White House. It contained a simple bed, two nightstands, and a dresser. A small bathroom led from it. Millie sighed. Abe promised they would not stay here long. They would move back to the White House as soon as the plague broke.

     In the sitting room, the President stood and yawned. Absently, Abraham Q. Morton scratched beneath his armpit. He paused and thought a moment. Then he stripped off his undershirt. His roaming fingers discovered a small bubble.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

     Hank Talbot grabbed the phone from his grandmother’s hand. They sat in the kitchen eating an afternoon snack of cinnamon graham crackers and sweet iced tea. When the cell phone jingled to the tune of ‘The Army Goes Rolling Along,’ Granny Bea snatched it up. Stepping out of the sliding doors, she answered it. Hank swiftly whisked it from her hands. He knew who was on the other end.

     “Hello, dad,” Hank practically shouted into the smartphone. “Where are you? Oh, I know, you can’t say.”

     "Hi, Buddy," Ollie responded, chuckling. "You made it to Granny's, all right?"

     "Yeah, sure, dad," the eight-year-old boy answered.

     Hank traveled alone on the plane since the age of six-years-old. He felt like a pro. Sometimes mom took him to the airport. However, more than likely, one of her friends dropped him off. He did not mind. As he told his friends, he enjoyed being a globetrotter. The furthest he had ever flown was from Tokyo to Naples, Florida.

     “Boy was I lucky, dad,” Hank breathed, fogging up the screen. “I made the second to last flight before the airport shut down. Mom made the final one. She went to Jamaica.” The boy paused, then continued, “I don’t think you were supposed to know that.”

     “Don’t worry,” Oliver answered, his voice less than jolly. “I found out.”

     Taking great care, Ollie kept his aggravation out of his voice. He did not wish to speak about Liz at all. He had no wish to bring his only son into his dilemma.

     “Let me talk to Granny,” he said instead.

     “Sure,” the boy responded. Then, “Love you, dad.”

     “Love you, too, buddy.”

     The next moment, Beatrice Talbot said hello. She sounded cheerful, but Oliver knew she masked her concern. Instead, she made small talk: the weather, Hank's homeschooling, Jeff's inability to play golf.

     “What’s going on with Liz?” his mother finally asked.

     “Is Hank still around?” Ollie countered.

     "No, I sent him off to do his classwork," Bea assured. Grasping, one-handed, behind her, she pulled up an aluminum lawn chair and sat. Since the pandemic kept everyone at home, she spent much of her time in the backyard. The clean, fresh afternoon air did her good. Too soon, the temperatures would become Florida oppressive.

     "My darling wife got herself quarantined in Kingston, Jamaica, Mon." He had not meant to be funny. The 'Mon' slipped out.

     His mother breathed in sharply. Despite the distance between them, she felt her son's misery. Years ago, she believed she had done the right thing by separating Ollie from Nicola Prescott. Bea only considered the difficulties a military marriage presented. If one entered it unprepared, it fell apart rather swiftly. Petite Nicola did not have the broad shoulders to bear the responsibility. Perhaps she could have learned on the fly, but why put her through all that?

     Elizabeth Amberley seemed the better choice. However, time proved otherwise. Some military wives dedicated their lives to the service. They stood firmly between their husband's tours of duty and domestic life. The assets of such wives kept their men on solid ground. When the chips were down, they held the world upon their shoulders.

     Then, there were the other types. Liz fell into that category. She acted impulsively. Throwing Ollie's position around as though she were the Queen of Sheba, she demanded her own way. When the going got tough, Liz got going. Jamaica, Acapulco, and Tahiti were only a few of her runaway spots. She was never available when needed. Oliver constantly ran to her rescue. He'd made a wrong choice, and Bea had pushed him into it.

     “I’m sorry, Ollie,” his mother whispered, barely audible.

     “So am I, mom,” her son answered across the miles.

     “Are you going to arrange an EVAC?”

     “Her father is going to arrange one.”

     Oliver’s terse statement caused his mother to pause. Beatrice nearly urged him to rescue her. Then, she bit her tongue. Her mind whirled.

     “Divorce?” she finally asked, holding her breath.

     Never in the history of the Talbots had a marriage broken up. She nearly suggested counseling but stopped herself. Oliver and Liz had tried that, unsuccessfully. Following several sessions, the animosity between them calmed down, then boiled up again. The situation had gone too far to save it.

     “Possibly.” Ollie cut the conversation short.

     A moment elapsed between mother and son. Tension stood between them. Bea sighed; Ollie repeated her sound.

     “Mom,” Lt. Col. Talbot cut into the silence.

     “Yes, Ollie.”

     Another long pause. The next question rolled on Oliver’s tongue. Unsure, he hated to broach the subject. However, it seemed pertinent to ask.

     “Have you heard from Ivan?” The words tumbled out. For a prolonged moment, he did not believe his mother would answer.

     “No, Ollie.” Tears clung to Beatrice Talbot’s lashes.

     She placed her smartphone on the patio table and grasped the table's edges with white knuckles. Oliver knew better than to ask about Ivan. After all the years following his sudden disappearance from Swarthmore, she still ached for her oldest child. Often, in her sleep, she cried out his name. Beatrice loved both of her offspring. It broke her heart to lose one of them.

     The plague outbreak in the LBGTQ community worried her. A little voice inside her head told her Ivan was a part of it. Early one morning, she believed she felt the wisp of a spirit leave her body. A deep sorrow gripped her. Without any actual knowledge, she understood her child left the earth.

     “I’ll run another search, mom,” Oliver promised.

     Previously, Ollie made the same guarantee many times. Each time he came up empty. Following his enrolment at Swarthmore, all vital information concerning Ivan Geoffrey Talbot, Jr. led to a dead end. As far as the public record was concerned, the elder son of Gen. I. Jeff Talbot did not exist. Oliver attempted differing variations on the name and still came up empty.

     Before Beatrice mutter a response, Hank came back on the line.

     “Dad,” the boy tentatively started. Then, in a rush of words, “Mom said we’re going to get rid of Blinky and Floyd next time we move.”

     “Now, wait a minute, champ,” Ollie responded, suddenly mystified. “No one decided to get rid of Blinky and Floyd.”

     “Mom did,” Hank countered, practically sobbing.

     On the day of Hank's third birthday, Oliver discovered a litter of kittens near the trash dumpsters behind his office. Believing the cute critters would make a charming gift, he kept two. Then, he delivered the other three to a local no-kill shelter. Naming them Blinky and Floyd, the child kept them as his constant companions. A part of the family, the two pets traveled to each of the Talbot's new locations.

     Feral cats and wayward wives abounded on military bases. With a new move in sight, families left their pets behind. The animals roamed the installations. They bred like rabbits, and the feral population grew. While the cat population thrived, the wives cycled around. After three or four years, those who made up the community transferred. New ones replaced them. The situation revolved.

     Consistent animal lovers, the Talbots took their pets with them. Oliver could no sooner part with Blinky and Floyd than Hank could. The many cats and dogs he remembers moved along with the family. Furthermore, he implored other military families to do the same. However, more and more abandoned feral animals roamed around the bases.

     "Mom was wrong, Hank," Oliver reassured, smiling. "Are they with you now?"

     “Yeah,” the child answered, his lips too close to the screen. “They flew in the hold. After we hang up, I’ll take a photo and send it.”

     “You do that, son. Let me talk to Granny again.”

     “She went inside, dad. I think she’s crying.”

     The silence grew between father and son. For a moment, Oliver thought the boy had hung up. Then his voice came back in a whisper.

     “I think she’s crying about Uncle Ivan, daddy,” Hank stated. Although he did not know his uncle, he’d overheard talk about him. “Is Uncle Ivan in trouble?”

     "We don't know, son," Ollie responded, wishing to close the subject. It had been impossible to keep Hank from learning about his missing uncle. However, the family tried to keep their chatter down around the young boy.

     “Mommy’s in trouble again.”

     “Yes, but we won’t talk about it, okay?”

     "Yeah, okay, sure, dad," the boy answered conspiratorially.

     After a hasty goodbye, Oliver hung up the phone. After a moment, it buzzed. Picking it up, he opened a video of two frolicking cats. Misty grey Floyd batted playfully at his orange and white sister Blinky. Lt. Col. Talbot grinned for the first time in ages.

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

     Although the cat video amused him, Oliver Talbot could not relieve himself of thoughts about Ivan. He loved his brother. Sure, in his youth, he had not shown it. In high school, impressing his friends became more important than standing up for his strange sibling. He longed for popularity.

     His friends called Ivan a ‘f*g’ or a ‘queer.’ The unpleasant teasing rose to high levels, particularly in the gym locker room. The older Talbot wore dresses and made up his face in the mirror before attending the rest of his classes. Desperately, he petitioned the high school principal with a request to dress in the girls' locker room. The school adamantly denied permission.

     Protocol demanded Ivan shower with the rest of the boys. Covertly, he ogled their 'junk.' Basil Mumford claimed the elder Talbot attempted to 'massage his member.' A fight broke out, leaving Ivan on the losing end.

     Ollie pushed his way through the crowd. Kneeling between the wooden benches, he cradled his brother’s head in his lap. Then, leaping to his feet, he offered to fight Basil. Ivan tugged on the tail of his khaki ‘Go Army’ tee shirt and begged him to stop. In his brother’s defense, Oliver keened for a fight.

     The far away days panged at Lt. Col. Talbot's brain. Although he stood up for Ivan when necessary, he felt embarrassed. His brother played with Barbies until he reached the age of sixteen. He raided his mother's closet for clothes and shoes. Then, he fell head over heels for Tulliver Cabot, the latest heartthrob singing idol.

     "Gross," young Ollie muttered. Entering Ivan's bedroom, many posters depicting the singer decorated the walls. A huge one peered down from the ceiling over the double bed. His brother sprawled on the quilt, gazing at the sweaty blonde entertainer. "Man, you're crazy."

     “You do things your way,” Ivan coolly responded. “I’ll do it my way.”

     “Yeah, whatever.” Oliver backed from the room and stood framed in the doorway. “Mom has dinner ready. Will you grace us with your presence, princess?”

     The pillow flew across the room. Before it could hit him in the face, Oliver grabbed it and held it against his chest. Then, he threw it back. Spinning on his heels, he marched downstairs. Ivan passed him on the way down. Resembling an overgrown child, he skipped through the dining room. Plunking into his seat, he widely grinned up at his brother.

 

******

 

     Sensitivity training changed Oliver Talbot's outlook. Many, but not all, of the outdated military stances on gays altered opinions. Some still took a negative view on the subject, but Ollie was not one of them. With his experience, he encouraged others to think differently.

     He wished he had been more understanding of Ivan. Instead, he'd treated his brother like a pariah. Hanging his head in shame, he understood he had been part of the problem. His parents' stance on the subject caused Ivan's sudden disappearance. Perhaps the outcome would have been different if they'd taken the time to talk about it. Instead they brushed it under the table.

     Ivan faded out of their lives without a word. Leaving the family to worry, he dropped out of college and drifted away. No one knew where he was or whether he was dead or alive. The plague virus caused a great deal of worry. Ivan was vulnerable.

     Oliver longed to do his best to find him. Occasionally, he would sit up late at night searching the internet for signs of Ivan. Pride sites and parade photos caught his attention. Eagerly, he scanned them looking for the familiar Talbot features. No one popped out at him. He utilized every search engine he came across. Although he tracked down every possibility, they always dead-ended.

     Someone had to know Ivan Talbot. Possibly, he drifted from place to place.

     In his nightmares, Ollie saw his brother hanging out at highway truck stops or in bus terminals. Strung out on heroin, Ivan sold himself to any passerby. Ragged and skinny, he slumped in open doorways or slept in abandoned buildings. Waking up covered in sweat, Oliver called his brother's name and rolled over.

     Liz provided minimal comfort. Although she had never met Ivan, she seemed to know all about him. Referring to him as 'your f*g brother,' her prejudices rose to the surface. Ollie held his tongue in full knowledge of her affair with Gayle Martin. Elizabeth Talbot was no better off than Ivan.

     “You’re not going to find him,” Liz wearily whined. Reaching out, she yanked Ollie’s tablet away and turned it off. “The glow is keeping me awake.”

     “He’s my brother, Liz,” Ollie remarked, lowering himself onto his pillow. “My mother asked me to do another search.”

     “Let your mother search.” His wife yawned loudly.

     “Imagine how frantic you’d be if it were Hank,” he countered. He thought he could use his son to make his point.

     Liz's snore provided all the response he required. If it did not happen to her directly, she could care less. Distressed, Oliver considered his wife's cold, hard heart. It was all one for one and one for none, in her opinion. She would not get out of her own way in a crisis.

     Liz had too many crises going on in her life to worry about anyone else. She exploited her drama to the nth extreme. She would blow her tragedies out of the water if anything happened to Hank. It would be all about her, not about their son. It seemed Liz was the one in need of sensitivity training.

     After a bout with his wife, Oliver Talbot decided he would trade her for his brother any day.

     “Any news?” Major Gonzalez asked, re-entering the office.

     "Huh? What?" Lt. Col. Talbot sat up straight behind his desk. The Major interrupted his thoughts. It took him a moment to return to reality. "Sorry, no." He used a short answer.

     “What are we waiting for?” Alberto questioned, full of impatience.

     “President.” Talbot sternly pursed his lips.

     "Still? What's the tie-up?"

     "Apparently, the Ayatollah claims it's not them,” the Lt. Col informed. “Morton’s taking their word for it.”

     “Well, la-de-da.” Major Gonzalez flung himself uninvited into the chair facing the desk. “It is them, right?”

     “Right.”

     “So?”

     “So, usually when it is them, they claim it, right?”

     “Right.”

     “Not this time.” Oliver paused, allowing his words to sink in. “All intelligence points toward Iran. The President utilized diplomatic channels to ascertain the facts. Iran adamantly denies it. Why? In most cases, they announce their involvement, right? Not on this one.

     "Even when we prove the virus originated in the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain range, they reject it," Talbot continued. "They claim they have a guard outpost there but nothing else. No one other than the guards have been near the region. Nothing in, nothing out. Morton, as I said, believe them."

     Gonzalez silently weighed the information.

     “Are we going in or going home?” he finally questioned.

     “Up to the Pentagon,” Talbot answered. “In the meantime, we wait.”

     “Jesus Christ.” Gonzalez’s favored oath. After a pause, he stated, “Might be a lone wolf.”

     “Might be,” Oliver grimly conceded. “Guess it's up to the Iranians to check it out."

     "Yeah, waiting for them is like waiting for it to rain in the Sahara."

     Alberto Gonzalez rose and departed without leave. After a few minutes, Lt. Col. Talbot followed him out. He wanted to address his team, although he knew the Major had already informed them.

     Standing in the midst of a rough circle, Talbot addressed his men. He laid out the details in the same manner he'd laid them out for Gonzalez. Moans ran around the group. Many wished to return to their homes to check on their families. The plague worried them. 

     The men were, after all, still human. They had their worries and dilemmas, the same as he did. Oliver invited each to contact their wives, mothers, and children to ensure all remained safe and sound stateside.

     Oliver Talbot sent out one text message when he assured himself they were busy on their smartphones.

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

     Nicola Prescott glanced at her phone's screen. "Elysian Fields Delayed," the text stated.

     Surreptitiously, she kicked the luggage waiting beside the door. Although she realized the long-awaited trip was off, she felt disappointed. Almost nine months had passed since the last time she saw Ollie. For one reason or another, they sidelined all their recent attempts. But, with the plague raging worldwide, she already realized another delay appeared on the horizon.

     Turning away from her expectant bags, she decided to unpack later on. There was not much she could do about it. Returning the message with a lament would not alter the situation. Nicola would just have to wait it out�"again.

     Although Beatrice Talbot claimed Nicola did not fully understand the military protocol, Nic begged to differ. She had given Ollie her complete patience. When a mission interfered with their plans, she never complained. A kind word softened her lover's disappointment. Often, she railed inside but rarely showed it. She knew her weaknesses and let them out into her pillow at night. Then, she showed her brave face to Oliver.

     “Another time,” Nic whispered to herself. Then she went into the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee.

     Nicola Prescott lived alone. She kept an apartment in Manhattan to remain close to her literary agent and publisher. Two bedrooms with a bath and a half suited her requirements. It was not her permanent address. However, it came in handy. Her actual address was in Spring Hill, Florida. She remained at her NYC home until the lifting of the current restrictions.    

     Remaining on lockdown did not cause a predicament. Nicola saved half an unedited manuscript to MS Word. While she had ample free time, Nic intended to prepare it for her agent. However, it would have to wait until her emotions calmed down. She longed to see Ollie this time around.

     "Where are you, Ollie?" she asked her mug. Absently, she spun it on the sleek rosewood table. 'Cat Mom,' it said on the front. A brown-haired woman perched on a couch with three cats surrounding her. A grey named Muffin, an orange name Tangerine, and a tuxedo named Samantha made up her little family.

     During her weakest moments, Nicola lamented not having a real family. In her youth, she longed for children. As they walked along the Champs-Elysees, she spoke to Oliver about four little ones. Placing his arm around her waist, he pulled her close. Kissing her temple, he laughingly agreed. Four would suit him fine, as long as they were hers too. She delighted in those long ago plans.

     Nicola only had thoughts of Oliver. After their sudden break-up, she'd shut herself off from society. The idea of masculine company put her hackles up. When she finally accepted a date with a fellow novelist, she spent the evening comparing him to her lost lover. It was entirely unfair, but she couldn't stop herself. Finally, after a dozen similar failures, she stopped accepting invitations.

     In her worst moments, Nicola despised Oliver for his vulnerability. They both craved peaceful situations. Their relationship had been easygoing and relaxed. When they could not meet, she brushed it off with promises of another time. Ollie appreciated her efforts. When he felt he had failed her, she calmly reassured him. She never berated him. They both agreed to stand aside when a critical mission arose. She could not recall a single argument between them.

     Nicola could not recall any adverse situations arising with Oliver. Then, his mother became involved. Their relationship took a swift downhill turn after they announced their engagement. Suddenly, the entire position turned belly up. Once Beatrice Talbot sunk her teeth in, she did not let go. All the plans Nicola made with Ollie disintegrated.

     Bea filled Ollie with misinformation. Nicola corrected it until it tried her patience. No matter what she said to the contrary, his mother was always right. It never occurred to him to doubt the steady flow of misinformation. Finally, after six months of distress on both sides, her fiancé called it off.

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot used his mother's misstatements against her. It continued to irk her. If he had only understood, the situation might have resolved itself differently. However, he'd caved.

     The break-up destroyed her, and Nicola allowed it to rule her life. She thought of all the happiness she and Ollie shared. The long walks on the beach, kissing as the orange Florida sun sank beneath the gulf horizon. She longed for the eagerness she felt when they planned to see each other again.

     Nic began writing the novel she planned in high school to distract herself. Deeply involved in character development and plot twists, she pushed Oliver Talbot from her mind. She told herself she had seen his true colors. He never made a move to defend her against his mother. All the discussions they had concerning the future wafted away into thin air. She had to move away from him and move on with her life.

     After completing her first manuscript, Nicola approached several agencies. The uphill battle began, and the rejection slips poured in. Time after time, she felt pangs of disappointment. Yet, she continued sending out query letters. Finally, The Jake Markham Agency picked it up.

     Delighted, she agreed to the terms presented to her. Then, within six months, she sold her book.

     "The Blytheville Massacre" became an immediate best seller. Following a whirl of book readings and signings, she traveled across the United States. The promotion succeeded, and she went on a similar tour of the United Kingdom. A movie studio picked up the rights to bring her story to the big screen.

     Nicola Prescott followed "The Blytheville Massacre" with "The Alberta Ripper." She moved into the New York City apartment with another novel on the top of the book charts. She continued to write by splitting her time between Spring Hill, Florida, and Manhattan. Due out in another three weeks, "Molly's Revenge" was set to become her next best seller. "Cricket Madison" was saved in MS Word. She was only four chapters in, but with the plague keeping everyone on lockdown, she felt sure she could complete it ahead of schedule.

     The Manhattan shutdown did not bother her. Keeping to a writing schedule, Nicola Prescott and her laptop became best friends. When her food stock ran low, she ordered online. Exhausted by a steady flow of words, she had her meals delivered.

     In the early morning, Nicola walked in the park for exercise. The city promoted the clean, fresh air of Central Park as a means to get outside. Few people mingled along the paths. She crossed out of their way if she encountered another walker or jogger. Or they crossed.

     Keeping a good social distance, her friends waved as she passed. Then, they shot her a text to say hello.

     Meetings in the coffee shop ground to a halt. Nicola missed her group of literary friends. Steph Malone and Gabby Sanchez were her besties. Sitting at a sidewalk café, she bounced plot twists with Milt Kromesky. The elderly writer gave good advice. However, she rarely utilized it.

     Unnerved by the empty sidewalks, Nicola quickened her pace. The slap of her tennis shoes against the pavement echoed back. For a moment, she imagined Oliver strolling beside her.

     Manhattan suddenly depressed her. Without the pretzel and hot dog vendors, the city seemed empty. Silence reverberated between the canyons of skyscrapers. Nicola longed to retreat to Florida, but the airlines remained shut down. She considered renting a car to take her home. Dragging three cats along might cause difficulties.

     Nevertheless, she thought she could manage it. It was a straight run down Interstate 95 to Daytona Beach. I-4 would take her through Orlando to Tampa. Then, it was only a short jog to Spring Hill. Nicola pondered the possibilities. It meant a lot of solo driving, but it would get her out of NYC.

     Her phone tinkled to the tune of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Nicola glanced at it, then back to her laptop screen. She'd been a million miles away. Allowing the phone to jingle the Cyndi Lauper tune, she returned to her protagonist, Cricket Madison. Steph could wait; Cricket had troubles of her own.

     When Cricket Madison discovered her live-in boyfriend was a psychopath, she decided to move out. Swiftly packing her suitcase, she never heard the apartment door click shut. The thick carpet muffled stealthy footsteps. Chadwick Mars loomed behind her. Clicking her case closed, she grabbed it, turned, and walked straight into his broad chest.

     "And then…" Nicola muttered to herself. "And then…what?" Leaning forward, she pushed her hands through her chestnut hair. Her fingers massaged her scalp�"a brick wall formed in her mind.

     The Cyndi Lauper tune jangled again. Nicola stared at her smartphone and decided to ignore it. Then, changing her mind, she snatched it up. Since the plague began to spread, Steph never failed to call her. She wanted to check in and make sure her friends remained safe.

     “Hey,” Nic cheerfully answered.

     “Hey, yourself,” Steph chuckled. Then her voice turned serious, “If you hadn’t answered, I was going to call 911.”

     “Am I worth all that?” Nicola retorted, smiling to herself. Steph knew her sense of humor.

     "Are you worth… Oh, hilarious." After a moment's pause, she continued, "You know I call every day because of the plague."

     "Yeah, I know. So how is everyone?" Nic asked. Her friend kept daily track of all their acquaintances.

     Stephanie chatted about all the friends they had in common. Steph and Gabby Sanchez frequently met since they lived in the same building. They had coffee together that morning. Steph chatted about Gabby's new poetry anthology due for release in the week following Nicola's "Molly's Revenge."

     After mentioning several others, the conversation dragged to a standstill. Nic held her breath, knowing bad news hovered between them. Finally, Steph sighed heavily.

     "Milt was rushed to the hospital last night," she stated, a sob catching in her throat. "He's got it, Nic. Poor man. He's eighty-four, so I doubt he'll make it."

     Nicola caught her own sob. The elderly fellow had been her friend since she arrived in NYC. They had initially met at her publisher's penthouse and forged an everlasting companionship. Ever gallant, Milt made a point of introducing her around. Later, he stuck to her like glue.

     "I'm an old fossil man clinging to my misspent youth," Milt whispered confidently. He'd brought her to her door following a late-night party. "If I weren't exhausted, I'd take you dancing. No, I change my mind. I'd take you to bed."

     Nicola laughed at the memory. She might have accepted his offer if he'd been thirty years younger. However, he had been a good friend. She hated to lose him in such a miserable way. Closing her eyes, she angrily dashed away her tears.

     “So what’s up with Cricket?” Steph broke into her morbid thoughts. Both women longed to turn the subject.

     “Oh, Cricket. She got fed up with Chad and packed her bags,” Nicola answered, returning to her manuscript. “But he caught her leaving.”

     “Oh no,” her caller responded, shock filling her voice. Naïve Stephanie believed storybook character actual people. Nic smiled to herself. “What’s she gonna do?”

     "Don't know yet." Nicola leaned back in her kitchen chair. "She'll probably knee him in the nuts or baseball bat his balls."

     "Baseball bat his balls," Steph decided for her. "One of those big chunky wooden suckers. They make them out of ash or something like that. Give him a good whack with that, and he'll sing Soprano for the rest of his life."

     “You got it, chickadee.” Nicola chuckled despite the bad news about Milt.

     “Is Chadwick gonna kill her, do you think?”

     “Nah, he can’t. Cricket’s the main character. Can’t kill her off.”

     “No, of course not,” Steph conceded, her hopes of a bloody death dashed. “Well, I gotta go. More calls to make, folks to check up on.”

     “Sure. Talk soon.” Nicola rang off. She had to find an ash baseball bat somewhere in Cricket’s bedroom.

******

     Nicola Prescott became reacquainted with Oliver Talbot in Washington, DC. Her research into Capital Monuments brought her there. “Molly’s Revenge” reached its denouement on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial. Checking into the same hotel, they dumped into each other in the elevator. 

     At first, Nic attempted to keep a low profile. The car held a crowd of hotel guests, but Ollie noticed her. Pushing his way to her, he gave her a brisk hello. She pretended she didn't recognize him but couldn't keep up the charade. Finally, she agreed to meet him in the bar.

     Donning a sleek, black strapless dress, Nicola entered the hotel bar. She chose the outfit on purpose. Like Molly, she wanted revenge. She would show Oliver Talbot precisely what he had been missing. Her eyes traveled over the setting, missing him the first time. On the second swipe, she located him in a corner booth. He wore civilian clothing.

     "Hello, stranger," Nicola greeted her long ago lover. Politely he rose, and she slid in opposite him.

     “Nic, I’ve missed you,” Ollie began.

     “Save it, Oliver Talbot,” she snapped. She had not meant to; it came out. Quickly, she bit her tongue.

     "Look, I…" He paused; the air thick between them. "It wasn't going to work between us. There were too many obstacles."

     “Obstacles your mother threw between us,” Nicola flung back.

     "My mother had nothing to do with it," the Army Officer hotly responded.

     “Really, Ollie?” Nicola retorted, waspishly.

     "Yes, well…" His mind raced for an answer. Time had not erased his past excuses. Caught in the moment, he finally understood the truth. "I'm sorry, Nic."

     Ashamed, Oliver lowered his eyes to the table. The single rose in a vase between them seemed incongruous. Lifting it, he moved it aside. Its red face reflected his embarrassment. Slowly, the minutes ticked between them. Too many mistakes separated them. He recalled all the happy times they shared and the distress of ending a loving relationship. If only he could make it up to her, he would.

     “I guess you know I’m married,” Ollie confessed, still not meeting her eyes.

     “Elizabeth Ann Amberley,” Nicola snidely stated. When the engagement announcement appeared in her newspaper’s society column, she hatefully shredded it.

     Liz Amberley had a terrible reputation. Her picture often appeared in the news, followed by another catastrophe. Nicola wondered what happened with the drug case. The General's daughter deplaned from Acapulco with a brick of cocaine. The authorities detained her. Serious charges followed her. Then, suddenly the case fell from public view. The following articles proclaimed her engagement to Oliver Talbot.

     “Yes.” Ollie scrunched down in his seat. The marriage furthered his discomfiture. Half-heartedly, he looked for an escape.

     Across from him, Nicola Prescott's heart softened. Attune to her companion's moods, she suddenly felt sorry for him. Reaching across the table, she grasped his hand. Her kind sapphire eyes forced him to look up. Weakly, she smiled. After a second, he returned it.

     "I thought you invited me for a drink," Nic commented, breaking the ice.

     Oliver signed the server and ordered a rum and coke and a scotch on the rocks. Nicola unstiffened a little more. He remembered her favored cocktail.

     "What brings you to DC?" he finally asked, sipping his drink.

     "Research," Nick responded, smiling over the rim of her glass. "I have a lying, cheating Senator I'm going to knock off."

     For a moment, Oliver Talbot believed she meant it. Alarmed, he raised himself into a military posture. Then, he relaxed.

     “Your next book?” he inquired, feeling relieved.

     “Yes, ‘Molly’s Revenge.’” Leaning forward, she avidly filled him in on the details.

     “Wow! You had me fooled for a minute.”

     “Yeah, you and Stephanie Malone.” When Oliver mouthed ‘who?’, she continued, “Friend of mine. Believes my characters are real.”

     “Oh.” Oliver laughed. He, too, began to relax.

     Three times their server reminded them of closing time. The couple reminisced about their fun together, lost in the past. They grasped their hands, remembering their first meeting on the Champs Elysee to their final bike trip through the Cotswolds. Both wished to grab their memories and hang on for dear life. However, they had to relent and separate.

     Oliver Talbot escorted Nicola Prescott to her hotel room. Outside the door, he lingered. Finally, Nic invited him in. They chatted for another hour, liberally utilizing the wet bar. Neither recalled who kissed who first. In the morning, they awoke enfolded in each other arms. It felt like old times.

     When he attempted an apology, Nicola hushed Oliver. Then, they merged as one. Separating, Nic traced her finger along Ollie's profile. She adored him still. After such a wild night, how could she let him go? She knew she could never leave him.

     “Elysian Fields Forever,” she breathed, turning dreamy eyes toward the ceiling. “I have to see you again, Ollie. I can’t live without you.”

     “I can’t leave you either,” her lover remarked. Leaning on his elbow, he gazed lovingly down at her. “I was a fool--a stupid, idiot fool.”

     “I concur.” Nicola grinned. Raising her arms, she encircled his neck. “You’re a stupid, idiot fool.”

     "What shall we do? I have a wife," Oliver lamented. Disentangling, he rose and stood in front of the room's window. Then, he turned back to his lover. "I hate her, Nicola. God help me, I hate Liz. I made a mistake�"a terrible, hideous mistake."

     “We’ll run away,” Nicola supplied, warming up to the idea. “We’ll escape to Elysian Fields. We’ll use it as our code word. When you can get away, text Elysian Fields. I’ll do the rest.”

 

******

 

     “Elysian Fields Delayed.” Nicola Prescott read the text message for the second time. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. She guessed Oliver’s cancellation had something to do with the plague outbreak. Pouring another cup of coffee, she set it beside her laptop.   Disappointment overwhelmed her.

     “Message received,” Nic typed and sent her return text. She did not have another recourse. Hold the fort down and wait, she grimly told herself. Soon, oh soon, she would see Ollie again.

Hand in hand, they would stroll amongst the forbidden fields. Elizabeth Talbot, a forgotten shadow figure, lurked in their wake. Blithely, Nic’s mind pushed her unknowing enemy away. She would deal with Liz only when forced to do so.

     In the meantime, Cricket Madison had Chadwick Mars to handle. Nicola bent over her laptop and wielded her imaginary baseball bat.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

     Sitting up in bed, Elizabeth Talbot sneered at the doctor. The hovering nurse shrank back against the door. Fearfully, her eyes widened. Marietta Johnson previously faced irate patients. However, the military wife in room 208 eclipsed the others. Liz’s refusal of treatment sent the nurse scurrying for the doctor.          

     Suddenly, the hospital table containing the lunch tray went flying. A ham and cheese sandwich landed between the doctor’s feet. As though nothing out of the ordinary occurred, he bent to pick it up. Avoiding a smear of apple sauce, he righted the table and placed the sandwich on it.

     “Where is my EVAC?” Liz shouted, swinging her legs over the bed’s side.

     “Why don’t you lie down, Mrs. Talbot?” Dr. Maurice Culver calmly questioned. Taking a step forward, he moved in to assist her.

     “Get away from me, you nig…” Liz hissed, swiftly removing her arm from the doctor’s grasp.

     “There’s no need to use derisive language, Mrs. Talbot,” Maury hastily cut her off. Usually, he kept his bedside manner in check. However, his current patient tried his patience.

     “I’ll have you know my husband is Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot. My father is General Thomas Amberley,” Elizabeth imperiously remarked. “My husband put an EVAC order in place for me. The only place I’m going to is OUT OF HERE.”

     "You will remain quarantined, Mrs. Talbot," the doctor began again. "I have not received an order for an EVAC. I will get you out of here as soon as I do."

     Doctor Maurice Culver wished for nothing better than to release Elizabeth Talbot. Since she arrived, the plague ward fell into chaos. He ordered her door kept closed to hold down the commotion she caused. The other patients under his care did not warrant her disturbances.

     The light at the nurse's station signaling attention for her room blinked constantly. The trained nurses became reluctant to respond. Repeatedly, they complained about playing dodge 'em over flying objects.

     The other two women Liz arrived with showed civilized manners. Allyson Michaels and Gayle Murray good-naturedly submitted to tests. Treating their nurses kindly, they became favorites amongst the staff. When Gayle contracted the plague and died, her caregivers mourned for her. Allyson Michaels received her EVAC and departed cheerfully. She promised to see her stateside physician immediately. A thorn in her doctor's side, Elizabeth Talbot, remained behind.

     “You do that,” Liz hissed, folding her arms beneath her bosom. Sardonically, she stared at Dr. Culver. “And get my friends in here. I want to talk to them.”

     “No can do,” the doctor flatly responded, heading toward the corridor.

     "You get them in here." Liz's tone grew increasingly threatening.

     "I told you 'No.'" Maurice Culver pivoted at the door. Refacing Elizabeth Talbot, he continued, "No visitors permitted."

     Since Liz Talbot did not hold blood relationship with her friends, Dr. Culver withheld his information. Their health and whereabouts did not concern her. An announcement of a death and departure would create another fury. As much as he wished to rid himself of the nuisance, he remained stuck with her. Unfortunately, because of her ongoing behavior, he doubted the EVAC's arrival.

     “Take me to them,” the irate patient demanded.

     Deftly, Elizabeth began unhooking her IVs and leads to medical monitors. Red lights flashed to the cacophony of sirens. Swiftly, Dr. Maurice Culver sprang into action. Beckoning Nurse Johnson, they restrained their patient. Uncontrollably, Liz thrashed beneath their strong arms.        

     The doctor grabbed her beneath the armpits and held her. The nurse reinserted the equipment.

When the doctor’s fingers discovered the bubble beneath her arm, he swiftly stepped back. Washing his hands in the sink, he motioned for the nurse to leave. Maurice immediately followed her.

     “Plague,” Doctor Culver stated to the nurse. They stood in the corridor with their backs to the door.

     Marietta Johnson's eyes widened in terror. Acting quickly, they both touched the incensed patient without gloves. Applying a de-Germer, they breathed a sigh of relief. However, they were both exposed. In a matter of time, they would know if they had contracted the deadly disease.

     Doctor Culver and Nurse Johnson showered and awaited their test results. Dr. Markham and Nurse Lavant replaced them and continued their rounds. Both wore protective gear, including transparent plastic pants and ponchos. Masks and shields fit snuggly over their faces. The doctor entered Liz Talbot's room; his nurse shadowed him.

     “Oh, terrific, aliens invaded the earth,” Liz sarcastically remarked. “This must be a real scare-fest someone’s pulling.” She snorted when she laughed. “First the plague, then UFOs.” Under her breath, she hummed the Twilight Zone tune.

     "This is no joke, Mrs. Talbot," the doctor announced. Behind him, Nurse Gracie Lavant solemnly nodded. "Plague is a serious disease."

     “Yeah, right. Serious. Got it.”

     “Mrs. Talbot…” Dr. Joshua Markham querulously began.

     “Are you going to get me out of here?”

     “No.”

     "My husband, Lt. Col. Talbot, will hear about this. You're keeping me here against my will. I am the wife of a United States Army Officer. Do you understand that?" Elizabeth pronounced, elongating her words. If she carefully pronounced her words, perhaps the idiot pretending to be a doctor might comprehend. "You cannot keep me here."

     “You have the plague, Mrs. Talbot.” The doctor pronounced his words as clearly. “Unless I receive other orders, you will remain here. You will be isolated. Other than your doctor and nurses, you will see no one. Am I understood?”

     “No.”

     Posturing herself, Liz straightened her back. Ominously, she glared at the physician. Scoffing at the word plague, she did not believe him. In her mind, she told herself she could not have the dreaded disease. Elizabeth's left fingers caressed the bubble growing on her armpit as she refolded her arms beneath her breasts. Aghast, her face paled.

 

******

 

     Throughout her school days, Elizabeth Amberley did not pay much attention. Her young mind flew to frivolous activities. Meeting her friends and listening to music entertained her. No one expected her to accomplish a higher education. A career never interested her. All her life, she knew she would marry an Army Officer.

     Liz knew very little about the plague. Too far in the past, it did not interest her. All her fascinations lay in the here and now.

     Keen on history, Oliver attempted to draw her into his hobbies. Seeking a common past time, he wished to share his enthusiasms with his wife. However, they did not share common interests. Liz, on the other hand, brushed him off. 

     Lt. Col. Talbot considered himself well versed in the different eras of the past. Although he and Nicola Prescott avidly discussed history, Liz presented a brick wall. She cut him short when he tried to speak about specific events to her.

     “Why should it worry us, Ollie?” Liz asked. She rolled over in bed, then sat up. “Those times are gone, the people dead. It has nothing to do with us.”

     Oliver often read in bed at night. The glare of the light frustrated her beauty sleep. Angrily, she yanked the book away from him. 

     “You can learn a lot from history,” Oliver responded, grabbing for the hardback. When she raised it as high as her arm, he knelt on the mattress. Twisting her wrist, he forced its release.

     “So what?” she shrieked, tired of how he constantly ignored her. “If I’d known you were a bore, I wouldn’t have married you.”

     “That makes both of us,” Ollie sneered, the words out before he caught them. He reopened his book and studied the page. Leaning in, the map of an old battleground fascinated him. His wife faded into the background. 

     “Humph.” Elizabeth folded her arms beneath her breasts. Snatching the book, she heaved it against the wall. It thumped, then fell to the carpeted floor. Satisfied, she marched from the room.

     The Jeep Cherokee backed out of the garage. Liz humped over the wheel, an angry snarl crossing her face. The tires squealed as she slammed the gear into drive, and she hurtled through the stop sign. An oncoming car's brakes screeched to a bracing halt. Elizabeth Talbot did not notice.

     Three blocks away, Gayle Murray waited for her.

     The Talbots and Murrays frequently appeared at the same military installation. The two women arranged the coinciding moves. Occasionally, they had to separate. However, Liz kept looking for assignments that would bring them back together. She could not stay away from Gayle.

     “Ollie’s on a tear about history again,” Liz exclaimed, bursting through the door. Flopping on the couch, she pulled her pajamaed legs under her buttocks. “Get me a drink.”

     Unquestioningly, Gayle obeyed. Mixing a martini, she handed it to her lover. She sat, and Liz placed her head in her lap. They kissed and fondled.

     "Much better," Elizabeth Talbot sighed, swilling her martini in one gulp. "I don't know why I put up with Oliver. He's thick. You know what I want more than he does."

     “Hmmm,” Gayle absently responded.

     “Let’s run away together,” Liz announced, bolting into a sitting position. “That’ll show ‘em.”

     Gayle Murray continued to fondle her paramour. She much preferred women to men. However, she considered herself dutifully married. Gayle believed her relationship with Liz remained a secret. Hiding behind her marital status, she satisfied herself privately. Breaking away would announce her concealed reality to the world. Her husband and children remained her first consideration.

     "We'll get divorced and go to New Orleans," Elizabeth confidently continued.

     “Yeah, sure, Liz,” Gayle responded, not sure at all. Swiftly, she moved and forced her companion to sit up. “What about my husband and kids?”

     “So what about them?” Liz snapped, leaping to her feet. “Think I care about mine?” She laughed derisively.

     “Let’s not talk about it now, okay?”

     Gayle stood and embraced her companion. Although Elizabeth dominated her, she knew how to calm her down. Soon, the two women found themselves wrapped together in the bedroom.

 

******

 

     “Gayle,” Liz whimpered.

Following the departure of Dr. Markham, the Army wife held her guard up. Then, thinking about the plague, she lost control of her emotions. Slumping in the bed, she wrapped her arms around her waist and trembled. The disease petrified her. Suddenly, she wished she had listened to Ollie's soliloquies concerning history. Wrapped up in herself, Liz dismissed the cares and concerns of the people surrounding her. 

     Suddenly, Liz longed for the comfort another person could bring her. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Whether Oliver or Gayle, it did not matter any longer. Anyone would do.

     Undoubtedly, the EVAC would appear soon. When it arrived, Liz and Gayle would leave god-forsaken Jamaica together. Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot would not leave his wife to rot in a stinking civilian hospital. Although she treated him horrendously, he would never abandon her. She determined to leave with her paramour.

     Sitting alone in her hospital bed, Liz Talbot convinced herself she would soon go home. Assured of the EVAC, she became smug. Reality slipped away. The plague throbbed, surging in her veins. Dismissing fate, she ignored the symptoms. They were not hers; they belonged to someone else. Her mind unhinged.

     Straightening up, Elizabeth preened her hair. Drawing her fingers through her frosted locks, she tried to make herself look presentable. She longed for a mirror but did her best. Oliver stood beside the bed. Beckoning, he held out his hand. She reached out to grasp it. She rose as though in a dream, and his arms enfolded her. Her knight in shining armor arrived to rescue her.

Fading in and out of actuality, Ollie turned into Gayle, then Ollie again. Liz's eyes fogged. When she refocused, she discovered herself alone. 

 

******

 

     Tentatively, the closed door cracked open. Marie Longstreet entered with Liz Talbot's dinner tray. At age eighteen, she volunteered at the hospital in an after-school program. Marie worked as a food server dressed in black slacks, a white shirt, and a black bow tie. She wore plastic protective gear over her clothing. Smiling warmly, she approached the bed.

     Liz languidly glanced up at Marie and accepted the tray. Her overly bright eyes gazed at the contents�"grilled chicken, asparagus, and mashed potatoes. She lifted the half-pint milk carton and grinned maniacally at the apple pie slice. Calmly, she unwrapped her utensils. 

     Marie stood back, relieved. The patient in room 208 appeared calm. She did not fear a shower of the tray's contents for the first time.

     Friendly Marie enjoyed hospital work. Her plans included a nursing school in the future. Admiring Doctor Culver and Nurse Johnson, she wished to follow in their footsteps. For six months, she served meals to sick patients. Most welcomed her with smiles and small talk. The few who grouched received a warm greeting and a swift retreat. Elizabeth Talbot became the exception. In the food server's lounge, Marie complained that Liz cruelly oppressed her. However, when she entered the room this time, the atmosphere seemed different.

     "My friend is joining me for dinner," Liz serenely stated. Her smile elongated. "Can you bring her tray in here?"

     "Which friend?" the server questioned suspiciously. Blindly Marie backed toward the door. Her back contacted it.

     “Gayle,” Liz said, grimacing broadly. “Gayle Murray. We’re waiting for an EVAC. It will be easier if we’re together.”

     "G…G…Gayle Murray," Marie Longstreet stammered, perplexed.

     Swiveling, she pushed the door opened and stepped into the corridor. The plastic sleeve of her protective poncho caught on the door handle, trapping her. Imprisoned, she yanked hard, tearing the garment. Then, she fled.

     “Hey! What’s going on?” Elizabeth Talbot screamed after the departing server. “Where’s Gayle?”

     Liz stared emptily at the closed metal door.

 

******

 

     Marie Longstreet's chocolate face paled upon hearing the deceased woman's name. Trembling, she raced toward the nurse's station. Marietta Johnson's replacement, Gracie Levant, leaped from her seat and halted Marie. Glancing down the hallway, she noticed the food service cart sitting outside room 208.

"Bad juju, bad juju," the young Jamaican woman blubbered. Digging beneath her protective gear, her fingers wrapped around her crucifix. The chain broke, sending the food server into hysterics.

     “What bad juju?” Gracie questioned.

     When Marie slid to the floor, the nurse squatted beside her.

     “R…R…Room, Room 208,” Marie stammered, tears streaking her face. “Bad juju.”

     Determinedly, Gracie stood and strode down the corridor. Standing outside Room 208, she cracked the door. Liz Talbot sat up in bed, eating her dinner. Chattering calmly, she addressed an unseen figure sitting opposite her. She listened intently to a response, smiled, and continued to talk.

     "Bad juju," Marie whispered, peeking in beneath Gracie's outstretched arm. “The ghost woman, Gayle Murray, is dead. She visits the crazy patient."

     “Stop it,” Gracie cautioned Marie. “That’s enough.”

     Turning, she wrapped her arms around the volunteer. Slowly, they returned to the nurse’s station. Then Nurse Levant summoned Dr. Markham.

     Joshua Markham appeared within a few moments. Together, he and Nurse Levant entered Liz Talbot's room. Unobserved, they watched their patient carry on a conversation with Gayle Murray. Then, she answered for her long-time friend.

     “How are you feeling, Mrs. Talbot?” Dr. Markham finally asked. Approaching the bed, he hovered over the patient.

     "Fine, Doctor, just fine." Liz grinned up at him. "Has the EVAC arrived? Gayle and I remain prepared to depart at any moment."

     “Not yet,” the doctor responded, playing along.

     “We’ll be home soon, Gayle,” Elizabeth Talbot spoke to her unseen companion. “Then we’ll make our plans. Do you remember them, Gayle?”

     "We're both getting divorced and going to New Orleans," Liz responded, imitating Gayle's voice. "We'll set up a home and stay together forever."

     Nurse Levant sent a questioning look in the doctor's direction. Calmly, Joshua returned a cautioning one. Their problem patient became unhinged. She believed her fantasies.

     “Should we call in a psychiatrist?” the nurse asked the doctor.

     At the word psychiatrist, Liz became aware of her surroundings. Slitting her eyes, she focused on the hospital staff standing at the end of her bed. Hiking herself up, she straightened the bedclothes and her posture. Ominously, she glared at the intruders.

     Calmly, Dr. Markham approached the bedside. Taking Liz's arm, he counted her pulse�"rapid. Grabbing his wrist, Liz held it in a viselike grip. Markham frantically grappled with her fingers. Unable to gain traction, he pried her digits with his other hand. The grip tightened.

     “Psychiatrist? You think I need a psychiatrist?” Liz bellowed, baring her gleaming white teeth. “I need an EVAC. My friend and I have waited long enough. My husband, Lt. Col. Talbot, ordered one. You’re holding it up. Get us outta here.”  

     As the Doctor struggled with Liz's grip, Nurse Lavant stepped in to intervene. She also failed to release the patient's fingers. The dinner tray tilted. Then, the contents slid onto the hospital bed.

     Screaming insanely, Liz freed her clutching hand. Lifting a mashed potato gob, she slung it at Doctor Markham. The physician took it heavily on the forehead. The wet mess slipped into his eyes and down his cheek. Grabbing the patient by the wrists, he held her firmly.

     “Restrain her,” Joshua Markham ordered Nurse Lavant.

     The nurse swiftly pulled the restraining belt tight across Liz Talbot's waist. Then, she hooked the wrist and ankle belts in place.

     “We’ll have to sedate her,” the doctor remarked. He regained his self-control.

Gracie prepared the syringe and handed it to the physician. He stabbed it into Liz’s upper arm and let out his pent-up breath.

     “Bad juju lady,” Marie Longstreet muttered, mournfully shaking her head. She leaned in the open doorway.

 

******

 

     While Lt. Col. Talbot continued to await final instructions from the Pentagon, the Amberley house in Hendersonville, North Carolina, stood eerily silent. Gen. Thomas Amberley sprawled across the king-sized bed. Three days previously, he died of the plague. His unconscious wife lay on the kitchen floor, her days numbered.

 

Chapter Twelve

 

     Arastoo Mazanderani worried his lower lip with his teeth. Panic hovered just beneath the surface of his fanatic mind.

     Silent, his burner cellphone lay before him. For three days, he awaited a call from Kasra Anvari.

     Following his sister's arrival in San Francisco, Kasra discreetly shadowed BahAr. The only news Arastoo received from the outside came from Kasra. He frequently reported on her progress. She successfully distributed the plague virus.

     Each day, a text message arrived from Kasra depicting the situation. Although his friend praised his sister’s ability to spread the fleas, he voiced doubts about her behavior. The removal of her hijab distressed him. Her lewd behavior sent him into a fury. Arastoo ordered Kasra to remain close to her. If she continued her abominable behavior, he demanded a swift punishment. Still, he expected his plan to move forward.

     Following the San Francisco spread, BahAr should have gotten on a plane for New Orleans, Louisiana. A package containing colorful hijabs awaited her. Concealed inside lay an additional ten vials of plague-infested fleas. However, all communications with Kasra Anvari abruptly ceased.     

     Shut off in the Iranian Takht-e-Soleiman range, Arastoo could not acquire firsthand information. The occurrences of the outside world eluded him. Therefore, he believed his plan to destroy the San Franciscan LBGTQ community succeeded. Moving forward, he depended upon the same results in New Orleans. He did not realize how quickly the pandemic spread. If he had known, the furtherance of his plan would have been unnecessary.

     The plague swiftly traveled from California to the remainder of the United States. Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, and Australia declared total shut down areas. In Tehran, the first cases began to emerge.

     Throughout his life, everyone treated Arastoo Mazanderani as though he were a genius. Chemistry excited him, and he excelled in it. However, fanaticism drove him to ignorance. He could not see the world outside his comprehension. Shades of grey did not exist in his limited world. Right was right, and wrong was wrong. There was nothing else. 

     “Death to America,” Arastoo muttered, glaring at the mobile phone. Absently, he spun it with his finger. Then, he lifted it to check for messages. Nothing appeared.

     Angrily, he slammed it down onto the table. The glass screen cracked, furthering his fury. Arastoo Mazanderani glared at it. 

     "Allahu Akbar," Zeeba Bahrami exclaimed, entering the cave that held their chemistry laboratory. She slept later than she intended. Donning her lab coat, she sat down in front of a microscope.

     "Allahu Akbar," her companion responded less enthusiastically.

     “Still no word?” Zeeba asked, ogling Arastoo from behind her thick glasses.

     “No.” The response sounded snappish.

     Zeeba longed to approach Arastoo. She wished to put her arms around him to comfort him. Her love for him grew stronger, day by day. At night she dreamed of sliding into bed next to him. Wild images of lovemaking filled her fantasies. Soon, she knew she would approach him, make him her own. She could not contain herself if they remained hidden in solitude for much longer.

     Unaccustomed to male attention, Zeeba frustrated herself with lewd dreams. Then, she prostrated herself before Allah for being weak-minded. Depression weighed heavily upon her heart.

     For a moment, she hesitated. She plugged her eye against the microscope's lens. Her attention riveted onto the specimen entrapped in the glass. The new plague strain appeared more viral than the initial one.

     Tentatively, Zeeba glanced at her companion again. Without consideration, she slid off her stool and stood behind him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tenderly bent to kiss his shiny black hair. Her hand slid between the buttons of his white shirt. She caressed his smooth chest. Then, she unzipped his black pants and slipped her fingers inside. 

     “Do not touch me, woman,” Arastoo hissed, releasing himself from her embrace. “One hundred lashes for initiating unmarried sex according to Sharia Law.”

     Furiously, Arastoo Mazanderani backhanded Zeeba. Clutching her swollen cheek, she backed away from her lab partner. Angrily, he struck her again. The weight of the blow caused her glasses to sail off her nose. They crunched beneath the fanatic’s advancing feet. Blinded, she stumbled and fell.

     A whip cracked in the air. Again, it hissed and struck. Its heavy weight fell upon the sightless woman. Like a venomous snake, it bit into her skin. Her white blouse tore, and blood stained it.

Madness overcame Arastoo as he continuously struck. Unleashed, he vented his frustrations upon Zeeba. Hugely, he stood above the quavering women.

     Sweat beads flew from Arastoo’s forehead as he wielded his weapon. Furiously, he snapped the whip. Flinging it over his shoulder, he utilized his muscular arm to crack it forward. The whip hissed through the stillness of the laboratory cave.

     The form crouched on the floor lost its human structure. For Arastoo, it became little more than a vile object.

     Zeeba whimpered. She crawled toward the cavern's entranceway, raising her hands and knees. Survival strengthened her. Despite the leather whip's cutting bark, she pulled herself onward. A trail of blood followed her, illuminating her path.

     Arastoo continued to strike. Lossing count, he surpassed the hundred lashes subscribed by Sharia Law. Frantically, he continued to beat his lab partner.

     Finally, Zeeba collapsed near the entrance. Her body quivered, then stilled. Her ragged breathing ceased.

     Standing above her, Arastoo prodded her with the toe of his black shoe. Then, using his foot, he rolled her over. Her eyes fixed on him, then glazed. His partner of three years stared blankly up at him.

     “Women,” Arastoo Mazanderani muttered, turning away.

     He chastised himself for choosing Zeeba Bahrami as his assistant. However, he never actually viewed her as a woman. To him, she was only a chemist. He decided to overlook the obvious. Attracted by her genius, he drew closer to her. Their conversations brightened his day, although they only discussed chemistry.

     Zeeba did not attract him. Yasmina, his wife, did not entirely seduce him. The homosexual men he discovered in London did. During the overnight hours, his dreams took him back to Soho. Closing his eyes, he reobserved the street scene, the nightclubs, and bars packed with lewd men and women. The desire to join them grew stronger each time he went there.

     Zeeba’s grasping touch threw Arastoo into a panic. His strong reaction destroyed her. It destroyed Arastoo. He did not beat her because of Sharia Law; he beat her because her woman’s touch offended him. Admittedly, Arastoo Mazanderani admired men over women.

     Wildly, the chemist ran his hands through his hair until it stood on end. His primeval scream echoed back through the winding cave system. His master plan to destroy the LBGTQ community pushed him to the edge of insanity. If he demolished the source of his temptation, he would free himself of his evil thoughts.

     Falling to his knees, Arastoo prostrated himself before Allah.

     "If you love Allah, follow me, Allah will love you and forgive you your sins. Allah is forgiving, merciful," the prostrate fanatic quoted from the Quran. (Quran 3:31)

 

******

 

     After a while, Arastoo rose. Averting his eyes from his partner's body, he returned to his work. He placed his eye against the microscope Zeeba had studied earlier. The slide showed a more viral strain of plague than he'd previously concocted. Grinning widely, he believed Allah answered his prayers.

     “Paris,” he gleefully stated, rubbing his hands together.

     Delighted in his plans, Arastoo lifted his cellphone and checked his messages. No new texts arrived from Kasra Anvari. However, he sent one demanding a response.

     In his mind, he imagined his sister and friend had changed locations. Perhaps Kasra had trouble reconnecting. The channels of communication remained faulty. Arastoo felt sure he would have news soon. Once they completed their task in New Orleans, they could move on to Paris to spread the newest strain.

 

******

 

     Meanwhile, in San Francisco, Kasra Anvari lay in his hotel room. The maid discovered him when she entered to clean. Hastily, the manager phoned the EMTs, who swiftly removed the body. Another victim of the plague entered the death records.

 

 

 

       

Chapter Thirteen

 

     Calvin Blanchard trembled as he approached the Presidential Podium. The weary eyes of America fell upon him. Gulping, he opened the leather-bound folder containing the speech. Cal held his head high and began to speak.

     Calvin's resemblance to Abraham Q. Morton was impeccable. The mole on his right cheek appeared in precisely the same place as the late President's. No one had to know it was a prop�"except Cal himself.

     The President’s body double never expected to take his place. Calvin Blanchard viewed it as an empty position. However, the pay was excellent.

     “Imagine getting paid to do nothing,” Cal chuckled to his wife, Melinda. After accepting the proposition, he delighted in the simplicity of his future. He never imagined the plague would resurface and surge around the world.

     Calvin Blanchard stood before the American people knowing that he had deceived them. Widening his grey/green eyes, he focused directly on the camera and began to speak.

     "As we work steadfastly to overcome the current situation, I assure you�"the American People�"that we will successfully put the plague behind us. Around the world, scientists are scrambling to produce an effective vaccine. I guarantee that once the majority of the population receives an inoculation, we will defeat this plague.

     "In the meantime, wear your masks continuously in public and shelter in place. If we continue to keep a good social distance, we will stop the spread. It is up to each and every one of you to do your part.

     "A recent rumor maintains the plague originated in Iran. Categorically, it is untrue. The Intelligence Community has no evidence of the current strain's origin. It is simply a fluke of nature. Pointing the finger at the Iranians will do more harm than good. I encourage anyone who speaks hatefully against them or plots against them to halt such activities. You will receive a severe punishment.

     "We must work as a nation together to defeat the plague. Playing the blame game will not help.

     “Thank you.”

     Calvin Blanchard held up the thumbs and forefingers of both hands in a “V” for victory formation. Then, he turned his back on the camera and walked sedately away.

     A cacophony of reporter’s voices yelled at his departing back. The press secretary strode to the microphone and motioned for silence.

     “No questions,” Monique Abreo remarked into the microphone.

     The angry journalists continued to shout their questions. However, Monique stepped back, then disappeared. Groans followed her.

     Swiftly, the faux President stepped into Marine One. His wife, Melinda Blanchard, awaited him. Their next destination was a bunker in Colorado, where they would remain for the interim. If other appearances became necessary, they would come from a mock-up of the Oval Office.

 

******

 

     Representative Ginger Hartley breathed a sigh of relief. After viewing the Presidential speech from her Congressional Office, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. For all intents and purposes, the charade worked. Calvin Blanchard pulled off his impersonation of Abraham Q. Morton perfectly. No one would expect the switch.

     In fact, only four people knew the President had died of the plague six days previously. Rep. Ginger Hartley, Rep. Deval Harrelson, Sen. Jamie Merrick, and Press Secretary Monique Abreo. The only one who concerned Hartley was Abreo. Relatively new to her position, Abreo might slip. However, the rest were D.C. seasoned veterans.

     “What did you think?” Sen. Harrelson asked, stepping into Hartley’s office. He assured himself the door was closed before continuing. “Cal pulled it off perfectly.”

     "We'll all breathe easier now," Ginger Hartley responded, grinning. Relieved, she sank back into her leather-bound office chair. She rested her chin in her tented fingers while propping her elbows on her desk. "No one will guess he's not actually the President."

     Rep. Ginger Hartley knew withholding information concerning the President's demise broke the law. Nevertheless, she believed she acted in the American people's best interest.

     Secretly confined to an undisclosed hospital, Vice President Manuel Ramirez only had days to live. Constitutionally, the oath of office should be taken by the next in line: The Speaker of the House.

     Representative Hartley cringed. By all rights, Ginger should have been the Speaker. In fact, for the last three terms, she upheld the position. The previous election made her the Minority Leader. However, her opposition opponent filled the chair, Samuel Grisham. And he, according to Ginger Hartley, was not fit for the job.

     “How long can we keep this up?” Deval Harrelson questioned, taking a seat. Although he went along with the plot, he had his doubts.

     “As long as possible,” Hartley deviously countered. She caught her colleague’s brown eyes and held them.

     Deval tried to shift his gaze but could not. Ginger Hartley's office was known as the Spider's Web. Once caught, it became nearly impossible to escape. Ginger held sway over Deval for too many years to count. He was known as Hartley's Stooge.

     Ginger Hartley and Deval Harrelson entered the lofty Congressional Halls more than thirty years ago. Ginge hailed from Massachusetts and Dev from Louisianna. Both devoted themselves to their party and worked hard for their constituents' best interests. Bulldogging her way into several committees, Hartley rose swiftly. Less ambitious, Deval kept his nose to the grindstone and retained his seat.

     After she became Speaker, Deval noticed a change in his longtime friend. Although Ginger had always worked aggressively to get to the top, her elevated position swelled to her head. He realized, at the moment, she scrambled to find a way into the Presidency. It irked her that Samuel Grisham was legally the next POTUS.

     "Someone will catch on, Ginge," Harrelson cautioned. "I bet the rumor mill is already grinding. Someone noticed. Someone saw something out of the ordinary. By tomorrow morning, a billion posts will go up on all the social media platforms. They'll all claim it was not the President speaking."

     "So?" Ginger reclined in her chair, a smug look crossing her face. "We get them pulled, or we get them declared misinformation. We got this, Dev."

     "We ain't got it, Ginge." Removing the handkerchief from his suit jacket's upper pocket, Deval Harrelson dabbed at his chocolate-hued forehead. Sweating profusely, he mopped at the moisture. "If we get caught…"

     “You worry too much, Dev." Ginger Hartley's grin widened. "No one's going to catch us. We have all the brains, so we're where we are. The rest of the people are stupid. They're like little lemmings. We lead; they follow."

     “Those lemmings are the people who vote for us,” Deval remarked, shoving his hanky back into its pocket.

     “That’s my point.” Ginger leaned forward and sneered. “They’re dumb enough to keep voting for us.”

     "Exactly." With a defeated sag in his shoulders, Rep. Harrelson rose and placed his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, it seemed as though Deval had more to say. He hesitated, although for only a moment, then exited.

     Suddenly he wished he were back home in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. The son of a corner grocer, he'd had no real hope for the future. Then, in college, he'd been bitten by the political bug. He took part in several protests and began organizing them. Before long, he held his first campaign and, much to his surprise, won. He continued to climb until he'd finally sought a seat in the House of Representatives. He'd been in D.C. for thirty years and played Hartley's Stooge for most of them.

     Deval Harrelson wondered if it were time to give up. Ginger Hartley's latest plan went entirely too far. If caught, the consequences were dire. It meant… No, he did not want to consider what it meant. He knew a treasonous act would destroy his career, reputation, and life. His shoulders drooped as he entered the busy Rotunda.

 

******

 

     Senator Jamie Merrick stood on her toes overlooking the crowd in the Rotunda. Her eyes sought either Hartley or Harrelson. When she spied Deval, she pushed her way through her colleagues and hooked her arm through his.

     “Well? How’d it go?” Jamie asked as soon as they were alone.

     "It went," Harrelson answered, reaching for his hanky again. Aggressively, he mopped his perspiring brow.

     “No one suspects?”

     “Probably, but Ginger has a plan.”

     “Good.” Jamie breathed a sigh of relief.

     Jamie Merrick was a newcomer when compared with Ginger Hartley and Deval Harrelson. She arrived in D.C. twelve years previously as a Junior Senator. As ambitious as Hartley, she climbed the ranks with the speed of an acrobat scaling toward a circus tent's high wire.

     Jamie entered the Halls of Congress wanting to make a difference. Noticing her grand ideas, her longer-term colleagues promoted her. Consequentially, the press named her a rising star. Keeping her image clean, she dressed impeccably in a smart polyester pantsuit. Her brown hair pulled into a French Twist appeared neat and sophisticated.

     No one had to know her stage name: Porche Starr. Dropping out of high school, she longed to become a Broadway star. Impulsively, she left Cloverdale, Indiana for Manhattan. While awaiting her big chance, she began stripping at The Atlantis Playground.

     Although she auditioned at several casting calls, Jamie did not achieve her goal of becoming a Broadway Super Star. She may have achieved fame in her high school drama club, but she was not good enough for the limelight. The stripping gig became permanent.

     Senator Ansel Carmichael noticed Porche Starr. When he visited Manhattan, he frequented The Atlantis Playground. The spry young stripper soon became his private dancer. One thing led to another. Before long, he invited Porche to his posh hotel room. Then, he set her up in a lavish apartment.

     Ansel Carmichael eventually talked Porche Starr into running for an open Senate seat. Ansel dressed in her appropriate clothing and turned her platinum locks back to brown. Returning to her given name, Jamie Merrick cleaned up well.

     Running as an ordinary but concerned citizen, Jamie Merrick talked the talk and walked the walk. No one suspected her background. The voters viewed her as a Champion of the People. As a result, she won the election with a good margin and entered the Senate. And remained Ansel Carmichael's mistress.

     Ambitious, Jamie Merrick climbed the ladder. She sat on several committees and slept around. She swung both ways by advancing her political career in the bedrooms of her colleagues. Jamie did not care if her bedmates were men or women as long as she kept moving upward. Then, she caught Ginger Hartley's eye.

     Ginge took Jamie to her bed and kept her there. Digging deep, Ginger discovered all she could about Porche Starr. Maliciously, she held it over the young Senator’s head. Unless Jamie did as Ginger commanded, all her dirt would fly. Caught in the spider’s web, Jamie eagerly complied.

 

******

 

     Deval Harrelson departed from the Congressional Halls for his Georgetown condo. 

     "We're safe as long as no one notices," Deval recalled his final words to Jamie Merrick.    

     Although he'd squeezed her arm reassuringly, he doubted his optimism. At the moment, he doubted Calvin Blanchard's ability to fool the American People.

     Suddenly, he viewed Ginger Hartley as an absolute fool. Her ambitions carried her too far. If she grasped the Presidency, she would assume more power than she could handle. Deval realized the entirety of his thirty-year mistake. Hartley's Stooge retook control of his life and his situation.

     His hand shook as he grasped his smartphone. Squatting on the edge of his sectional sofa, he dialed a number he thought he would never utilize. The phone rang: once, twice, three times. If it went to voicemail, Deval knew he would hang up.

     Then a brisk voice said hello.

     “Hey, Sam.” Deval attempted to sound casual. “It’s Dev. Deval Harrelson.”

     "Yeah, so what's up Dev?" Samuel Grisham replied excitedly. The Congressman's voice surprised him. He rarely spoke to Hartley's Stooge.

     “We gotta talk, Sam.” Deval rushed his words before he changed his mind. “Something big just came up. Can we meet?”

     “Sure,” Speaker Grisham eagerly responded. “When?”

     “Now, if you can,” Representative Harrelson stated, his heart pounding heavily in his chest.

     "Yes." Grisham checked his wristwatch. The hour grew late. However, Harrelson's out-of-the-blue call intrigued him. "Where?"

     “Your office, thirty minutes?”

     “Thirty minutes, okay.”

     Thirty minutes later, Deval Harrelson ceased to exist as Hartley’s Stooge. He became a Whistleblower.

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

     Hank Talbot sat at the edge of his grandparents’ pool. Aggressively, his feet kicked in the cold blue water. Bored, he became frustrated.

     Hank understood the lockdown. Most of the time, Moo-ma and Poo-pa kept him inside. During the scorching summer days, they allowed him an hour in the pool in the mornings. He took a quick swim in the evening before his nightly bath. Although it refreshed him, the exercise lacked enjoyment.

     At first, Hank relished the lockdown. Poo-pa called it camping inside. Then, the days began to drag. Pool in the morning, a game of checkers in the afternoon, pool again after dinner. Bath and bed rounded out the day.

     The Talbots' attempt to keep their only grandchild entertained failed. Hank missed his Army base friends and the companions he had met during previous visits to Naples, Florida. Twin boys Fred and Ted Willis lived across the street. Three doors down, Darla Townsend resided with her grandmother. Marcy and Kingsley Stead lived in the opposite direction. Since he arrived, Hank had not seen them. He longed for their companionship.

     Hank thought about stealthily exiting the Talbot home to meet with his friends. However, because of the epidemic, he lost his nerve. Moo-ma and Poo-pa would become very disappointed if he disobeyed them.

     Kicking his feet, Hank stirred up the pool water. He pretended a giant maelstrom stirred up the blue liquid for a moment. He dropped his toy sailboat into the midst of the whirlpool and watched it navigate the spiral. Then, the vessel tipped and sank. Too bad.

     Rising, Hank strode toward the sliding glass door. Moo-ma would yell at him for dripping on the tiled kitchen floor. However, the child did not care. Getting yelled at would provide a distraction. He entered and opened the freezer. Extracting an orange-flavored popsicle, he returned to the patio.

     Poo-pa followed him outside. Retired Gen. I. Jeff Talbot wore blue swim trunks with a white stripe. Overweight, his large gut hung over the waistband. Approaching the pool, he lowered himself into the water. Hank cannonballed, throwing a sheet of water over the older man.

     “Hank,” Moo-ma called, stepping onto the patio. “Take it easy.”

     "It's okay," Jeff Talbot hollered back, waving his arm over his head. "Let the boy play."   

     Chuckling, he sent a spray of water over his grandson's head.

     The Talbot grandparents enjoyed Hank's many visits. Although they were disappointed with Liz's attitude toward him, they took advantage of the situation. If they could, they would provide a full-time home for the child. While Oliver completed a mission, his wife played with her girlfriends. They viewed her as irresponsible. Still, they did not wish to interfere in their son's business.

     "Whatever you say," Bea responded, grinning to herself. As long as Jeff permitted Hank's rambunctious behavior, she did not mind. "We'll have lunch on the patio. Then, I must make a quick trip to the grocery store."

     "Can I go too?" Hank asked, jumping onto the patio. Eagerly, the boy longed to go somewhere, anywhere. Even food shopping sounded like fun.

     “You have to wear a mask and social distance,” Moo-ma answered, pleased to have company on her errand. “Maybe we’ll stop at the park on the way home.”

     “Yippee!” Hank leaped for joy. Perhaps he would see a few of his friends.

     “Social distancing in the park too, young man,” his grandmother instructed.

     “Yeah, sure.”

     Hank returned to the pool, doing another cannonball over his grandfather’s head. Diving, he retrieved his sunken sailboat. Pretending he sailed to Key West, he bobbed his boat over the water’s surface.

             

******

 

     Smiling to herself, Beatrice Talbot returned to the kitchen. Preparing tuna sandwiches, she added potato chips and pickles to the plates. Then she poured frosted glasses of iced tea.

     Her grandson was the love of her life. It saddened her that her son only produced one child. Moreover, Oliver's marriage disappointed her. As a mother, she wished the best for both of her children. Ivan's disappearance bitterly hurt her. She longed to return to his childhood and have a do-over. She would have approached him differently.

     Ivan deserved a better life than they had given him. Bea understood more now than she had years ago. Her eldest child had been unique, precious. Other children treated him abominably; his desires had seemed extraordinary. She had loved him yet had not appreciated him. When he vanished, it broke her heart.

     In a way, she clung to Hank. Sadly, Bea did not anticipate another grandchild. Oliver and Liz remained cool toward each other. Separated from his family, Ivan led his own life. She did not know if he had found a life partner yet. Perhaps, somewhere, he anticipated his own family.

     "All my fault," the elder Talbot thought to herself. Placing her picnic on a tray, she stared down at it and sighed. Wistfully, she filled a bowl with cherry tomatoes.

     Beatrice Talbot blamed herself for her sons' problems. She believed she had driven Ivan away and destroyed Oliver's chance at happiness. Interference and manipulation ruined her children's lives. Guilty as charged, she thought, sighing again. Her longing for do-overs remained an impossibility. However, if given a chance, she would have acted differently.

     “Where’s that lunch?” Jeff Talbot asked, standing in the opened patio doorway. “There are some starving men out here.”

     “Coming right up,” Bea responded, faking a smile. When she lifted the tray, her husband took it from her.

     Jeff placed the lunch onto a white wrought table. A jaunty blue and white striped umbrella provided a shady place to eat. Politely, he pulled out a chair for his wife. When she sat, he kissed the top of her head.

     Jeff Talbot knew his wife's thoughts and feelings. Upholding her silence, she did not have to tell him. Guilt etched itself across her expression. Bea meant the best for everyone. However, their offspring had the right to decide their own lives.

     Ivan chose his path. It hurt him to lose his firstborn. Unfortunately, circumstances went against him. It would have been simpler if he had not been born into a military family. The teasing might have occurred but not as intensely.

     Sensing turmoil within his eldest son, it had not surprised him when Ivan disappeared. Escape presented the only way out. Both he and his wife remained guilty of trying to change the unchangeable. They had not understood Ivan as they should have. Nor had they supported Ivan’s lifestyle.

     Jeff silently commiserated with his wife.

     Although they rarely spoke of Ivan, they both thought of him. He was a part of them as much as Oliver was. They both longed for a whole family.

     “When is dad coming home?” Hank piped up, breaking the silence. He sensed the depressed mood settling between his grandparents. He poised his question to distract them.

     “Don’t know, son.” Jeff Talbot smiled at his grandchild. “You know we can’t tell just yet.”

     "Yeah." The child lapsed into silence. "I wish he'd come home. I miss him."

     Both elders exchanged a look over the boy's head. Hank wistfully mentioned his father but not his mother. It seemed significant.

     "When I grow up, I'm going to do what dad does," the boy stated matter-of-factly.

     Another exchange between grandparents. The military tradition would live on in the Talbot family.

     “Mom’s in trouble, isn’t she?” Hank asked, thoughtfully chewing his sandwich. “I wish she wouldn’t go away so much.”

     “Your mother will be all right,” Bea responded, patting the boy’s hand. “She’s stuck in Jamaica in quarantine. Your other grandfather is working on getting her home.”

     "Will I have to go to Grandmother Amberley's when mom comes home?" the child asked. He would rather stay with his Talbot grandparents.

     Grandmother Amberley treated him differently than Moo-ma. She would not allow him to play or to create much noise. He could not splash in her pool and make a maelstrom. His playtime had to include his cousins, who were all girls. They preferred dolls to sports and pretending to be Army Rangers.

     “Blah,” Hank thought, sticking out his wide tongue. He would rather stay with Moo-ma and Poo-pa.

     “We’ll see, child,” Bea answered. A thin smile appeared on her serious face.

     It would have hurt her to let Hank go. If his mother returned, she might want the child with her. However, Bea had her doubts. Liz never truly bonded with her son. She used him as a prop�"not as actual flesh and blood. Hank gave her bragging rights as a mother. However, when it came to acting like a natural parent, she was frequently absent without leave.

     Liz's frequent departures troubled the Talbot grandparents. Her friends and party lifestyle were not conductive of a military spouse. Their daughter-in-law was not there to support her son when Oliver went away on a mission. She farmed the child out to relatives, friends, and lesser-known acquaintances. Ollie often had to track his son's whereabouts and make alternate arrangements for the child. The distractions interfered with his work situation.

     Bea attempted to provide a good grounding for Hank and wished he could remain with them. Then, she chastised herself for plotting interference again.

     "For now, you are staying with us," Poo-pa interrupted. "And you're going to stay here. So let's not worry over it for the time being. Let's take it day-by-day."

     Moo-ma agreed.

     "With all the shutdowns, the planes aren't flying as frequently," the grandfather continued. "The safest place is right here. I doubt your mother will take the risk."

     If Liz returned, Jeff Talbot doubted she would want the boy. He believed the child would remain exactly where he was.

     "Let's forget about it, for now, Hank," Bea suggested, rising. She lifted the tray and headed inside. "Get ready to go out. We'll go to the grocery store. Then, maybe, we’ll go to the park. You could uses some outside playtime.”

     The thought of the park hastened Hank's footsteps. He readied himself in record time and waited by the car before his grandmother emerged.

    As they backed the sedan out of the garage, the sun twinkled brightly on the windshield. It excited Hank. They had not been out since the shutdown began. Even a trip to the grocery store seemed like an adventure. He wondered if his friends would spent time at the park too.

     The deserted roads stretched blackly toward town. The houses along the way seemed deserted. Drapes enclosed picture windows, and driveways sat devoid of cars. Hank thought of the Apocalyptic movies he frequently watched with his father as they passed. Visions of zombies stumbling along empty streets stuck him as possible. He never believed he would see a real-life scenario. The plague changed everything.

     A half dozen cars sat in the supermarket parking lot. A lone shopping cart sat in a vacant space, looking forlornly alone. Moo-ma pulled into a slot close to the entrance. She secured her mask over her nose and mouth. Then, she assisted Hank with his. He could have done it himself, but he relented. Moo-ma had his safety in mind. He did not want to create a fuss.

     Together they entered. A team member wiped down a cart and pushed it toward them. Hank thought he recognized her. However, the mask covering the nose and mouth distorted her features. Nevertheless, he waved, and she returned the greeting.

     Many shelves remained empty, and his grandmother could not obtain a few items on her list. Nevertheless, she bought bread, milk, cheese, and a bag of Red Delicious apples. Hank placed them on the Express Lane counter and swiped Moo-ma's debit card. It made him feel grown up to pay for the groceries.

     When they returned to the parked sedan, Hank jubilantly awaited arriving at the park. Would his friends play there too?

     Perhaps, if the excursion were successful, Moo-ma would plan another trip. Hank thought of the hobby shop on the other side of town. He thought of the model tank he had seen on the store’s internet page. A new Harry Potter Lego set would please him too.

     When they stopped at the park, Hank’s face lit up in delight. He noticed another child. However, because of the distance, he did not recognize her.

     Exiting the car, the child raced toward the playground. Marcy Stead sat on a swing, her feet dragging in the sand. Two red pigtails drooped over her shoulders. When she noticed Hank Talbot, she grinned delightedly. However, when he approached, she halted him.

     Hank stopped dead in his tracks. He longed to play with a friend. Although the child did not particularly get along with Marcy, it thrilled him to see her. He rather wished she were her brother instead. Hank and Kingsley Stead had been friends since they were four years old. Marcy, the twin sister, tagged along and whined when they played boys' games. However, Hank had not seen his friends in so long that he would play with anyone.

     “You gotta take the third swing,” Marcy called. She jabbed her pointy finger twice along the line of swings.  “We gotta social distance.”

     “Yeah, okay, gotcha,” Hank yelled back. With a skip, he ran toward the swings and leaped into the third one. “Where’s King?”

     “John.” Marcy indicated toward the restrooms in the nearby pavilion.

     As she pointed, her brother appeared and sprinted toward them. His masked face obscured his gleeful grin. He knew when Hank arrived but had not seen his friend. Gladly, he raced up and nearly swung his arms around his playmate. Then, his feet skidded on the soft playground surface. He remembered what his mother said about social distancing. He raised his hand and tick-tocked it back and forth.

     "Hey!" Hank called through his mask. Distorted by the face covering, his voice sounded funny. 

     The two boys raced around the swing set and climbed the slide. They tried not to crowd at the top. However, in his rush, Kingsley collided with Hank's back. Neither boy actually noticed.

     “Don’t touch each other,” Marcy called from below. She had seen them bang into each other.

     "Aw, shut up," King yelled, leaning dangerously over the slide's upper railing.

     “You wanna get the plague and die?” his sister hollered. The disease scared her more than it did Kingsley. She did not want to die.

     "Blah." King lowered his mask, stuck out his tongue, and wiggled it. Hank copied him.

     "Boys are stupid," his sister remarked. Hastily, she climbed the slide and followed her companions back to the ground.

     The three children played happily while Bea Talbot and Dorothy Stead chatted. The women sat on either end of the park bench. Social distancing, the empty green rails stretched between them.

     After being cooped up at home, the fresh air refreshed them. The warm summer sun beat down on the park. In the distance, birds chirped their happy songs. It could have been an average day. However, no one else had ventured out to enjoy the season.

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

      Nicola Prescott drove through the Holland Tunnel at daybreak. The empty road ahead of her seemed eerie. It felt as though she were in another world. She had never experienced as straightforward a trip. Only one vehicle proceeded her while two followed at a distance.

     Milt Kromesky died a week previously. The news upset Nicola. When she first arrived in Manhattan, the elderly gentleman befriended her. Somehow, the city felt empty without him. Social distancing put a proper funeral out of bounds. Although her group of friends gathered on Zoom, his remembrance wake seemed flat, unreal. Nicola wished she could have provided him with a better send-off.

     Nic desired companionship. However, the plague spread quickly, preventing get-togethers. Facetime did not take the place of real time. Stephanie Malone and Gabby Sanchez kept in touch. The rest of her companions dropped off.

     Nic's fiction writing kept her busy. Cricket Madison and Chadwick Mars became the closest people in her life. However, they lived solely in her imagination. In Nic's opinion, fictional characters never took the place of real ones. However, they were her bread and butter. She could take them to Florida if she wished.

     And she wished. Beyond the grave, Milt Kromesky convinced her. Nicola did not wish to stay in NYC if Milt were not there. Florida beckoned. Therefore, she packed up her three cats and hit the road.

     Exiting the tunnel, Nicola navigated onto the Garden State Parkway. She intended to travel to Cape May, New Jersey, then cross on the ferry to Delaware. Interstate 95 would take her to her home state.

Muffin, Tangerine, and Samantha rode in their carriers on the backseat. Their endless caterwauling came to a halt with a soft whimper from Sam. The cats provided good company once they settled down. Nic spoke softly to soothe them. Usually, she flew when she transferred homes, and her furry companions traveled in the hold. The road trip might prove challenging. However, with many flights canceled, driving seemed the better option.

     “Good kitties,” Nic gently crooned. “Good kitty kitties.”

     Muffin ma-wrawled in return. Then he began to purr softly. Peering into the rearview, Nic smiled. Tange groaned and stretched; Sam rolled over on her belly. Nicola could only see a little of the tuxedo's white chin in the dark carrier. The rest of her black fur blended into the shadows.

     “At least they won’t argue over their tablets and snacks,” Nic spoke to herself. She considered the cats her children.

     Smiling, Nicola Prescott thought of her childhood vacations. Forced to spend hours on the backseat, she and her sister, Noelle, often fought over trivial things. Boredom drove them to it. The punch buggy game provided the catalyst for many a backseat fight.

     “Yellow punch buggy,” Noelle screeched, peering out the window. Turning on her sister, she hauled back her arm and punched.

     Nicola took it squarely on the upper arm. By the evening, a blue-black bruise would appear. It would remain for the entirety of their summer vacation. She would look stupid in tank tops and bathing suits.

     “Watch what you’re doing,” Nic hissed, slamming her younger sibling in the same place. ‘There, now we’re even,’ she gleefully thought.

     "MOM!" Noelle yelled, grasping her arm. Tears stood out on her honey-colored lashes.

     “What did I tell you about hitting each other?” Nadine Prescott, their mother, sharply asked.   Hoisting herself between the front bucket seats, she glared at her daughters.

     “Noelle started it,” Nicola answered, pouting. Her younger sister usually started their fusses.

     “You don’t have to finish it,” their mother retorted, sitting back into her front seat.

     “Yeah, whatever,” Nic muttered, slumping into the back seat.

     “Yeah, whatever,” the adult Nicola told her dashboard.

     Occasionally, the desire for real children overcame her. She should marry and settle down, she admonished herself. After all, Oliver Talbot had nothing substantial to give her. A fling�"that was all he was. He called, and she flew merrily into his arms. Often, Nicola admonished herself for doing it.

     “Give it up,” Nicola stated out loud. Cringing, she realized she spoke to herself. Then, she shrugged and said, “I won’t give Ollie up. I don’t care if he’s married. I want him.”

     Nicola clicked on her turn signal and pulled off the parkway into a fast food drive-thru. She did not look to see which one it was. It all boiled down to the same thing. And she only wanted a large coffee.

     Paying for her drink, Nic pulled into a parking slot. Lifting the lid, she sat back and allowed the steam to escape. Then, she added three sugar packets and four creamers. She took a sip.

     "Hot!" Nicola exclaimed, plunking the cup into the car's cupholder.

     Nic backed out of her space and hit the road again. Traffic remained light all the way down to Cape May. Four cars plus her own pulled onto the ferry. If the situation continued, she’d make it home in record time.

     However, vehicles began to back up as Nicola Prescott neared the D.C. area. She dreaded navigating in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nevertheless, after Richmond, VA, it would lighten up again. Still, it proved easier to get around the capital than she expected.

 

******

 

     Finally, Nic pulled into a Hampton Inn near Santee, South Carolina. Weary from the drive, she stumbled into her room and dropped onto the bed. She felt lucky they accepted her pets. With the plague preventing travel, perhaps they were eager for lodgers.

     Rising, Nicola set up a litterbox and freed her companions. Muffin, her grey cat, wove a joyful figure eight around her legs. Samantha leaped at her leg, dragging long scratches from her knees to her ankles. Although she winced at the sudden pain, Nic bent down to give her little girl a soothing pet. Orange and white Tangerine flopped onto the bed and stretched out.

     “Love you guys,” Nic sang, throwing kisses. She fell back onto the bed and played with her frisky cats.

     Following a quick nap, Nic pulled up Door Dash on her smartphone and ordered dinner. It arrived in good time, and she ate hungrily. Then she fed the cats.

 

******

 

     The following morning, Nicola Prescott hit the road again. The roads remained clear, and she jogged merrily along. The interstate cut through Georgia and deep into Florida. She exchanged I-95 for I-4 and met traffic in Orlando. By mid-afternoon, she arrived in Spring Hill.

     Parking her car neatly in the garage, Nic entered through the kitchen and kicked off her sandals. She breathed a sigh of relief and swung open the fridge. Connie Maitland, her friendly neighbor, stocked it during the previous night.

     Nicola considered herself fortunate to have a good friend next door. The older woman treated her like a daughter. If she called, Connie eagerly provided the assistance she required.

     A tapping sound drew her attention as Nic drew out a half-gallon of milk. Looking up into the kitchen window, she discovered Connie smiling at her. Swiftly, she unlatched the sliding lanai door and invited her friend inside.

     "You made good time," the elderly woman exclaimed, breezing in. "I didn't expect you until much later. No speeding, I hope." Playfully she shook in index finger in Nicola's face.

     “No, nothing like that,” Nic answered, grinning. “Clear sailing almost all the way. No traffic. The plague is keeping everyone at home.”

     “Excellent,” Connie returned, grasping the milk. Extracting two glasses from an upper cabinet, she poured. Then, pulling out a stool, she perched at the kitchen island.

     “Hang on a minute,” Nic called, heading toward the garage. “I haven’t brought my babies in yet. They’ve been in their carriers for two days. You know how they hate it.”

     Within moments, the two women carried in the three cats. Releasing them, Muffin and Sam charged around the house. Playfully, they leaped over each other and dashed into the open lanai. Tangerine appeared in the open carrier door, sniffed the air, and lumbered out. Taking four steps, he plopped on the tiled floor and stretched out.

     “Lazy boy,” Nicola chided her middle cat.

     "So what brings you down to FLA?" her neighbor asked, regaining the kitchen stool.

Nic joined her and sipped her milk.

     “The city was driving me crazy,” the writer responded. She did not wish to speak of Milt’s passing. It still saddened her. “It became depressing with everyone on lockdown.”

     "It isn't any more exciting in the southland," Connie wistfully responded. "The theaters are closed, and the club canceled our bridge games."

     A conservator of the arts, Connie frequented the local theater companies. She donated both her money and time to the endeavors of the performers. She played cards at their gated neighborhood's small community center in her spare time. Nicola accompanied her to many plays and musicals but reneged on joining the club. Playing bridge and gin bored her.

     “Looks like we have to entertain ourselves at home,” Nic answered, idly spinning her empty milk glass.

     "Easy for you to say," Connie stated with a sigh. "I've crocheted twenty doilies. Tell me, Nic, what will I do with twenty doilies?"

     “Give them as Christmas gifts,” Nicola offered.

     “Very funny. Blah.” The older woman put out her tongue. “I can’t even get my hair done.” Pointing upwards, she indicated her unruly silver curls.

     "I see what you mean," Nic responded, propping her elbows on the counter. "First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to shut all the blinds. And set up a 'do not disturb sign' on the doorknob. I want to get in at least twenty pages of 'Cricket Madison.'"

     “Your new book?”

     "Hmmm, mmm," the writer conceded. "Cricket's in a mess. Her boyfriend, Chadwick Mars, is a control freak. She just clocked him with a baseball bat. Writer's block set in. I figured I could clear my head down here. Then, I'll move the story forward."

     “Tap tap tap. Ding. Thack. Zzzzhip.” Connie imitated an old-fashioned typewriter perfectly.

     Nicola laughed for the first time since Milt died. In a way, she felt relieved. After receiving the news, Nic cried herself out. Moreover, she could not focus on her work. As she tried to move her story forward, the words hung blankly in her mind. The white MS Word page stared at her accusingly.

     “Thank heavens for laptops and MS Word,” Nicola exclaimed, grinning broadly.

     “In my day, we had typewriters and pencils,” her neighbor remembered. “Lining up paper and carbons took up a great deal of time. We started over on every typo. The younger writing generation sure is lucky.”

     "We're spoiled," Nic conceded. "But it's just as tough to get your foot in the door as in your day. I consider myself lucky enough to have an agent."

     “True,” Connie replied, recalling her days as a novelist. “You’re further ahead than I was. You have three best sellers. The fourth one will sell like hotcakes.”

     “I hope so. Cricket is a real character. So is Chad if you’re into control freaks.”

     "As long as they each play off the other, you've got it made."

     A loud series of meows startled Nicola and Connie. Leaping to their feet, the two women dashed for the lanai. Muffin and Tangerine lay tangled together at the edge of the pool. As Nic rushed toward them, the two cats rolled over and splashed into the cold water.

     Nicola threw herself down at the pool's edge and fished Muffin out. Bellowing out a screech, the bedraggled cat dove for the house. Tangerine surfaced and paddled toward the shallow end. Connie lifted him into her arms and hurried into the bathroom. Emerging moments later, she held the orange cat wrapped in a towel. Samantha sat on a white wrought iron table, preening herself.

     “Rescue accomplished,” Nic exclaimed and laughed.

     Her neighbor handed over Tange and plunked down at the table. Sucking in air, Connie gasped for breath. After a few moments, she felt better.

     "Too much exercise for this old gal," she sputtered. It became difficult to breathe.

     “You okay?” Nicola queried, worried about her friend.

     “Sure, just give me a minute.”

     Nicola and Connie sat by the pool. After a while, Muffin reemerged and groomed himself at Nic's feet. Tangerine curled up on the fluffy towel. After a while, Connie said goodbye, and Nic waved.

     The long day drew to a close. Nicola suddenly felt exhausted after the long drive. She grabbed a bite, then a shower, and fell into bed.

     For a while, the writer in her emerged. She thought about Cricket Madison and Chadwick Mars. A few scenarios crossed her mind, including a hostage situation. Then, Nicola's mind drifted to Oliver Talbot.

     “Elysian Fields Cancelled,” she muttered, rolling over. Pulling the comforter over her head, she repeated, “Elysian Fields Cancelled, indeed.”

     Perhaps she would cancel Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot and get on with her life.

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot read the news on his smartphone. The plague death count rose dramatically over the past forty-eight hours. The multiple numbers staggered him. He wondered if he knew anyone who died of the plague.

Beatrice Talbot indicated their state of health when he spoke to her. Both his parents and Hank remained plague-free. Ollie knew he could count on the elder Talbots to keep his son under lockdown. They were health-conscious and studious about their safety.

Oliver had not heard from his wife since their last communication. He assumed Liz’s return to stateside had gone off as planned. Surely, the lack of text messages indicated all remained well with her. Ollie did not worry. Thomas Amberley worked thoroughly, and he loved his spoiled daughter. He would move heaven and earth if she faced any danger. Surely, she travelled to Hendersonville, North Carolina to ride out the lockdown.

Dismissing Liz, Ollie scrawled through a list of casualties. He keened his eye at the screen filled with Talbots. Pausing at the I’s, he peered at the page. Ivan did not appear. He sighed and sat back. Ivan never appeared on lists.

Disappointed, Oliver wished he could locate his missing brother. He longed to make up for all the bad times and accept Ivan’s personality. Yet, his older sibling eluded him.

“Where are you, Ivan?” he questioned his smartphone.

His mind flashed back to their younger days. Their home in Ft. Dix, New Jersey, had an ancient basketball hoop over the garage. After school, he and four friends shot hoops in the driveway. In the front yard, Ivan pushed a pink Barbie Corvette along the stone walkway. Chatting happily, he made up a pretend conversation with his Barbie and Skipper dolls.

His friends stopped playing and gathered around Ivan. Closing his eyes, Oliver pictured them. Ralph Mansion wore a green tank top over jean shorts. Propping his hand on his hip, his bony elbow stuck out. Next to him in the circle, Clem Anderson pushed his black glasses back onto his nose. Kyrie Strong�"the only girl present�"stated she had not played with dolls since the age of seven. Her brother, Kendrick, turned to Ollie.

“What are you gonna do about him?” Ken asked, poking his white sneaker into Ivan’s ribs.

Nervously, Ivan turned his doe eyes upward. Silently, he pleaded for help. Oliver glared down at him. His friends gathered in a semi-circle waiting.

Oliver saw lipstick and mascara and eye shadow. His hostile brain burned as he looked upon his older brother. A little girl looked up at him. Ivan wore a crop top, a tutu and pink sparkly leggings. Pink high top sneakers with silver laces adorned his size eleven feet. The Barbie Corvette stood beneath his trembling hand.

Oliver held the basketball beneath his right arm. His eyes travelled from Ralph to Clem and rested on Kyrie and Kendrick. His friends or his brother; his choice. He slide the b-ball from beneath his crooked arm and dribbled it. Then, grasping it in both arms, he straddled the pink plastic car.

Wham! The ball hit the toy. Plastic crunched beneath the weight of the basketball. Ollie held it in his hands again and let go. Wham! The car split in the middle. Fury overcame the younger brother. Again and again, the ball smashed into the Corvette.

Ivan grabbed his beloved Barbie sportscar and rushed inside. Oliver heard his bawling and a pang trembled in his heart. Then his friends gathered round him. Kendrick high fived him. Ralph and Clem high fived each other. Impulsively, Kyrie flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. The heart pang faded, and Ollie grinned. His popularity level ticked up a few notches.

When Jeff Talbot swung the front door opened, Oliver’s friends high tailed it up the street. At the corner, Clem turned to walk backwards and called out a “Woo-woo!” He fist pumped the air then he turned and ran.

Oliver responded to his father’s summons. Chucking the basketball up the driveway, he entered the house in his parent’s wake. Ivan sat in the recliner. Bent forward, his hands covered his face. He sobbed uncontrollably. When Ollie entered, he looked up accusingly. Mascara streaked his cheeks.

Oliver pivoted away from the pathetic sight. However, his father grasped his elbow and dragged him into the room.

“Apologize,” I. Jeff Talbot demanded, pointing toward Ivan.

“I…I’m sorry, Ivan,” Oliver stammered, feeling the heart pang again. He knew he had acted inappropriately.

“Tomorrow, after school, you are going to replace Ivan’s toy,” his father ordered. “You will use your own money.”

“I was saving for a rocket launcher, dad,” Ollie countered. “I almost have it.”

“Nevertheless, you destroyed Ivan’s property. You’ll replace it.”

“Yes, sir,” Ollie reluctantly gave in.
“Yah!” Ivan gleefully shouted, leading from the couch. On the points of his toes, the boy ballet danced toward the stairs. His woeful tears instantly disappeared.  

“Dad, he’s sixteen,” Oliver complained.

“Yeah, son, I know,” I. Jeff Talbot conceded.

“He wears girls’ clothes, and he acts…” Ollie did not finish. His father shushed him.

 

******

 

So many years ago, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot lamented. He began to scroll through a list names on a people-search site. Ivan did not appear on the list. Oliver longed to find his brother. He wanted to make up for the bad days with promises of good ones in the future. Too many mistakes, Ollie bemoaned.

Admitting failure, Oliver turned back to the internet news pages. He read about the beginnings of the plague and the thousands of resultant deaths. A write up of the nine original San Francisco victims caught his eye.

Melissa Beaumont�"aged thirty-five

A long term resident of San Fransisco, Mel as her friends called her, taught high school English. An active member of the LBGTQ community, she participated in fund raisers and rallies. She advocated for students who wished to ‘come out.’ After school, she invited lesbian girls to her house for special club meetings.

Ramon Ramon�"aged eighty-one

An entertainer by trade, Ramon Ramon’s claim to fame included a performance at the Monterey Pop festival in November of 1967. He acquired a cult following during the 1970s and 1980s. Later, he fell on hard times. His live-in lover, Cyrus Bland, sued him for palimony. Homeless, Ramon drifted to San Francisco and entertained as a street musician near Fisherman’s Wharf. His body was discovered in an alley beside a dumpster.

Chaz Lopez�"aged sixteen

A runaway discovered in a flophouse. Few details available. Authorities still attempting to locate family.

Cammie Light�"aged twenty-three

A popular local girl, Cammie graduated from Mission High School and attended the UCSF School of Nursing. She worked at Concentra Urgent Care. Her girlfriend, Vicky Ansel, called 911 as soon as the first plague symptoms appeared. Cammie died at Saint Frances Memorial Hospital.

Det. Leeland MacAllister�"aged thirty-eight

The San Francisco police detective lived with his wife, Mary, and three children, Marcia�"aged nine, Grace�"aged seven, Marcus�"aged two, in suburban Palo Alto. He recently ‘came out’ to his family and colleagues. His death came as a double blow to all who knew him and called him friend. No one expected his homosexual tendencies.

Ivy Masterson�"aged approximately forty

A recent newcomer to San Francisco, Ivy Masterson accepted employment at Che Boutique. The proprietress of the popular Union Square establishment, Maureen Tapper, hired Ivy on the spot. Later, when her new employee did not appear at work, she regretted her swift decision. Maureen claimed she liked the transgender woman from the get-go. The news of Ivy’s sudden death upset her greatly.

Samson Delight�"aged thirty

Real name unknown. Samson Delight, a male stripper, at the Rainbow Palace, passed out during a performance. The telltale bulbous had not yet appeared. However, he had all the other symptoms. The four men who accompanied him in a line dance, were placed in immediate quarantine and the club shutdown pending inspection.
Capri Bianchi�"aged thirteen

Sent home from school, the eighth grader returned to her empty home and crawled into bed. Her parents discovered her body the following morning. Her mother entered her bedroom to shake her awake. When she could not rouse the girl, the father called 911. She was pronounced dead at the scene. Capri recently ‘came out’ as a lesbian.  

Kasra Anvari�"aged twenty-seven

A Clarion hotel maid discovered the body of the Iranian vacationer. When she entered to clean the room, she found the door jammed. Calling for maintenance to assist, the two co-workers forced the door opened. Kasra lay sprawled immediately inside. He died three days previously.

 

Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot sat back in his chair. The Iranian name struck him as unusual. It might provided a clue to the origin of the plague epidemic. Ollie considered the possibility. At the moment, he only had the slightest knowledge of his pending assignment. If Iran proved their final destination, he did not wonder the initiation of the mission remained in limbo.

Oliver sucked in his breathe then let it out. His men grew more impatient with each waiting hour. He wished the task were completed and they were on their way home.

Wearily, Oliver glanced over the victims names once again. Kasra Anvari alarmed him but another one stuck out: Ivy Masterson�"aged approximately forty. Why did the name mean something to him? He did not know anyone in San Francisco. Clearly, he did not know any of the other people who died of the plague.

A picture appeared with all on the list except Ivy Masterson. An outline of a female head appeared in the place of a photo. The information did not hold any clues to the dead woman’s past. Still, Ollie felt…well, he felt something.

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

     "Colonel?" Sgt. Tyrone Jones stood in Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's makeshift office doorway. His voice sounded choked up.

     “Yes, Jones?” Lt. Talbot acknowledged without looking up.

     “I spoke to my wife, Colonel,” Jones stated, leaning heavily in the doorframe. “My son’s got it. He was admitted to the base hospital last night.”

     Oliver's attention suddenly focused on his Sargeant. Tears streaked Tyrone Jones's caramel-colored cheeks. Running his shaky hands over them, he rubbed away the tears. He sank into a desk chair without waiting for an invitation.

     “I’m sorry, Jones,” Oliver responded, hastening to his feet. Squatting beside the upset Sargeant, he placed his hand tenderly on the man’s upper leg. “What is the prognosis?”

     Jones looked up into the baleful face of his superior. The Lt. Col. always treated his men with respect and kindness. Tyrone Jones liked him. Talbot frequently inquired about their families and offered supporting words to boost his men.

     “My wife says he’s stable,” the Sargeant responded, hopefulness tingeing his words. “Maybe he’ll pull through. T-T’s a strong kid.” Tyrone’s lips jiggled as though he might cry again. Then, he controlled his emotions and sat up straighter.

     “I’m sure he will,” Oliver assured, smiling encouragingly.

     Sgt. Tyrone Jones remained a vital part of the team. Lt. Col. Talbot knew he could rely on him.

     Several years ago, Oliver Talbot had stood up as Jones's best man. His wife, Kalisa, brightened her surroundings. Always ready to volunteer, she gave her utmost to promote Ty's career. Their children, Tyrone III and Tallah grew delightfully into toddlerhood. It saddened Ollie to hear of T-T's illness.

     “Would you like to go home?” Oliver inquired, standing. “I’m sure we could find a replacement.”

     "Nah, no." Sgt. Jones shook his head. At first, it seemed half-hearted. Then, the movement became adamant. "I want to get the b*****d who did this. I stake my son's life on it."

     “Gotcha.” Oliver regained his seat. Despite T-T’s illness, he knew Jones would stick it out.

     Sgt. Tyrone Jones's impatience grew as he considered the unjustness of the situation. Someone created the plague virus to destroy lives. All across the world, people died senselessly. The irradicated disease disappeared years ago. A nutcase with a grudge had brought it back for the sole purpose of killing innocent people.

     The fact that it began with the LGBTQ community rankled him. The target meant repression and bigotry. Throughout his life, Tyrone had seen bigots at work. He grew up in the New York ghettos. The schools he attended were run down and understaffed. Gang violence spread like wildfire. They were poor and black with no way to pull themselves out.

     Old Wilbur Jones often reminisced about segregation. Tyrone recalled his grandfather talking about the difficulties of being black. Black only bathrooms and abandoning bus seats for white passengers. He recalled protests that swiftly got out of hand and beatdowns by the police. It saddened Tyrone when he considered the awfulness of segregation.

     Throughout his life, his father found it difficult to find work. Prejudice continued to run high. Finally, late in life, Tyrone Sr. signed up for Army duty. Many roadblocks continued to face him. However, he persevered and swiftly rose in the ranks. Finally, beating all the odds, he retired as a Four-Star General. Tyrone Jr. hoped to follow in his parent's footsteps and give his children a better life.

     "So what's the tie-up," Sgt. Jones finally asked.

     “President,” Lt. Col. Talbot responded.

     “President Soft Soap,” Tyrone grumbled, using one of Abraham Q. Morton’s many nicknames. He sighed.

     "Waffle Iron," Major Alberto Gonzalez quipped, entering abruptly. "Show Talbot what you just showed me." He pulled Master Sargeant Emil Hollister into the office. Sgts Bud Cassidy and Carl McMillian followed in their wake.

     Fumbling with his smartphone, Emil Hollister found the YouTube video he sought and turned it on. The voice of Pres. Abraham Q. Morton filled the space. He recited his post-pandemic speech. Then, the President swiveled and departed. Angry voices followed him when the journalists realized he would not answer questions.

     Lt. Col. Talbot sank back in his seat. The dialogue addressed most of the issues.

     “So?” Oliver raised his eyebrows.

     “Not the President,” Cassidy cut in.

     Oliver swiped the Sargeant with his eyes. Straightforward and reliable, Bud Cassidy was not a fool. He wouldn't likely fall for a conspiracy theory. Ollie heard him speak out against such nonsense many times.

     “How so?” Ollie questioned, rocking back on his chair. When it touched the wall, he steadied it. Inquiringly, he gazed up at Sgt. Cassidy.

     “Moles don’t move,” Bud bluntly stated.

     “Moles?” Oliver set his chair down. “What are you talking about?”

     “As the President spoke, his mole slid a quarter of an inch down his cheek,” Sgt. McMillian clarified. “Watch it again.” Lifting the smartphone, Carl reset the video and played it. Oliver watched intensely.

     “A quarter of an inch?” Ollie questioned, still perplexed. He had not seen a thing.

     “Yes, a quarter of an inch,” Bud Cassidy affirmed. He nodded significantly.

     “It’s not Abraham Morton,” Emil Hollister stated, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

     “Bull s**t.” Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot shot up. Striding toward the door, he shut it with a bang. “This conversation stops here and now.” He turned around to face his men.

     Silently, the men stood in the office. They each hated waiting around for action. Instead of eliminating the source of the virus, delays caused time to drift away. The group would proceed to their final destination as soon as the President signed their orders. However, without the signature, they remained in a holding pattern.

     “Why would they need a stand-in?” Master Sargeant Emil Hollister finally ventured. “Is the President dead? What about the VP? He usually stands beside the Prez.”

     All eyes turned on Hollister. Cassidy, Jones, and McMillian believed the Commander-in-Chief might have died. Gonzalez, siding with Talbot, thought otherwise. The Master Sargeant remained adamant concerning his discovery.

     “If the President and the VP are dead or indisposed,” Lt. Col. Talbot remarked, “The Speaker of the House immediately takes the oath. Right?”

     Concession all around.

     "So, where's Sam Grisham?" Talbot asked. "There should have been a press conference…an announcement. Then, Sam should have taken the oath. So far, we haven't heard anything. We should assume Abraham Morton remains in command."

     The room grew silent again.

     "Ginger Hartley," Cassidy blurted out. He slammed his fist into his palm.

     All eyes turned on Bud Cassidy.

     "Ok, guys." Bud took a deep breath, then continued. "What if Hartley knows Morton is dead? And what if she withholds the info? Then sets up a body double to take his place?"

     “And she takes Grisham and his party down?” Carl McMillian cut in. “She could step into his shoes and retake the Speaker’s podium.”

     “That would make her President,” Emil chimed in.

     “It would take a lot of nerve,” Tyrone Jones solemnly asserted.

     "She has plenty of that," Emil remarked. His long face showed his contempt for Rep. Hartley.

     "You're making up conspiracy theories," Talbot flatly announced. He paced the small room with his hands clasped behind his back.

     “It stands to reason. If the President is dead…” Bud Cassidy began.

     "We don't know if the President is alive or dead," Alberto Gonzalez stated, taking Oliver's side. "I know this waiting business has everyone down. However, we shouldn't entertain ourselves with guessing games. If the Prez and VP died of the plague, Grisham would step in. That's all we have to know."

     “And that ends it,” Talbot asserted, regaining his seat. “Go check your gear.”

     “We checked it three times already,” McMillian grumbled as the group filed out.

     "Recheck it," Lt. Col. Talbot called after them.

 

******

 

     Oliver Talbot stared at the closed door. FUBAR, he grumbled under his breath. Never, in his entire career, had he faced such a mess. Usually, all their missions went off like clockwork. The current one stunk to the high heavens.

     Delays in their line of work remained inevitable. However, the current one proved the exception. At first, Lt. Col. Talbot believed they faced a simple task. Swoop in, swoop out. A long, drawn-out wait for orders rarely occurred. Talbot believed the President wavered. He could not believe Morton died of the plague. Indeed, he had received the best Secret Service protection available. They would have removed him to a safe bunker and assured his health.

     The delay meant Morton waffled. He hesitated to sign the order to propel Delta Force Squadron G into action. The President had prevaricated on lesser issues many times. While the country waited for a rapid movement, he held back his signature. However, the current matter proved urgent. People around the world were dying of Plague. Other were hospitalized, not knowing if they would expire or become healthy again.

     Oliver chaffed against inaction. He sought swift solutions. His men longed for completion and to return to their homes.

     Sgt. Tyrone Jones belonged with his family. At his wife's side, he could provide safety and security. Together, they could pull their son out of danger. Instead, they sat with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for President Waffle Iron to sign a simple order.

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

     Rep. Deval Harrelson pulled his Mercedes out of his Georgetown garage. His wife, Celia, wondered why he decided to leave in the dead of night. Their bedside clock stood at 12:15 am when Dev shook her awake. He hovered over her, dressed in black slacks and a black tee shirt. Half-awake, she ogled him.

     “Get up, C,” Dev urged in a whisper. “C’mon. We gotta boogie.”

     “Boogie?” Celia groggily questioned. That particular term for hurry went out of style in the 1970s. She groaned and rolled over.

     “No, c’mon, C,” Deval tried again. Reaching out his long arm, he prodded her. “I’m not kidding. We’re, like, splitsville. Now.”

     “Hmmm,” Celia Harrelson moaned, yanking the covers over her head. She hated early mornings; she hated traveling during early mornings.

     "Look, something's up, Celia honey," Deval stated, perching on the side of the bed. "Any minute and the s***s gonna hit the fan. We gotta get outta here. Dig it?"

     “What s**t?” The word caught her attention. Abruptly she sat up in bed.

     “I’ll tell you on the way,” Dev stated. Urgency crept into his voice.

     Satisfied, Celia finally slid off the bed. Deval stopped her as she headed toward the bathroom. Throwing him an evil look, she dressed. It irked her to start the day without a clean, refreshing shower. However, she realized her husband's resolve. Usually, he remained the most laid-back person she knew. In fact, his relaxed attitude drew her to him. However, if he were in a rush to leave, he had a good reason.

     In the next room, Rep. Deval Harrelson woke his grandchildren. Following his daughter, Maliaka's overdose death, he provided a home for her offspring. Six-year-old Niesha and two-year-old Quiana slept peacefully. The youngest hugged a yellow stuffed rabbit against her chest. Deval hated to awaken them, but he wanted to get moving.

     When Ginger Hartley discovered he had blown the whistle on her scheme, her fury would escalate. Her longtime Congressional yes-man would become the target of her wrath. Dev wanted to put as many miles as he could between his family and Washington, D.C.

     Tenderly, Deval Harrelson lifted Niesha from the top bunk. Wrapping the child in her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket, he turned to carry her from the room. Behind him, Celia cuddled Quiana. The toddler’s curly head poked out of the matching blanket. The plush toy dangled from his wife’s arm. Stealthily, the group entered the garage.

     Sliding into the front seat of the Mercedes, Deval backed the car out. Fearful of tampering, he wanted to make sure the auto remained safe. He would not allow Celia or the children to enter with him. Slowly, Dev reversed to the end of the driveway. Then, he turned the car off.

     Celia stood at the open garage door. Beside her, Niesha stood with two fingers stuck in her mouth. The little girl leaned against her grandmother's leg. She found it challenging to stay awake. Unaware of the situation, Quiana slept peacefully in Celia's arms.

     Deval grinned broadly at his family. Leaving D.C. felt like a good idea. It felt like an idea he should have had years ago. Perhaps, when things simmered down, he would return. Or maybe not. The time may have come to exit the political arena. Retirement�"he had not considered it. Now, the word stood out like a neon sign.

     Dev longed to watch the girls grow up. If he retired, he could give them more time than he gave his own daughter. The child of Annys, his first wife, grew up in boarding schools and took her holidays in her classmates’ homes. Only on rare occasions had Deval devoted time to her.

     Maliaka resented her father’s inability to connect. Running wild, she became pregnant with Niesha during her junior year in high school. When questioned, she could not name the father. Angrily, Deval pressed her for answers. Nevertheless, Maliaka nonchalantly claimed there were too many men to know for sure. Furthermore, she refused a DNA test. Following the birth, his daughter disappeared with the baby.

     Four years later, Maliaka returned with Niesha and a newborn, Quiana. Strung out of drugs, she contracted syphilis and died several weeks later. Ginger Hartley adeptly covered up the situation. The news media carried a story claiming Rep. Deval Harrelson's only daughter passed away after an aggressive bout with breast cancer.

     Deval decided to make up his relationship with his daughter by spending time with his grandchildren. Pleasantly, he considered beach vacations and trips to an amusement park. He saw the girls' smiling faces covered with melted chocolate popsicles in his mind. They would graduate from high school and attend college. Perhaps, in place of a father, he would walk them down the aisle at their weddings.

     Grinning broadly, Rep. Deval Harrelson waved to his wife. In the dimness of the garage, her white teeth sparkled. Celia returned his wave and then prodded Niesha. The little girl lifted her hand and waved too.

     Dev leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. Then, he shifted into drive.

     The Mercedes exploded.

     The force of the explosion sent Celia Harrelson sprawling. She landed hard on the garage’s concrete floor, breaking her back and neck. Her head bounced twice, and she knew nothing else.

     Niesha crawled to the bundle next to her grandmother. Pulling her little sister onto her lap, she soothed the toddler’s head. Her small hand entangled in dark hair, and she crooned a lullaby.

     The Mercedes blazed, sending orange and red flames into the midnight sky. Running footfalls echoed around the lonely street. In the distance, sirens wailed. A man's form emerged, and he knelt before the frightened children.   

     Senator Wallace Henry helped Niesha to her feet. His wife, Greta, lifted Quiana. Opening her eyes wide, the youngster cried. Her ululating wails overpowered the oncoming sirens. Greta comforted her, then carried her home. In a daze, Niesha followed her little sister.

 

******

 

     Speaker of the House Samuel Grisham accepted the news of Rep. Deval Harrelson’s death. He nodded grimly and dismissed his aide.

     The bad news spread like wildfire. Deval's information concerning the death of President Abraham Q. Morton stunned Sam Grisham. He could hardly comprehend it. Nor could he understand why Minority Leader Hartley kept the news under wraps.

     Sam Grisham did not dislike Ginger Hartley. However, he did not understand her. Once, when they first arrived in the Congressional Halls, he befriended her. They both had the same objectives but approached them differently. Then, she became Speaker, and her attitude changed. Bipartisanship disappeared. Ginger made demands and shut out suggestions contrary to her opinions. It became difficult to work with her.

     However, Sam Grisham tried. For three terms, Ginger Hartley held the Speaker's position. With each new term, her associates found it difficult to work with her. Yet, her party remained in the ascendency. The American people began to grumble. Then, in the last election, she lost her position. Hartley descended; Grisham ascended.

     Minority Leader Hartley attempted to obstruct procedures. She encouraged open rebellion. Keeping a keen eye on her activities, Grisham felt a pang of remorse for her. However, no matter how sore she became, she had to realize she was no longer the Speaker.

     Representative Ginger Hartley disrupted the normal course of the law. She plotted to overthrow a duly elected government. Withholding information concerning the President's death rose to treason.

     “Too many deaths,” Grisham muttered to himself. The VP succumbed to the plague three days previously. 

     Without the leadership of President Abraham Morton, the country fell into chaos. The death of the Vice President meant no one would immediately step into the Oval Office. Ginger Hartley stood in the way of progress. Speaker Grisham should have taken the presidential oath days previously.

     The plague continued to spread. Hospitals groaned with patients. With so many waiting for medical help, the gurneys lined the hallways. The promised vaccine did not appear. People sheltered in place and kept to social distancing guidelines.

     When the Speaker of the House became President Grisham, the situation would change. Sam promised himself he would take immediate action.

     Determinedly, Samuel Grisham exited his office. Across the hall, the Minority Leader's door remained firmly closed. Sam cast his eye toward it. He should go in and have a word with Ginger. Perhaps he could talk her out of her plans. Tentatively, he gripped the door handle, then changed his mind. He did not wish to confront her.

     Senators and Representatives gathered in the Rotunda. As Sam Grisham crossed the tiled floor, several of his colleagues called his name. He offered a wave to several but did not stop. They spoke of recent events. However, Sam felt he should not become involved.

     A sudden bang muffled conversations. Speaker Grisham stopped in his tracks and listened. The sound barely penetrated, but an uneasy feeling crept up his spine. Then, he continued on his way.

     “Shot!” a voice rang out.

     Swiveling, a mob of congresspeople and guards rushed toward the voice. Samuel Grisham pushed through the bodies jamming the corridor. A Congressional Guard blocked the Minority Leader's door. When Sam maneuvered his way to the front of the pack, Officer LeBeaux stepped aside. Hastily, the Speaker entered and stopped in his tracks.

     Ginger Hartley's red hair spread across her desk. Beneath it, her head twisted sideways. Her wide green eyes stared deadly at the wall to her left. A pistol dangled from her fingers.

     “Oh dear God,” Grisham breathed. “Suicide.”

 

******

 

     The funerals took place, one following the other. Side-by-side, Pres. Morton and V.P. Ramirez lay in state. Due to the lockdown status, mourners did not line up to file past. Arlington National Cemetery received both bodies.

     Representative Deval Harrelson's body entered the Rotunda the next day. At first, he was to lie next to Minority Leader Hartley. However, evidence concerning the explosion that killed Harrelson pointed directly back to the Ex-Speaker. Dev and his wife Celia lay together in the family cemetery in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana.

     For her many years in Congress, Rep. Ginger Hartley received due acclaim. Her constituents recalled her as a firm and well-respected leader. The news media omitted Hartley's part in the delay in reporting Pres. Morton's death. Nor was her connection to the explosion that killed Rep. Deval Harrelson explained. Speaker Grisham did not believe the furtherance of such information necessary.

     “Let the people who loved her continue to do so,” Sam Grisham stated, ending the situation.

     The following Saturday, Speaker of the House Samuel Grisham placed his hand on the Bible and took the Presidential Oath of Office.

     “I do solemnly affirm that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States," the new President gravely stated.

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

     President Grisham sat behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Sam never expected to become President of the United States. Folding his hands before him, he sat straighter. He had a lot to accomplish in very little time.

     Abraham Q. Morton left the country in a mess. Unexpectedly, the plague turned everything upside down. However, most of the unfinished business preceded the outbreak. President Grisham realized the daunting problems of his position. As he considered the situation, his press secretary entered.

     “Come in.” Pres. Grisham beckoned from the Resolute Desk.

     Hastily, Monique Abreo entered. Her high heels clicked as she strode across the office. Arrogantly, she stared down at Grisham. She would much rather work for President Morton. Her new boss would not ask her to sit in his lap, nor would he whisper into her ear. The new Commander-in-Chief was a no-nonsense type of man.

     “You’re on in twenty minutes,” Monique remarked, turning on her heels. She longed to get away quickly.

     “I want to go over the speech’s text,” Grisham announced, stalling Abreo’s retreat.

     Monique Abreo’s shoulders sagged. Disappointed, she pivoted to reface Samuel Grisham. He noticed the look of disdain crossing her features. Immediately, he decided to replace her at the first opportunity. Sam knew of her relationship with Ginger Hartley. However, he decided to ease the friction between them.

     Monique stood before the desk. She refused the chair Sam Grisham offered. With a snap of the wrist, the Press Secretary opened the folder containing the speech. Holding it before her, she glanced over the text. The wording was firm and precise. It covered all the bases.

     All in all, she disagreed with the President's politics. She considered tossing it on the desk and marching out. Nevertheless, she remained.

     Word-for-word, Grisham read the speech out loud. At several points, he stopped and reiterated them. Then, he made a few changes. Out of the twenty minutes preceding his address, he used up fifteen.

     Monique Abreo's sore feet screamed in pain. Determinedly, she remained standing. Her father used to chide her for her stubbornness. She did not care. Sitting before the President, whom she already hated, showed signs of acceptance. She refused to accept him. In her opinion, Ginger Hartley should have stepped into Morton's shoes.

     “That’s all for now.” Grisham finally excused her.

     Sitting back in his chair, he watched Monique stride from the office. Yes, he would definitely replace her as soon as possible.

 

******

 

     President Samuel Grisham began his speech with a moment of silence for President Morton and his other lost colleagues. Then, he included the hundreds of thousand plague victims.

     "My team and I are working toward solutions concerning the plague pandemic. Once we get past all the red tape, a vaccine will become available. I'm counting on you, the American People, to do your part. Get inoculated.

     "In the meantime, please remain sheltered in place and follow social distancing guidelines. We want to get America back open for business as soon as possible.

     "Although I cannot give specific details, I can say we have isolated the source of the plague. The State Department and the Military are coordinating a plan to proceed with annihilating it. I am sorry to say we could have confronted this situation much sooner. However, we aim to move forward rather quickly. Please bear with us.

     “I thank you for your patience and forbearance,” Grisham ended. Then, added, “Are there any questions from the press?”

     Hovering on the sidelines, Monique Abreo moved to escort the President away from the podium. Eyeing Grisham suspiciously, she stepped forward. She had not expected an invitation to the press. Morton never answered questions.

     Pres. Grisham abruptly waved her back. He wanted to speak to the waiting journalists. Utilizing the news and social media, he longed to connect with the citizens he wished to serve.   Sam Grisham did not view himself as a ruler. He sought popularity. Unlike his predecessor, he wanted the people to view him as one of them.

     "How long before the vaccine becomes available," a newswoman shouted. Her red hair stood out in the crowd. Sam immediately recognized her.

     "Sorry to say, there has been a tie-up with red tape, Avril," Sam answered, using the reporter's first name. "We're pushing it through as quickly as possible. I cannot say exactly when, but soon."

     “Thank you,” Avril McMurphy responded, stepping back into the mass of reporters.

     Avril McMurphy took her job seriously. One of the few women who remembered breaking boundaries in the newsroom, she respected Sam Grisham.

     “Where does the source of the plague stem?” Marshall Tasker questioned, pushing his way to the front. The rash reporter knew better than to ask such a question.

     “Cannot say,” Pres. Grisham immediately responded.

     “Thank you, members of the press.” Monique Abreo finally stepped up to the podium. Shoving herself in front of the President, she used her butt to move him away. “That ends the question period.” Briskly taking his arm, she retreated alongside Sam Grisham.

     “Thank you, Ms. Abreo.” Sam dismissed his press secretary at the Oval Office.

     Deflated, Montique glared at the closed door. Usually, she shared a moment with Abraham Morton following an address. They poked fun at journalists and exchanged kisses on the couch. No hanky-panky on this run, Montique thought as she turned away. Concerned, she wondered when her replacement might arrive. Instinctively, she knew it would not take long. Awkwardly, she felt glad. Working for Samuel Grisham would prove a bore.

 

******

  

     President Grisham stood behind the Resolute Desk. Then, he sat. For a moment, he envisioned Monique Abreo. The slim, blonde Press Secretary was too pushy. The way she cut him off from the journalists annoyed him. He made a note to replace her. Perhaps Avril McMurphy might step in.

     Grisham and McMurphy knew each other for a long time. He recalled his first encounter with her years ago. When Sam first arrived in Washington, D.C., she appeared as a cub reporter. He invited her for a drink at a nearby hotel bar after an interview. She gladly accepted. Over cocktails, they connected.

     Sam dated Avril on and off throughout the early years. He liked her style and her spunk. She stood out among only a handful of women working as journalists. On occasions, she appeared abrasive. Her forthwith style irked many but propelled her up in the ranks. At one point, Sam considered proposing.

     Samuel Grisham never married. He wavered about Avril but never asked her. As the years passed, he became immersed in his work. A private life took a backseat for him. Before long, he realized he had frittered away his life. Looking forward, he set his mind on the Presidency.

If Avril accepted, she would become his new Press Secretary. Within the next few day, he would decide.

     Pres. Grisham pushed thoughts of Avril McMurphy to the back of his mind. Grasping a stack of briefs, he pulled them to him. Most were mundane. However, the one concerning the Delta Force Squadron G mission caught his attention. The fact that Morton neglected to sign it stunned him. Grasping a pen, he scrawled his name across the bottom.

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty

 

     Midnight stillness surrounded the small Iranian village of Hamzeh Qasem. Outside the Mazanderani house, soldiers lined the street. Awaiting a signal, they prepared to burst in the door.

     Inside, Mahasti Mazanderani slept peacefully. At age fourteen, she remained with her parents. Her sister, BahAr, traveled to San Francisco. Mahasti considered her lucky. Unhappy at home, she wished to flee as her sister had. Her father was too strict, her mother too placid. Like her sister, she longed for freedom.

     Mahasti had not seen her older brother in three years. Her father proudly proclaimed that Arastoo worked for the Ayatollah. Gulzar Mazanderani expressed his great admiration for his only son. A notice from the Great Leader of Iran seemed highly significant. Around the small village, her father proclaimed the family’s good fortune.

     Dreaming of following BahAr to America, Mahasti lay back against her pillow and stared at the low ceiling. Then, a sudden crashing sound shook the house. The girl screamed and leaped to her feet.

     As she screamed, a soldier burst through the door. With wide eyes, the youngest Mazanderani daughter stared at him. He petrified her. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her into the main room. Her father stood amid the armed soldiers; her mother clung to his side.

     “What is the meaning of this?” Gulzar indignantly demanded. His face glowed red with fury.

     “Where is your son Arastoo?” the leader questioned in return.

     "My son is on a secret mission. The Ayatollah gave him a special assignment," the Mazanderani patriarch returned. His chest puffed out in pride. "Leave my house and my family in peace."

     “The Ayatollah has never heard the name Arastoo Mazanderani,” the officer sneered, poking his assault rifle into Gulzar’s protruding stomach.

     “I tell you…” the father began again.

     Mahasti backed against the wall. Fearfully, she watched the scene unfold. Her scared eyes captured the commotion. Did the soldier intend to kill her father?

     Hastily, the soldiers rushed the family outside. Two vans waited outside the house. Prodding them with their assault rifles, they pushed Gulzar into the lead one. Anahita and Mahasti entered the second.

     Embarrassed, Mahasti pushed her long black hair behind her ears. Remaining in her nightdress, she felt naked without her hijab. Fearfully, she glanced at her mother. Dressed in similar attire, Anahita also did not wear her head covering.

     Tears glistened in Anahita Mazanderani's golden eyes. She felt ashamed of being forced from her home. The faces of her friends gawked at the family as the soldiers paraded them outside. Many were long-time acquaintances, even old school friends. As soon as the vans disappeared, the gossip would begin. Anahita shrunk against the cold metal bench she sat on.

     Mahasti grasped her mother’s hands. She wanted to comfort her but could not form the words. Trembling, she leaned against her mother and cried.

 

******

 

     “I tell you, my son works for the Ayatollah,” Gulzar shouted, slamming his fist into his open palm. “How many times must I tell you.”

     “Your son, Arastoo, is responsible for the plague outbreak,” the military officer remarked. Grasping the arms of Mazanderani’s chair, he leaned menacingly over him. “Get it through your thick head. The Ayatollah does not know your son. The Ayatollah never sent your son on a mission.” 

     Gulzar hung his head in shame. He had taught his son to follow Mohammad. He thought of himself as a gentle father. Sure, he expected much from his son. He expected his family to obey him. His brilliant son studied chemistry and excelled. His wife and two daughters were demure and submissive. Never did he detect either fanatism or rebellion.

     Trusting his son, Gulzar believed in the remarkable attention of the Ayatollah. Arastoo was a credit to the family. Now, however, doubt crept into his mind. How naïve he had been. Gulzar chided himself on his stupidity.

     "Where is Arastoo?" the officer questioned, leaning in closer.

     “I do not know where my son is,” the father responded, tears brimming his brown eyes. “I only know what he told me. The…”

     “Yes, I know about the Ayatollah,” the military official responded. Shrugging, he backed away. “Your son lied to you and your family.”

     Striding through the reinforced door, the soldier slammed it hard. The crashing sound echoed throughout the corridor.

 

******

 

     Thrusting open the door, three armed soldiers entered. Frightened, Mahasti Mazanderani cast her eyes downward. A curtain of straight black hair hid her facial features. A tear clung to the corner of her brown eye and slid down her cheek.

     “Put this on,” a young soldier ordered, handing her a brown hijab.

     Trembling, Mahasti clutched it. The dull material felt rough in her fingers. It smelt of sweat and greasy hair. Swiping her long tresses back, she adjusted the hijab onto her head. Her tears waterfalled down her face.

     “Where is your sister?” the first soldier barked.

     “I…I don’t know,” the youngest Mazanderani stammered.

     “Where is she?” Her capturer sneered at her.

     Mahasti glanced up at the three men surrounding her. The one who spoke appeared rough, uncouth. Fearfully, she thought he might strike her. The second had kind eyes but stood rigidly against the wall. However, she recognized the third.

     Danyal Mehri frequently patrolled the area. Often, he hung around the schoolyard fence. When BahAr attended the school, she and her friends repeatedly flirted with him. After her sister departed, Mahasti took her place. She and her girlfriend, Nazanin Zahra Iskandar, threw him surreptitious glances. He would return their smiles and then move away.

     “I said I do not know,” the frightened teenager whispered. “I do not know,” she reiterated. Searching for help, she looked toward Danyal.

     Danyal Mehri met Mahasti's eyes. Abruptly, he cast his downward. He knew her and recalled the older sister. He enjoyed BahAr’s teasing and wide inviting smile. At night, he dreamed of her sumptuous body. Nevertheless, he discovered her desire to become a pole dancer. At one time, he considered asking for BahAr's hand in marriage. Disgusted, he turned away from her.

     Then, the younger sister caught his attention. Danyal might have approached her. However, the sudden arrest put a hold on his plans.

     “Does San Francisco ring a bell?” the older soldier questioned.

     Mahasti raised her eyes in surprise. Forcefully, the soldier slammed a series of photographs onto the table. His meaty hands covered them. Curious, the young girl peered at the pictures. Then, the hands raised. She stared at images of her dead sister. Shrieking, she covered her face and bawled.

     Swiftly, Danyal stepped forward. Placing his hands on Mahasti’s quaking shoulders, he kneaded them. The girl leaned against him, taking comfort from his presence.

     “Your brother, Arastoo, sent BahAr to the USA to spread the plague virus,” the second soldier announced. He turned a chair to face her and straddled it. “Your sister contracted the disease, and someone dumped her body near Alcatraz Island. Kasra Anvari is also dead.”

     Mahasti knew the name Kasra Anvari�"Arastoo's best friend. Fleetingly, she wondered why he traveled to San Francisco also. She guessed he had run away with BahAr. Her sister frequently talked about eloping with a man. However, she never mentioned the man’s name.

     “Where is Arastoo?”

     The question took Mahasti by surprise. Stunned by the two deaths, she had not expected a change in subject. Dumbly, she shook her head ‘no.’

     "I do not know," the girl answered truthfully.

     "WHERE IS ARASTOO?" the lead soldier shouted. Leering, he leaned forward.

     When his nose touched hers, Mahasti pushed her chair backward. Its four feet screeched as it rushed across the tiled floor.

     The second soldier advanced on her. Still straddling his seat, he hitched it forward. He placed his fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. Mahasti's brown eyes met his, then reverted downward.

     “Where is Arastoo?” he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring.

     "Takht-e-Soleiman," the girl whispered. Long ago, she'd overheard her brother and his friend speaking about the mountain range. She did not know for sure Arastoo's location. Nevertheless, Mahasti felt it was the correct response.

     Knowledgeably, the older soldiers exchanged a glance. They had the answer they sought. Danyal squeezed her shoulders and then patted them. Then, the three men departed.

 

******

 

     Hours passed since the soldiers departed. Mahasti Mazanderani sat in the cold, dank room. Alone, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her belly. Twice, she felt ready to vomit but held it back.

     Remorse enveloped her petite form. The betrayal of her brother covered her like a shroud. Indeed, she felt as though she had destroyed him. The soldiers would capture him. Then, Arastoo would face the executioner. Spreading the plague virus and killing scores of people sealed his fate. Yet, Mahasti loved him as she loved her sister, BahAr.

     Slowly, the door creaked open. Aghast, Mahasti stared at it. She trembled with fear. Perhaps she had been wrong about Arastoo. The soldiers returned to question her again. Bile rose into her mouth. Terrified, she covered her lips with her hands. If they entered, she would throw up.

Rough hands shoved Anahita through the door. The Mazanderani mother tripped over the threshold and sprawled across the floor.

     Leaping up, Mahasti hastened toward her mother. She knelt beside her and cradled Anahita's head in her lap. Singing an old lullaby, she soothed the older woman's head.

     “I’m all right, baby,” Anahita murmured, sitting up. Lovingly, she patted her youngest daughter’s hand. “You told them where Arastoo is?”

     “Yes, mama,” Mahasti whispered, ashamed.

     "Do not worry, my love," the mother responded. "You did the right thing. Arastoo has hurt many people. He was wrong to spread the plague."

     “Yes, mama,” the child repeated. Her stomach rumbled loudly.

     “When this is over, we will go home,” Anahita assured.

     "Mama…BahAr…" Mahasti began.

     “Yes, my dear, I know about BahAr.” A tear glimmered in the mother’s eye.

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

     Alone in the dank cavern, Arastoo Mazanderani realized his fear. He missed Zeeba Bahrami. Although he only viewed her as a lab partner, he had not understood how much she filled his life. He missed their discussions about Western Culture and their shared disillusions.

     The dismal cave haunted him. In the dim light, his lab equipment cast eerie shadows upon the rocky walls. At times, the glass beakers flickered, giving them the appearance of movement. He felt they mocked him, plagued him.

     Plague�"the dreaded disease reached out its murderous tentacles. Unmercifully it killed millions of people. Arastoo had not realized how quickly it could spread. Instead of remaining in San Fransisco, it moved into neighboring communities and swiftly took over. It knew no boundaries.

     Arastoo Mazanderani should have known better. As a chemist, he should have realized the swiftness of the disease. Instead, he focused on destroying the LGBTQ community only. He could not have been more short-sighted.

     Hatred caused him to seek destruction. Hatred of cultures he did not understand motivated him. Because he sought to please Allah, Arastoo took on the role of Allah himself. He decided to take command of life and death.

     Arastoo realized he had sentenced his own people to a terrible fate. Around the world, multitudes of people died because of him. Across the American continents, in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia, death knocked upon the doors of the innocents. It crept into the Middle East and Iran.

     Frantically, Arastoo's eyes roamed across his laboratory. Then, they rested upon Zeeba's deformed body. She slumped against the wall and fixed her dead eyes on him. They mocked and accused him of her murder and the murder of many people.

     Arastoo's flaccid lips quivered. He sat on his cot and ran his hands through his jet-black hair. Angrily, he tore out two clumps with his clenched fists. Then, he shook his fists in the air.

     “Arrrrrgooh," the chemist howled. His mouth formed a perfect zero. The sound flew down the long, cavernous corridors and reverberated hollowly back. There might have been three or four or five ghosts calling to him from their hidden lairs.

     Fury overtook Arastoo Mazanderani. Leaping up, he charged his laboratory. Sweeping his arms across the tables, he cleared them. Equipment crashed around his feet; glass shattered. He swept his arms back, emptying the remains onto the floor.

     A flying shard caught Arastoo in the left eye. Baying in pain, he clasped his hands over it, deepening the fragment. Another scream escaped his throat. Then, he turned and fell over the lab table. Collapsing to his knees, he crawled toward the wall.

     Arastoo's shoulder encountered flesh as he slumped against the wall. His hand crept out and touched Zeeba's cheek. For a moment, he probed it with his finger. It traveled over her short pug nose and felt her slack lips. The nearness of another human comforted him. Then, he remembered she was dead.

     "Zeeba," the chemist moaned tearfully. The bitter salt stung his wounded eye. He tried to blink it away. However, he only drove the splinter further into his eye.

     In a different situation, Arastoo thought, perhaps he could have loved her. He could have taken her, used her companionship to please his carnal needs. However, his fanaticism drove him. It drove him away from other people. Thoughts of death and destruction consumed him.

Day and night blended. Time meant nothing to Arastoo. Relentlessly, he paced the cavern. Sometimes, he spoke to Zeeba as though she were still alive. In his mind, they conversed as they always had.

     “They will come for you, Arastoo,” his dead lab partner told him. “Stealthily, men from the West will come here. They know who you are; they know what you have done.”

     "No…no…" Arastoo emphatically denied it. "No one knows. How can they?"

     “They will come, Arastoo,” Zeeba’s haunted voice breathed. “They have ways of knowing.”

     “No!” Arastoo threw his head back and screamed. The word echoed throughout the cave system.

     Patiently, Zeeba waited for it to stop. She had always been patient and calm. As solid as the rock that surrounded him, Arastoo's partner kept hold of herself and him. Acting as his prop, she encouraged him to keep trying. Because of her, he succeeded with his plans. Instead of thanking her, he killed her.

     He'd created the plague and sent it to the worst place on earth: San Francisco.

     Could he say he loved her? Arastoo never loved anyone. His wife, Yasmina, filled a small part of his life. He did his duty as a husband--that was all. Three years had passed since he last saw her. If he focused on her face, he could not recall it. A drab woman, she did not hold his desire.

     He desired...

     What did he desire? Arastoo Mazanderani wondered. Nothing, he told himself, knowing it was untrue.

     At first, Arastoo turned away from the world to study chemistry. It meant everything to him. Then, as he grew up, he realized the world's corruption. All his life, he had closed people out. At Oxford, students gathered from around the globe. All nationalities and all religions studied within those wonderous walls. He viewed them suspiciously if they did not believe in Islam and the Prophet Mohammad.

     Curious, Arastoo journeyed into London. An unseen force brought him to Soho. At first, he felt appalled by the sight of gay men openly cavorting with each other. Then, a strange sensation overwhelmed him. He wanted to become a part of their lifestyle. A twinge stirred within him as he watched. If he could set himself free, he would happily join them.

     It irked him, yet it urged him forward. Twice, the young Iranian nearly gave in to his desires. Then, he abruptly repressed them. The passion continued to well inside him. The only way to end it was to destroy the LBGTQ community. The satisfaction of ridding the earth of that ungodly menace would set him free.

     “The plague,” Arastoo muttered to himself. He would recreate the plague and set it upon them.

     When he told Zeeba Bahrami, she listened carefully. Although she did not know of Arastoo's inner conflict, she fanatically agreed with his cause. She committed herself to helping him.

     “And how have I repaid her?” Arastoo asked himself. “I have killed her.”

     Arastoo Mazanderani stood over her body and shook his head. Too late to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ he knelt beside her. His fingers combed her soft hair. Bending forward, he kissed her slack lips and muttered her name. He should have loved her. Instead, he destroyed her.

     For the first time in his life, Arastoo Mazanderani considered love and hate. Hate had always raged inside him. He never attempted to temper it with love. If he had, his life would have been much different. However, the fire of hatred burned zealously within him.

     Arastoo softened as he sat beside Zeeba. Clasping her cold hand, he brought it to his lips for a kiss. Then, leaning forward, he captured her lips with his. After a moment, he withdrew and wiped death from his mouth. What had he done? He could not love a corpse.

     Wrapped in disappointment, the chemist stood. Hanging his head, he moved away from Zeeba’s body. He cursed himself.

 

******

 

     Remaining in a stupor for three days, Arastoo did not eat; he barely slept. Disillusion and doubt filled his mind. He had never felt more conflicted.

     On the third day, he arose. His mind cleared. Opening his remaining eye, he glared at his surroundings in amazement. Martyrdom awaited him.

     “Isha Allah,” Arastoo muttered. Then, raising his voice, he yelled the two comforting words. Reassuringly, they echoed back.

     The chemist scurried away from the laboratory and entered a winding corridor. Moving deeper into the earth, he hurried toward his destiny. Secreted far into the vast mountain lay a hidden lair. Only Arastoo knew about it. He had never informed Zeeba of its existence. Perhaps foresight told him she would not accompany him to his final destination.

     A stash of weapons lay concealed within a small cave. Gleefully, the chemist prepared to make his final stand. The men from the west would come. He had no doubt. When they arrived, he would face them. It was not a case of his life or theirs. He planned on taking them with him.

     Hurriedly, Arastoo Mazanderani strapped on his suicide vest. Grinning wildly, he organized his space. Grasping an M4 assault rifle, he propped himself against the cavern’s wall. He faced the entrance. If anyone stepped inside, he would fire. Then, he would pull the suicide vest’s cord.

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

     Doctor Joshua Markham stood over the hospital bed. Nurse Gracie Lavant hovered next to him. Tenderly, he lifted the sheet and pulled it over the face of his dead patient. He felt helpless.

The plague took lives faster than the doctor could save them. Joshua Markham became a doctor to heal patients, not to watch them die. It broke his heart to lose another one.

     Elizabeth Amberley Talbot lay serenely on the hospital bed. A tuft of blond hair stuck above the pulled-up sheet. Peace overtook her for the first time in her tumultuous life.

     In the doorway, Marie Longstreet stood holding a dinner tray. Her wide brown eyes stared at the sheet covering the patient's face. She nearly grinned but immediately turned it into a look of sorrow.

     “Bad Juju Lady’s dead,” the food server muttered, drawing the nurse’s attention.

     "We won't need a tray here tonight," Gracie Lavant instructed. She removed the meal from the server's hands and walked into the corridor. She slipped it into the cart and turned to face Marie.

     "None of your voodoo talk, do you hear me?" Gracie ordered, wagging a finger in Marie's face. "The patient died of the plague. I won't have you spreading rumors and riling everyone up. Understood?"

     “Ye�"yes, ma’am,” Marie responded, her eyes saucer round. “Not a word, I promise.” Swiftly she crossed her heart with her index finger.

     “You better keep it sealed. Got it?” Nurse Lavant pretended to zipper her mouth. Then, she pretended to throw away the key.

     "Yes, ma'am," Marie repeated. She pushed her cart toward the next room. Surreptitiously, the food server glanced behind her. She watched the nurse re-enter Liz Talbot's room. As she served the next meal, she informed her patient that the Bad Juju Lady had just died.

     Eighteen-year-old Marie Longstreet departed from the hospital two hours later. Altogether, she told forty-six patients on three floors about the Bad Juju Lady’s death. Then, she lost her job.

 

******

 

     “No one used black magic in this hospital,” Nurse Levant adamantly exclaimed. Crossing her arms, she stood beside the patient’s bed.

     Wide-eyed, Lorraine Duval’s moon-face stared up at her. Her corkscrew hair rasped against the hospital pillow. Dolefully, she shook her head. Marie Longstreet’s story concerning the white woman’s Bad Juju scared her. She believed the white woman carried the plague to Jamaica. The white woman cursed the island with death.

     Lorraine's granny practiced voodoo. At one-hundred-eight years of age, the old mambo foretold the pandemic. Falling into a trance, Vondra Duval claimed a white cloud would devour the island. The cloud would rain pestilence upon the land.

     When Marie Longstreet spoke of the Bad Juju Lady, Lorraine saw the white cloud swirling around her like a shroud. She had no doubt Elizabeth Amberley Talbot brought the destruction upon them.

     “Granny Vondra…” Lorraine began, drawing her sheet up to her chin.

     “Don’t tell me anything about Granny Vondra,” Gracie Lavant cautioned. Propping her fists against her hips, she posed with attitude. “There ain’t no voodoo in this hospital. There ain’t no Bad Juju Lady.”

     Silently Nurse Lavant cursed Marie Longstreet for spreading rumors. The hospital staff had enough on their hands fighting the plague. Three days ago, Doctor Culver died. The significant loss of a physician caused shortages in the medical team. Dr. Markham worked night and day, often napping on a cot in his office. Worry lines and dark circles appeared beneath his eyes. Still, he continued to make his rounds. Saving his patients meant a lot to him. Joshua Markham dedicated his life to his profession.

     Nurse Gracie Levant remained by Dr. Markham's side. Twenty-three years ago, she entered the nursing profession. Hospital work continued to thrill her. However, the plague epidemic took its toll. Watching so many deaths depressed her.

     Although Elizabeth Talbot's displays of temper unnerved her, the nurse felt compassion for her loss. The abandonment of her family struck Gracie, and she felt sorry for the young woman. Liz adamantly believed an EVAC would take her away from Jamaica. However, it never arrived. As far as Gracie Lavant knew, no one scheduled it. Dolefully, she shook her head.

     Then, she turned back to Lorraine Duval. Lorraine suffered a mild case of the plague. Only a few were lucky enough to recover and return to their daily lives. It appeared as though Ms. Duval might survive. Relieved, Gracie took her blood pressure and pulse�"normal. It provided a good sign. The tell-tale bulbous had not appeared�"another good sign.

     However, the patient in the next room was far advanced in the disease. Nurse Lavant entered cautiously. Maxwell Jameson, aged forty-two, remained in a coma. Despite his oxygen, his raspy breathing disturbed her. He would finally succumb within a few hours. Luckily, he missed Marie Longstreet's rants about the Bad Juju Lady. Nevertheless, luck passed him by when the plague came knocking.

     “How is Mr. Jameson?” Dr. Markham inquired. Nurse Lavant met him as she exited the room. Sadly, she shook her head.

     Dr. Joshua Markham entered the room, and Nurse Lavant shadowed him. Mournfully, they looked down upon their patient. They could not provide more care for him, only allow him to rest in comfort. Within the next few hours, he would breathe his last.

     “I wish they would hurry with the vaccines,” Joshua Markham remarked as they stepped out of the room.

     “I hear they’re expediting testing,” Gracie Lavant put in. “The new United States President is pressuring the pharmaceutical companies to put a rush on all the vaccines.”

     “It couldn’t happen any sooner,” Dr. Markham stated, moving toward the next room. “We could use it ASAP.”

     “Other countries are jumping on board, supporting the President,” Gracie continued. “As soon as we start inoculating, we’ll get over the hurdle.”

     “Yes, and put this epidemic behind us," Josh Markham remarked. He wished to put the plague in the past where it belonged.

 

******

             

     Late in the evening, Elizabeth Talbot's body entered the hold of a military plane heading to the United States. She finally obtained the EVAC order she had hoped to receive. Dr. Markham oversaw her departure from the Montego Bay hospital. Relieved, he returned to his duties in the Plague Ward.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

     Maureen Tapper squinted at the text message. Confused, she wondered why a Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot wished to speak to her. Perhaps it was a come-on�"one of those plaguey spam calls she frequently received. If he sought a political endorsement for his favorite candidate, he was out of luck with Maureen.

     Setting her cell phone on the coffee table, she contemplated it. Maureen disliked random texts. If she did not know the sender, she became suspicious of it. However, curiosity fought with caution within her. The name Oliver Talbot struck her for some reason. Something niggled in the back of her mind�"something she should know yet did not know.

     Maureen wished Jackie Wentworth were still alive. Her longtime girlfriend could advise her. She always knew the correct answers. However, Jackie succumbed to the plague early in the pandemic.

     Thinking of Jackie made Maureen sob. Brokenhearted�"an unfamiliar word. She had never been brokenhearted in her entire life. Strong and determined, Ms. Tapper took life for granted. She never thought of death or separation from those she loved. It meant nothing to her simply because it could not happen…not to her.

     Maureen Tapper and Jackie Wentworth had been together since the late 1960s. Maureen realized she was a lesbian during her first year of Junior High School. She enjoyed watching girls undress and shower beneath billowing steamy water. It turned her on and made her heart beat fast in her blossoming chest. Wistfully, she recalled her first love�"a twelve-year-old athletic girl named Jill Cummings.

     Obsessed by Jill, she steeled her nerves to approach the girl. At first, she sent anonymous love letters. Then, she began drawing hearts with the initials MT + JC on bathroom walls. Finally, she sent Jill a red rose on St. Valentine's Day.   

     Full of self-love, arrogant Jill Cummings made a big stink over the rose. She flaunted it in front of her girlfriends. But who was MT? The tiny tag wrapped around the flower's stem said MT + JC. First, she approached Michael Tremaine. He denied sending it to her. Mark Trask gave her a blank stare and walked away. Cringing, she decided the rose came from geeky Mansfield Tapley. Jill hated him, but he constantly made googly eyes at her.

     “Don’t send me roses,” Jill stated, thrusting the red posey at Manny. “Don’t send me anything. Got it? I hate you.” As abruptly as she approached the nerdy boy, she stormed away.

     “I didn’t send it,” Manny yelled back, stopping Jill in her tracks.

     Swinging around on her heel, the young teen marched back.

     "What do you mean you did not send it?" Jill screamed, her face turning scarlet.

     “I didn’t send it,” Mansfield repeated, unabashed.

     “Well.” Jill’s cheeks puffed out in exasperation. “If you didn’t send it, who did? It wasn’t Mike or Mark either.”

     Mansfield made a slow stationary circle in the school cafeteria. Seeking one person, he allowed his eyes to roam over his fellow student’s faces. Finally, he noticed Maureen Tapper standing in the lunch line. Raising his index finger, he pointed toward the young girl.

     Geeky Mansfield Tapley knew things. In fact, he knew nearly everything. A bookworm from a young age, he spent most of his time studying. His eyes wandered when he took a break from reading. Attentively, he saw things most other students did not. Manny noticed Maureen's surreptitious glances toward Jill. He guessed her intentions.

     Her face flaming red, Jill Cummings marched toward Maureen Tapper. Grabbing her arm, she yanked her classmate out of the lunch line. Then, she poked the rose into her face.

     “How dare you!” Jill shrieked, drawing the attention of the students surrounding them. “I hate you!”

     Maureen faced Jill. Moon pale, her face turned cold. From a distance, a million eyes focused on her. Her secret revealed, she stood stark still and stared at Jill. It was not the conclusion she desired. Grasping the rose, she held it close to her budding chest. A lone tear escaped her dull eye and slid down her cheek.

     “Lezzie,” Jill cried.

     The entire audience of boys and girls joined in. Forming a circle around Maureen, they chanted, "Lezzie, Lezzie." Then, her fury mounting, the young lesbian burst through the ring. Spinning on Jill Cummings, she roughly pushed her to the ground and rushed from the cafeteria.

Maureen Tapper left her childhood behind that Valentine's Day. Her heart turned cold.      Unyielding, she determined never to allow anyone to hurt her again.

     Maureen took her first lover during her High School Senior year�"a Sophomore named Pam Sturgeon. She did not truly love Pam, but the girl was the only other lesbian she knew. Then, at the end of college, she met Jackie Wentworth. They attended Woodstock together and were into the Peace and Love thing. They remained together until the plague attacked San Francisco.   Sorrowfully, Maureen missed Jackie's company.

 

******

 

     A day passed before Maureen Tapper stole up the nerve to call Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot. By that time, she had a sneaking suspicion about his text message.

     “Is this about Ivy Masterson?” Maureen barked into her cell phone. Oliver Talbot barely said hello before she cut him off.

     “Yes, about Ivy,” Talbot responded, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

     "Was she your brother?" the boutique owner asked, leaning forward on her couch. Holding the phone against her ear, she awaited his response. She propped both of her elbows on her knees.

     “I believe it’s a possibility,” Oliver answered. He nearly sighed with relief.

     “Ivy Masterson was a big girl, well over six feet in height.” Maureen rushed her words. “Hefty too, nearly three hundred pounds, at a guess. I suspected a sex change.”

     “His given name was Ivan Geoffrey Talbot,” the Colonel stated. Finally, he let out his sigh. He found his brother. “Our mother’s maiden name is Masterson.”

     Relaxing, Maureen fell into conversation with Ollie. She was glad to talk about Ivy. Following Jackie’s sudden death, she had not felt much like conversing with anyone. However, she instantly felt a comradeship growing with her phone companion.

     "I am sorry Ivy died so tragically," Maureen lamented, sorrow filling her heart. "I only met her once. However, something about her drew me in. I hired her on the spot. Usually, I do all sorts of background checks, but Ivy…" For a moment, she paused, reflecting. "Ivy felt right. I knew she would fit in at Che Boutique.

     “I discovered her body,” the shop owner continued, following another pause. “When Ivy didn’t show up for her first day of work, I grew concerned. It was before we realized about the plague. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”

     Locating Ivy Masterson’s address proved difficult. The newly arrived had not had a chance to set herself up properly. Being a huge city, San Francisco kept its secrets. However, Maureen persevered and, finally, discovered Ivy’s apartment.

     It saddened Maureen to find Ivy wrapped up in her blankets. The studio apartment smelt of death. The boutique owner noticed the stench the moment she entered. It nearly choked her. Standing close enough to touch her, the landlady shook her head in astonishment. Maureen swiftly turned on her, cursing her for not noticing. Elderly Mrs. McMahon scurried away.

     “Incompetent,” Maureen Tapper muttered as she approached the pull-out sofa-bed.

     Desolately, Maureen looked down upon Ivy's still body. The loss of a beautiful life irked her. She wished she had the chance to get the know her new team member better. Perhaps they could have been friends instead of workmates.

     "Thank you for searching for my brother." Oliver Talbot interrupted Maureen's thoughts, pulling her back to the present. "It's a big deal to my family and me. We've searched high and low for any sign of Ivan."

     "I suspect he was a special young man," the shop owner replied. "I felt he was a warm soul seeking his way in the world."

     "You can certainly say that," Ollie answered, a small smile etching his face. "I hate to say he went through a lot in his youth. No one understood him. Then, he dropped out of college and dropped out of our lives. My mother grieved when he disappeared. We've looked for him ever since he left us."

     "I completely understand," Maureen emphatically assured. The deep conversation relieved her trepidation concerning Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot. Although she received her first impression over the phone, she liked him. "Trans people have difficulties with society. No one wants to deal with them. Sadly, everyone treats them like piranhas."

     "I know," Ollie whispered, considering his ill-treatment of his older brother. "Ivan experienced much mistreatment as a child. Although we traveled worldwide, he could never escape the bullies."

     “It’s the way it is,” Maureen Tapper conceded. “She would have done well in San Francisco. We are very welcoming here. The LBGTQ community thrives. I’m proud to have a part in it.”

     "I'm certainly glad he found you, Ms. Tapper," Oliver concluded, broadening his smile to a grin. "I appreciate your friendship toward him. It would have meant a lot to Ivan. He longed to become accepted in a society that loved him."

     "Although I only met her once, I still consider her a friend," Maureen acknowledged. "I wish I could have known her better. Still, I am glad to have known her. It only lasted an hour or more, but I will always remember Ivy Masterson."

 

******

 

     Maureen remained seated on her couch long after she hung up on Oliver Talbot. The vision of Ivy Masterson's entrance into Che Boutique replayed in her mind's eye. She wished to reach back and stop the world. If only she could have done more for Ivy. However, she did not know what more she could have done.

     The plague overcame San Francisco before anyone realized it raged around them. Jackie Wentworth's death shocked her and left her numb. Due to shelter-in-place orders, her beloved boutique closed its doors. At the moment, she remained unsure when (or if) it might reopen. For the time being, people only shopped out of necessity. No one bought new clothes.

     Maureen grew bored because of the lockdown. Day after day, she remained home, doing nothing and going nowhere. Without Jackie's companionship, the walls closed in on her.

     Speaking to Oliver about Ivy seemed to brighten her spirit. She chided herself for being morbid. However, even the short conversation provided a new experience.

     On TV, the President spoke of a vaccine. Maureen hoped it would appear soon. Then, perhaps, life would go back to normal.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot smiled with satisfaction. At last, he discovered Ivan's whereabouts. However, it shocked him to think his brother died a lonely, heartless death. If only he could have found him sooner.

     There was no point in running scenarios that did not exist. Oliver scolded himself for doing it. It was too late for Ivan. He faced the ugly task of informing his mother of her elder son's demise. He had written letters to lost service members' loved ones many times. However, this one seemed different. It hit home.

     Procrastination was never one of Oliver’s strong points. He liked to get gruesome tasks over with as swiftly as possible. Still, he hesitated. Calling his mother with the news would devastate her. He dreaded her cell phone tears. Perhaps he could wait until they were face-to-face. Then, he could comfort her in the manner she deserved.

     “I have to do it,” Ollie lamented, tears stinging the back of his eyes. Covering them with his hands, he sobbed.

     With trembling fingers, Oliver grasped his phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Impatiently, he waited for his mother's out-of-breath hello. It did not arrive.

     Ollie sat back in his office chair. Bea Talbot usually picked up on the second ring. His ringtone hurried her. Beginning to panic, he wondered about the situation. Had something gone wrong? Perhaps Hank…

     No, he could not think that his only son had contracted the plague. His parents were too cautious about allowing Hank to become inflicted. Hurriedly, he pushed his morose thoughts away. He'd try again in a moment.

 

******

 

     However, fate forestalled the moment. As Lt. Col. Talbot reached for his cellphone, it buzzed. Lifting it, he noticed his father's number on the display.

     “Hello.” Oliver snapped the word. A call from I. Geoffrey Talbot was unusual. Something had happened to make his father phone him. Once again, Ollie’s thoughts flashed on Hank.

     "You're likely to receive this news from another source, Oliver. However, I thought it was better coming from me." Never one for 'hellos,' General Talbot marched into the conversation unheeded. "Liz died in Montego Bay, Jamaica…about 2100. Plague."

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's mouth flew open, stunned. The news struck him as impossible. Liz…dead?

     Young and vibrant, his wife strutted through life as though nothing could harm her. Oliver could not imagine her lifeless body lying coldly on a mortuary slab. Although their marriage had disintegrated long ago, she remained his wife. He had lived as close to her as a man and woman possibly could. She was as much a part of him as he was of her.

     After a long marital struggle, death finally parted Oliver and Elizabeth. For a moment, the word ‘Free’ floated through his mind. Then, he dismissed it. His heart suddenly softened toward her.

     “I…I’m sorry, dad,” Ollie muttered, his eyes refilling with tears.

     “Yeah, we are too,” Jeff replied, drawing his wife close to his side. Bea pressed his face into her husband’s shoulder. “Look, Ol, I know you and Liz didn’t get along. Still…”

     “We realized the marriage was a mistake almost as soon as we said our vows,” Oliver conceded, sinking back into his chair.   

     “Your mother always felt sorry she pushed you toward her,” his father continued. “The other young woman…”

     “I’d rather not discuss it, dad,” Ollie cut his sire off. “It’s not an appropriate time.”

     Momentarily, Oliver's thoughts flashed toward Nicola Prescott. They had kept their affair a secret. Neither of his parents knew he continued to date her. After so many years, he believed they had forgotten his long-ago sweetheart.

     “Understood.” Jeff Talbot’s one word closed the subject.

     A silence hung between father and son. Neither knew what to say next. However, they were not ready to break off the conversation. Finally, a thought struck Oliver.

     “Why was Liz still in Montego Bay?” he abruptly questioned. “I left a message with Tom Amberley to EVAC her.”

     Another pregnant pause interrupted the discussion.

     "Didn't you know?" Gen. Talbot finally asked. "The Amberley's died of the plague. A neighbor discovered their bodies several days ago. They were both deceased for several days before the fellow next door eventually checked on them."

     Aghast, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot's face paled. General Amberley never received his message concerning the EVAC. He died before the text. Ollie mentally kicked himself for not checking up, for not ensuring himself of the order's issue. Woefully, he realized he should have done more for his wife. Instead of blocking her out, he could have possibly saved her. 

     “I’m sorry, dad,” Oliver responded. Angrily, he wiped away fresh tears. “She sent a barrage of text messages about getting quarantined in Jamaica. I passed them off to Tom. I figured he’d take care of the situation. Stubbornness won out.

     “How’s Hank handling it,” Ollie swiftly continued before his father could respond. “Have you told him?” 

     General I. Jeff Talbot’s trembling sigh traveled across the miles. In whispered tones, he and his wife spoke of informing the child. They both wished Hank’s father were present to tell him. However, the situation would not permit it. Sooner or later, they would have to have the dreaded conversation.

     “You know I would rather do it myself, dad,” Oliver confirmed. “However, it’s not good to let it linger. I hate to ask you and mom…”

     “We’ll tell him, son,” his father responded after clearing his throat. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

     “Sure, dad.”

     For a moment, Ollie considered asking to speak to his mother. He wished to inform her about Ivan. Nevertheless, he felt it might wait until a better time.

     "Just tell mom I want to speak to her later," Oliver stated before saying goodbye. "Take care of Hank. I'll get home as soon as I can. This mission is a real mess."

     “Gotcha,” Jeff answered before hanging up. Good-byes were like hellos�"non-existent.

 

     FUBAR, Oliver thought, tossing his phone onto his desk. All of a sudden, everything is FUBAR.

     Ivan: dead

     Elizabeth: dead

     The Amberson’s: dead

    Boiling over with anger, Oliver Talbot considered the situation. Impatiently, he wished the entire ordeal behind him. Still, he awaited final orders.

     Lifting his smartphone, Oliver brought up Nicola's number. He almost dialed it, then changed his mind. He wanted her. No, he needed her.

     Closing his eyes, Ollie pictured Nic bent over her laptop. When they went away together, he often woke up to find her busy typing. A thought or idea might strike her in the middle of the night. She always said she had to capture the moment as soon as it arose. He enjoyed standing behind her, watching.

     When the right time appeared, Oliver Talbot would author his own novel. It had always been his fantasy to become a writer. Life forestalled his true ambitions. The Talbot tradition of military service held him back. His marriage to Liz further complicated his ability to set time aside to write.

     At times, Ollie hated his life. He toed the line for too long. Considering his newfound freedom, he longed for Nicola. She gave him her love, and he took it. At times, he felt he had taken advantage of her. Their clandestine romance fulfilled his desire. However, he could not truly commit his life to her.

     Stupid…he had been stupid for too long. All his life, his mother drilled his obligations into his mind. Oliver joined the military because of tradition. His marriage to Elizabeth Amberley upheld his mother's vision of Army life. Following in his father's footsteps, he felt obligated to his family. However, he realized he did not fulfill his responsibilities to himself. The time had come to become his own man.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

     Hank Talbot sat on the couch between his grandparents. Tears ran uncontrollably down his cheeks. Devastated, he sobbed at the loss of his mother.

     Tenderly, Moo-ma placed her arm across her grandson’s shoulders. Poo-pa rested his hand on the boy’s knee. Together, they attempted to comfort Hank.

     "Mommy," the child sobbed as he leaned into his grandmother's ample bosom.

     Beatrice Talbot hated telling bad news, particularly to a youngster. Deep in her heart, she wished her son were at home to do his duty. The mother did not know Oliver's exact location. However, she did know his current mission was an important one. Although he could not share details, she realized it had something to do with the plague epidemic.

     Jeff Talbot exchanged a look over with her over Hank’s head. His thoughts ran in the same direction. Only upon the completion of his mission could Ollie speak about it. Top Secret assignments ran in the family. General I. Geoffrey Talbot recalled many of his own. Luckily, his wife accepted the terms of his military career. It had not always been the case with Oliver’s wife. Still, he should not think ill of the dead.

     Overcome with emotion, Hank leaped from the couch and ran for his room. He loved his Moo-ma and Poo-pa, but he suddenly wanted the loneliness of his bed-chamber. Diving headlong onto the bed, he buried his face in the pillow. Sobs shook his young form.

     “Mrrrrowww.” Floyd jumped up next to the child and rubbed his grey body against the boy’s arm. “Mrrrrowww.”

     Gently, Hank stroked the misty grey cat's fur. The closeness of his pet consoled him. Orange and white Blinky made himself comfortable on the boy's stretched-out legs. Soothingly, he purred. Instinctively, the cats knew their master's sorrow. They came to him to offer the love and assurance he required. While the child slept, the fluffy brothers kept vigilance.

     At noon, Bea stood in Hank's doorway and watched. One arm hugged Floyd as the child sprawled across the bed. The cat raised his head, a contented look etching his features. Blinky stretched and yawned. Tenderly, the grandmother closed the door. Satisfied, she left Hank to sleep away his grief.

     The youngest Talbot awoke in the middle of the afternoon. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes. Blinky wandered into his lap; Floyd snuggled close to his side.

     The news of his mother’s passing greatly disturbed the young boy. Death had not entered his life�"at least not that of a close family member.

 

******

 

     For some reason, Hank never grew close to his mother. He often longed for a gentle touch or a loving word from her. Rushing off with her girlfriends, Liz barely had time for her only offspring. Frequently, he heard her complaining about the encumbrance of having a child underfoot. His appearance stunted her playtime activities.

     “One is enough,” Elizabeth grumbled to Gayle Murray. “I wish I didn’t have any children, but Ollie insisted. It’s so much easier without stumbling over a brat.”

     “Hmmm,” Gayle murmured, stretching out.

     Unobserved, Hank stood in his parents' bedroom doorway. Downstairs, Grant Hardwicke waited in the kitchen. The boys intended to play baseball at the school's field. He came home to ask permission and pick up his catcher's mitt.

     Habitually, Liz complained of migraines and spent whole afternoons in bed. When he could not locate his mother downstairs, Hank climbed to the second level. Easing open the door, the boy peered inside. He gasped and stepped back. Naked, his mother and her best friend sprawled across the bed.

     “Get outta here!” Elizabeth screamed. Her son’s intake of breath caught her attention.    Swiveling her head, she glared at him ominously. Then, leaning over the mattress, she grabbed a slipper. Heaving it at him, it crashed against the half-opened door with a thud.

     Hank slammed it closed and leaned against it. Breathing heavily, he placed his hand over his heart. It thumped rapidly in his chest. For an instant, he was glad Grant had not followed him upstairs.

     Slowly, the child opened the door and poked in his head.

     “I…I’m sorry, mom,” he whispered, barely audible. “Can I go to the ballfield with Grant?”

     "I told you to get outta here, Duff," Liz shrieked, using Hank's real first name. "I do not give a damn where you go. Disappear, got it?"

     Scurrying downstairs, Hank raced for the kitchen door. Holding the refrigerator door open, Grant Hardwicke studied the contents. Finally, he selected an apple and took a massive bite out of it.

     “Let’s get going,” Hank exclaimed, slamming the fridge door. Pushing his friend outside, he jogged up the driveway.

     “Hey, you forgot your mitt,” his best friend hollered, catching up.

     “Oh…yeah…”

     Hank Talbot’s shoulders sank as he slumped toward the opened kitchen door. Slowly, he crept upstairs and hesitated outside the master suite. Casting a surreptitious glance toward it, he slid past. He entered his room, grabbed his mitt, and raced back to the kitchen.

     “Okay, c’mon,” the child urged his friend. Swiftly, he led Grant away from the Talbot house.  

     Although he joined his friends' after-school game, Hank's mind strayed. The discovery of Liz and Gayle together in bed unnerved him. He knew about sex. A few months previously, his father had 'the talk' with him. However, 'the talk' only included the relationship between a man and a woman. He learned about homosexuality from his classmates' chatter. Still, he could not believe his mother would indulge in that activity. He discovered her reality the hard way.

     The image did not leave his mind. From that point forward, Hank imagined his mother wrapped in Gayle's arms every time he saw her. Then, he imagined Liz departing with her best friend. For some reason, the idea gave him pleasure. If he lived alone with his father, they would find happiness together.

 

******

 

     Hank perched on the edge of his bed. Downstairs, he could hear Moo-ma busy in the kitchen. The scent of frying hamburgers filled his nostrils. He thought of staying with his grandparents. Loving them, he wanted to remain in the protective environment they created.

     In the quiet of his private space, Hank Talbot came to grips with his mother's death. The plague pandemic swiftly took the lives of many loved ones. The nightly news broadcasts were full of the multiple mortalities. Numbers instead of names, Hank thought. Were there actually so many people in the world? And what did all those deaths mean? Thoughtfully, the child wondered.

     All around the earth, boys and girls woke up without their mothers and fathers. Parents lost their children to the virus, too. And grandparents died. In his childlike mind, he grappled with the extensive loss of life.

     “Moo-ma?” Hank asked, standing between the kitchen and the dining room. “Are you and Poo-pa going to die too?”

     Slowly, Beatrice Talbot turned from the stove. Behind her, hamburgers sizzled in the frying pan. A platter of lettuce and tomato slices stood on the counter. Her grandson’s abrupt question startled her.

     “Everyone has to die sometime, Hank,” she truthfully responded. She kept her voice at a soothing level.

     “You’re not going to die tomorrow or the next day, are you?” the boy whispered, gripping his hands in front of him. Slowly, he rocked on the heels of his track shoes. “The plague…it kills people. Everyone is dying. I don’t want you to die, Moo-ma.”

     “We’re not going to die, sweetie.”

     Bea opened her arms wide, and Hank ran into them. Crying, he pressed his face against Moo-ma’s bib apron. Comfortingly, she massaged the boy’s shoulders. Then, she held him away from her and stared into his wide eyes.

     "We are cautious about following the state-issued mandates, Hank," she tenderly explained. "And we plan to get the vaccines as soon as they are available. Poo-pa and I will remain with you as long as you need us."

     "I wish mommy stayed here," the child cried desultorily. "Mommy was never around when I needed her. When dad went away, she disappeared too. Only she never went with daddy. She went with Gayle."

     “Yes, I know, sweetheart, but you always had us,” Bea consoled. “And your Amberley grandparents too.”

     “They didn’t love me,” Hank mourned, wiping away his tears. “Granny Amberley didn’t like boys. She wanted her girl grandchildren.”

     "Never mind all that, now," his grandmother stated, gnawing at her bottom lip. They had not told the child of his other grandparents' deaths. Jeff thought it better to wait a while. Too much bad news would throw Hank over the emotional edge. "Go wash up for dinner. We're eating on the lanai tonight."

     Hank turned to enter the powder room, then spun back around.

     "Moo-ma?" he tentatively asked. Then, he rushed his words. "Does anyone have to call me Duff anymore? I am not thrilled with the name Duff. I'm Hank."

     “No, darling, no one will ever call you Duff again,” Bea reassured, smiling to herself. She, too, disliked the name.

     “Good,” Hank called back, racing into the small bathroom.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

     “Colonel?” Sgt. Tyrone Jones asked. He stepped inside Oliver Talbot’s office, his hat crushed in his hands.

     “Yes, Sergeant?” Lt. Col. Talbot responded, glancing upward.

     “T-T’s gonna make it, Colonel,” the Sergeant stated, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s out of danger.”

     Tyrone Jones clasped his smartphone in his massive fist. It contained a message from his wife announcing his son's impending recovery. As though it held his child's life, he clung to it and cherished it. Tears of joy sparkled in his dark brown eyes.

     "I'm glad to hear it, Jones." Oliver jumped up and grasped Tyrone's other hand. As he did, he felt all the anxiety slip away from his comrade-in-arms.

     Delighted over the glad tidings, Ollie wished for some of his own. The news of his wife’s demise on top of Ivan’s left him feeling low. Knowing Tyrone Jr would survive brightened his dismal aspect.

     "You cannot believe how relieved I am," Jones babbled gleefully. In his joy, he completely missed his superior's red-rimmed eyes.

     However, Major Alberto Gonzalez noticed when he entered the Colonel's space. Swiftly, he ushered Sgt. Tyrone Jones to the door and then shut it.

     “Bad news?” Gonzalez questioned, pressing his back against the door.

     For a moment, Oliver studied the Major. Then, he sank into his chair. Propping his chin in his clenched fists, he nodded.

     Silently, the two men faced each other. Gonzalez held his tongue. Biding his time, he waited for Ollie’s answer. Time ticked away.

     “My wife,” Lt. Col. Talbot finally stated. “In Jamaica. General Amberley also. His wife.” His words came out clipped.

     Major Alberto Gonzalez sorrowfully swiped off his hat and gripped it against his chest. Sinking into a chair, he bowed his head in silent prayer. Automatically, his rosary slipped into his sweat-soaked palm. Well-respected in Army circles, General Amberley served his country with pride. Both officers and enlisted men spoke his name with reverence. To lose such a man due to plague seemed an utter shame. Gonzalez recalled working under him several years previously. Many would wish to send their condolences to the remaining Amberley family members.

     “I’m deeply sorry, sir, for your loss,” Alberto murmured, his eyes brimming with tears. Silently, his lips moved as he counted his rosary beads.

     The Lieutenant Colonel silently watched the Major. Although they attended church services, the Talbots were not overly religious. Following his marriage, Oliver rarely considered his faith. He might have taken it seriously at one time. However, Liz's demeaning attitude toward his desires took the wind from his sails. Most of his aspirations meant little to her. Therefore, if she did not wish to participate, no one else should either.

     Now that he was free of her, Oliver felt relieved. Suddenly, his emotions turned from gloomy to bittersweet. Their marriage might have succeeded if they treated each other with higher esteem. In a way, he wished it had worked out. However, both of them had a stubborn streak.

     ‘No,’ Ollie suddenly thought, ‘it would not have succeeded.’

     Oliver faced the truth. Shamefully, he abandoned Nicola to marry Liz. Throughout the marriage, he compared the two women. Elizabeth always came out on the short end. She was not Nic. The other woman was the only one who counted.

     All Liz’s shortcomings were because of Nicola.

     Behind Ollie's closed eyes, he pictured the perfect woman. Petite, blue-eyed with brown wavy hair, Nicola perched atop his pedestal. Another woman could not compare to her beauty, charm, and wit. Vivacious Elizabeth Talbot fell pathetically short.

     Because of Nicola, Oliver allowed Liz to play on his nerves. Her flighty attitude, insipid girlfriends, and sharp tongue all cut him down. A small smile curved his lips, then it widened.

     Angrily, Lt. Col. Talbot shoved his thoughts aside. After a minute, they tried to creep back in. He felt ashamed of himself. If he allowed them to continue, his sadness would turn to joy. He chided himself for thinking only of Nicola. Facing of his wife’s death, he should show more respect for Liz. However, despite his efforts, he realized his newfound joy.

 

******

 

     “Stars and Stripes Forever” jangled on Lt. Col. Talbot’s smartphone. At the sound of the Sousa tune, Oliver snatched it up.

     “Hello?” Ollie stated, holding his tone to a low level.

     "Dad? Can I talk to you?" Hank's quivering voice traveled across the miles.

     “Sure, of course, son,” the father responded.

     Across from him, Major Gonzalez stood. Oliver waved him from the room. Hastily, Alberto retreated. He comprehended his commanding officer’s need for father-and-son time.

     “When are you coming home, dad?” Hank asked. Far away in Naples, Florida, the boy perched on the edge of the bed. Moo-ma allowed him the use of her phone to make the call.

     “As soon as I can,” Oliver responded, smiling.

     “Mom’s dead.” Hank Talbot dissolved into tears. Distressed, he sank onto his bed and curled into a fetal position. The phone lay next to him.

     Over the distance, Oliver's heart broke. The desire to comfort his son tore at his emotions.  Suddenly, he wished he were stateside. He longed for a stable lifestyle, maybe even a simple nine-to-five job. Arriving home after a long day to a loving family appealed to him. The Army took him away too frequently. Perhaps, he decided, he should think of retirement.

     Retirement suddenly appealed to him. When Oliver returned to the states, he would discuss it with Nicola.

     Nicola…Ollie’s thoughts came back to her again. His reflections always came back to Nic. Then, his mind flew back to his grieving child.

     "Hank," the father called out to his son. "Hank!" His voice grew assertive.

     The child remained sprawled across the bed. From a far distance, he heard his father’s voice. He longed to speak but couldn’t. Tears choked him.

     “Oliver?” Beatrice Talbot’s voice responded to his calls.

     "Is Hank okay?" Ollie snapped, concern filling his voice.

     “He’s overwrought, Oliver,” his mother calmly explained. Gently, she sat beside her grandson and rubbed his back. “He asked to speak to you. I thought it would help.”

     "Please assure him I will come home soon," Lt. Col. Talbot responded. "Tell him I'm making plans. Once I get back, the current situation will change."

     “I’m sorry about Liz, Ollie,” Bea stated, dry-eyed. Although sorrow overwhelmed her, she could not cry for her dead daughter-in-law.

     “Yeah, mom, me too,” Oliver answered, swiping at fresh tears.

     An elongated pause stretched between mother and son. So many words left unspoken, Oliver thought. The lengthy past sprawled behind them. The distance separating them did not permit hugs of reassurance. A single touch or a small quavering smile might have improved the circumstances. Ollie considered switching to a video call. However, he suddenly could not face it.

     Like a child, Lt. Col. Talbot unexpectedly longed for his mother. He recalled the scent of her soft, sweet perfume, the cotton of her everyday dress. Memories of her tender smile panged at his heartstrings.

     In his mind's eye, he saw his six-year-old self running to his mommy with a scraped knee. Sitting on the kitchen table, he watched her bandage it and kiss it better. Ivan appeared wearing a nurse's uniform. The white nurse's cap sat jauntily askew on his tousled hair. Dramatically, his brother bent to apply a kiss of his own. Oliver yanked his knee away, then kicked Ivan squarely in his skirted nuts.

     If only he could replay his childhood with Ivan, Ollie thought. He would have approached the situation differently. He would have loved his brother instead of despising him.

     “Mom, I…” Oliver wanted to say ‘Ivan,' but his lips would not form the name. “I…I…”

     “Yes, Ollie,” his mother prompted.

     "I…I want to speak to you about…I…" Lt. Col. Talbot knew he could not continue. "I'll come home soon, mom. When I do, I have many things to speak about with you. However, it can wait for now. But, soon, mom."

     “It’s all right, Ollie,” Bea blithely reassured. “You’ll find us right here when you are ready.”

     "Thanks, mom," Oliver sighed.

     His mother blew kisses over the line and then said a hasty goodbye.              

 

 Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

     The lonely outpost stood high in the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain range. Inside, four armed guards kept watch. During their nine-month tour of duty, no one detected any movement.

     Yawning, Captain Ahmad Jafari leaned in the door frame. He brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the region. Nothing ever happened here.

     When he joined the Iranian Army, Captain Jafari expected adventure. His ardent training led him to believe he would fight on the battlefield. Instead, he remained stuck in the loneliest outpost in Iran.

     Inside, his men sprawled on their cots. Ahmad Jafari let them sleep. Cursing the lack of activity, he frowned at the absence of discipline. However, with little movement in their area, there was not much they could do. Ahmad longed for their replacements.

     Another two weeks, and they would be free, Jafari thought. He hankered for a return to Tehran for a well-needed break. Nine months was too long to wait in such an isolated place.

     “Another day, another rial,” Sgt. Farzin Karimi muttered. Standing behind Captain Jafari, he held a cup of morning coffee. “Nothing?”

     “Did you expect anything?” Ahmad Jafari snapped back. Karimi played on his nerves.

     Farzin Karimi believed in motivation. Regardless of the circumstances, he kept his surroundings jolly. A witty quip or a practical joke, he believed, broke up the monotony. Salt in the sugar bowl or throwing an abundance of pepper into a meal 'livened up the joint' in his opinion.

     Captain Jafari thought differently. Keeping a severe countenance, he did not wish for livening up of any kind. He was assigned there to do his job, nothing else. Once he completed his mission, he wished to put Sgt. Karimi in his past. He wanted to put the entire task behind him.

     “Cup of coffee?” Farzin suggested, handing his superior his cup.

     “I’ll fix my own, if you don’t mind,” Ahmad tensely stated. He tasted salted coffee too many times for his liking.

     "Suit yourself." Sgt. Karimi shrugged. Nonchalantly, he sipped his morning wake-me-up. It was difficult to hold back a cringe at the salty flavor. However, he kept up the pretense of a sweetened drink.

     Behind them, Lieutenant Arsha Mehri sat up on his cot. Next to him, Sgt. Razban Amiri turned over. Angrily, Captain Jafari marched across the room. Using his foot, he prodded the second sergeant awake. Razban sat up, then leaped to his feet.

     "Do you think this is a spa? Are you on holiday?" Jafari crossly snapped. Clasping his hands behind his back, he patrolled the room. His heels clomped harshly against the hardwood floor. Then, he spun on his men.

     Mehri, Karimi, and Amiri lined up in front of Jafari. Their heels clinked together, and they stood at attention. Their superior eyed them furiously. Mentally, he took in their look of disarray, their lack of military professionalism. Throughout the nine months, he tried to keep order in the ranks. However, with each dull day, the situation became more disordered. Ahmad fought his frustrations and lost.

     Defeated, Captain Ahmad Jafari continued to survey the area while his men lounged in the outpost. In the middle of the afternoon, he finally relented to a game of poker.

 

******

 

     “Americans?” Captain Ahmad Jafari spat out. Astonished, he stared at his latest orders. “Has the Ayatollah gone mad?”

     As long as Jafari could recall, America was Iran's most feared adversary. The chant 'Death to America' echoed throughout the past. The new commands shocked him. Delta Force Squadron G would appear within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The Takht-e-Soleiman outpost would provide their base of operations. Headquarters ordered Jafari's team to assist.

     "Assist!" Jafari continued, his brown eyes bulging with indignation.

     “Assist? What?” Lt. Arsha Mehri questioned, peering at the orders. “Where?”

     Confusion reigned amongst the outpost’s inhabitants. No one knew of the plague epidemic except Ahmad Jafari. In an abundance of caution, he kept the information away from his team. If he told, he feared mutiny. The men, concerned for their loved ones, might attempt to return to their homes. Faced with new possibilities, he decided to update them with the news.

     “It’s a joke,” Farzin Karimi sputtered, laughter welling in his throat. “Finally, the Captain tells a joke.”

     "It's not a joke," Jafari countered. "According to HQ, the plague appeared in San Francisco. It spread throughout the United States and across the world. As we speak, it rages through Iran. A multitude has already succumbed to the virus.

     “Furthermore, US Intelligence tracked the origins to this region,” he continued, capturing the attention of his men. “Right over there.” Striding toward the open door, he pointed toward the mountain across the valley.

     "As I said," Karimi cut in. "A joke. No one can believe the plague originated in Takht-e-Soleiman. No one has moved in or out of here in ages. You know it's impossible."

     Mehri and Amiri quickly agreed. Briskly nodding their heads, both soldiers decided with Sgt. Farzin Karimi. A team stationed at the outpost would have noticed if anyone penetrated the mountains.

     "Needless to say, our orders are to entertain the Americans," Jafari remarked, his face solemn.

     "Sure, I'll entertain them," Farzin Karimi smirked. "Coffee, sir?" Casually, he handed his superior a steamy cup of joe.

     “Thank you,” Ahmad answered, accepting the offering.

     Jafari enjoyed a good cup of Persian coffee. The combination of cardamom and saffron steeped in the grounds delighted him. In addition, he liked it extremely sweet. Gently, he raised the cup and sipped. He relaxed, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders. Then, he took a heartier draught. His eyes flew wide with fury. Angrily, he sprayed the hot liquid from his mouth.

     “Salt!” he yelled. Swiftly, he poured the coffee down the drain and turned on Karimi. “YOU IDIOT!”

     Farzin's bellowed laughter echoed around the small building. Choking, Razban Amiri attempt to hold his back. He pressed his lips firmly together and captured his breath. Then, his wild chortles broke forth when he could not hold them in. Jafari stormed toward him. Angrily, he slapped the man's face.

     Sgt. Amiri's heavily hooded eyes flew wide open. Gasping, his hand flew to his cheek. Its heat penetrated his palm. At the moment, he hated Jafari. Instinctively, he reached behind him for an assault rifle leaning against the wall. Then, hesitating, he drew in his emotions.    

     "Imbeciles surround me," Captain Ahmed Jafari announced. Pouring a fresh cup of coffee, he strode outside. As he sipped, he contemplated the area. His roving eyes noticed nothing amiss.

     ‘A fools’ errand,’ the Captain thought, sipping his hot drink. Then, he steeled himself against fate. He disliked the idea of an American force penetrating his lonely outpost. However, a staunch military man, he accepted his duty.

 

******

 

     The Sikorsky MH-60M Blackhawk helicopter hovered above the Takht-e-Soleiman mountain range. Captain Ahmad Jafari watched as it moved closer into range. The door of the suspended helicopter slid open. A prominent figure silhouetted in the egress. Several others grouped behind him. Then, they began to descend.

     "Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot," the leader introduced, snapping to attention. His alert eyes traveled across the scene. Boldly, he entered the small outpost.

     “Captain Ahmad Jafari,” the Iranian responded, his back rigid. He immediately disliked the American invasion. Talbot appeared as a take command type of soldier. “Welcome to Takht-e-Soleiman.”

     “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Oliver stated, his face devoid of expression. Swiftly, he began to introduce his team.

     “Major Alberto Gonzalez.” Gonzalez stepped out of rank and saluted.

     “Master Sargeant Emil Hollister.” Hollister repeated Gonzalez’s gesture.

     "Sgts. Bud Cassidy, Tyrone Jones, and Carl McMillian." Each man acknowledged their name.

     Suspiciously, Jafari studied Delta Force Squadron G. They seemed capable of their duties. However, his hackles were up. He did not appreciate the usurpation of his position. He should have dealt with any unwarranted activity occurring during his assignment. The Americans had no business in Iran.

     The tension dragged on while the minutes ticked past. Lt. Col. Talbot detected a hostile environment. Nevertheless, he patiently waited for Jafari to speak.

     “Coffee?” Sgt. Farzin Karimi offered, stepping forward with a cup. Hastily, he pushed it toward Talbot.

     Oliver smiled and accepted the steamy drink. Placing it against his lips, he sipped. Then, frowned. Jafari and Karimi anxiously watched him. In a draught, Ollie emptied the cup and handed it back to the Sergeant.

     "Many thanks," Lt. Col. Talbot stated with a grim smile. The salty taste took him aback. However, he adequately masked his disgust.

     Captain Ahmed Jafari exchanged a questioning look with Karimi. The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders and placed the used cup in the sink. A mouthful of salty coffee should have provoked a sour expression. However, Talbot remained as cool as a cucumber.

     “My men, Colonel,” Jafari stated. Swiftly, he introduced his team. “Lieutenant Arsha Mehri, Sgt. Farzin Karimi and Sgt. Razban Amiri. I am Captain Ahmed Jafari.”

     “Pleased to meet you,” Talbot acknowledged. “Now, if we may get straight to business. I understand there is a lone wolf operating in these mountains. Let’s go over the region and set a plan. I wish to strike swiftly and leave as swiftly. We don’t intend to remain in your hair, Captain.”

     A small, tight smile curved Jafari's lips. The sooner the Americans departed, the better, he thought.

     Talbot and Jafari sat across from each other at the outpost’s small wooden table. Captain Jafari spread out a ragged old map. Together, the men poured over it. Jafari pinpointed the cave system they sought. Nevertheless, he still could not believe the lone wolf theory. He willed the American Delta Force to failure.

     Motioning for Major Alberto Gonzalez to join him, Talbot laid out his plan of attack for the following morning. The setting sun glowed orange through the outpost door. The men bedded down on the floor to wait for dawn.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

     Arastoo Mazanderani crouched against the rock wall. His remaining eye fixed upon the cave opening. Behind its lid, the other orb throbbed painfully. He did not mind. He awaited his destiny.

     Devoid of emotion, the chemist focused solely on his duty to Allah. All his doubts disappeared, and his misty mind cleared.

     “Insha-Allah,” he murmured, his frozen lips barely moving. “Death to America.”

     An assault rifle lay within easy reach. Reassuringly, Arastoo's grasping fingers caressed the stock. As soon as a figure appeared in the aperture, he would fire. He intended to take out as many as possible before igniting his suicide vest.

     Arastoo did not doubt he awaited death. Knowing gave him peace for the first time in his life. Closing his eyes, he saw his father and mother. Sternly, Gulzar Mazanderani looked down upon him. His strong image appeared upon the rock wall. From an early age, the family patriarch urged his son to follow Muhammad’s teachings.

     Arastoo nodded. Zealously, he believed he worked toward ridding the world of Western transgression. Hatred continued to boil within him. He did not consider his mistakes with the plague virus. If it raged out of control, it was Allah’s Will. It was Allah’s way of cleansing the world.

     His mother would weep for him. Gentle Anahita gave love instead of hatred. Although significantly repressed by his father's will, she provided comfort to her children. Arastoo wished for a moment to speak to her, to assure her of his chosen path. Paradise, he believed, awaited him.

     His mind turned unsympathetically toward his younger sisters. Flighty BahAr rarely paid attention to religion. When he discovered her desire to become a pole dancer, he chastised her. Her lewdness brought embarrassment to the Mazanderani family.

     “You mean to shame our parents,” Arastoo shouted at BahAr. Discovering her plan, he stormed into her bedroom.

     BahAr sat crossed-legged on the bed, brushing her long black hair. Dreamily, she spoke of traveling to America. Many considered freedom for women sacred there. She could live as she pleased.

     “Imagine not wearing the hijab?” she wistfully asked Mahasti. “Imagine flexing your naked limbs and dancing exotically for an audience of men.”

     Widening her doe-like brown eyes, the younger sister stared at BahAr in astonishment. Young and still innocent, Mahasti idolized BahAr. The older girl seemed more experienced, more in control of her destiny. The younger wished to cling to her childhood. Although she yearned for male attention, she did not understand it. Perhaps, when she grew older like BahAr, she would have the same desires.

     BahAr frequently spoke of Iranian repression against women. She railed against her mother’s sub-servitude and Yasmina’s obedience to Arastoo. Determined, she would not bend to a man’s rule. The Mazanderani daughter clung to Western Civilizations’ high esteem for women’s rights.

     “We should have the right to do as we please,” BahAr exclaimed, heedless of her brother’s severity. “Why should we live under repression? Why are we unequal to men?”

     “Because you are stupid and insipid,” Arastoo hissed, asserting his superiority. “Both of you.” Turning his eyes on Mahasti, he included her in the conversation.

     “You’re stupid, Arastoo,” BahAr exclaimed, leaping from the bed. Storming toward her brother, she shook her brush in his face. “And backward. All of Iran is backward. I want to dance and show off my beautiful body. Men should…”

     Arastoo backhanded her.

     Screaming, BahAr cupped her cheek with her palm. Then, she spit in her sibling’s face.

     Arastoo backhanded her again.

     Mahasti screamed. Arastoo scared her. Cowering on the bed, she grasped her pillow in her lap. It provided little comfort.

     "Both of you bring disgrace upon the name of Mazanderani," the brother coolly announced, "I feel ashamed of you.”

     “What goes on in here?” Anahita abruptly demanded. The scream brought her to the bedroom door. Behind her, Yasmina tried to peer inside.

     "Just teaching my sisters civilized behavior," Arastoo returned, striding toward the door. As he passed, he grabbed hold of his wife's wrist. Forcefully, he dragged her into their shared bedroom. The door slammed.

     Running from her room, BahAr raced into the corridor. Realizing her brother’s temper, she wished to save Yasmina. Instead, her mother grasped her arm as she tried to pass.

     “Leave them,” Anahita murmured, restraining her daughter. “A man has the right to sleep with his wife.”

     "But he is going to beat her," BahAr breathed, struggling to free herself. "He's going to hurt her."

     "A man has that right," the mother dolefully responded.

     BahAr's eyes flew wide. She came face to face with her mother's reality for the first time. Often, she heard cries and whimpers issuing from her parents' suite of rooms. Always, she dismissed them as tricks of the mind. Suddenly, she understood how her father treated her mother. And she hated it.

     “Mother,” BahAr whispered, aghast. “How could you let him do such a thing?”

     Nonchalantly, Anahita rolled her shoulders. The same thing happened to her mother and her grandmother before her. Women accepted their husband’s harsh treatment. In the back of her mind, she hoped her daughters would not face the same brutality. She wanted her girls to escape to America.

 

******

 

     The hours ticked slowly forward. Arastoo Mazanderani lost all conception of time. In the stillness of the cavern, he took a deep breath. Impatiently, he awaited the arrival of his foes.

     Day and night slipped past. Dawn, noon or dusk, Arastoo did not notice. On the alert, he neither ate nor slept. He focused his eye on the cave opening all the time. Ever attentive, his ears strained for a sound�"a footfall or a hushed voice. Neither came to him.

     “O Allah, let Your Peace come upon Mohammad and the family of Mohammad, as you have brought peace to Ibrahim and his family,” Arastoo muttered the memorized prayer. “Truly, You are Praiseworthy and Glorious. Allah, bless Mohammad and the family of Mohammad, as you have blessed Ibrahim and his family. Truly, You are Praiseworthy and Glorious.” 

     The ancient prayer bolstered the chemist. Silently, his stiffened lips formed the words three more times. Death felt close now. Arastoo found peace with his God and prepared to ascend into Paradise.

     Martyrdom came easily. Fear of the unknown never occurred to Arastoo Mazanderani. The evil doubts that penetrated his mind took wing and flew away. He regulated his breathing and allowed his head to loll. Then, he righted himself and straightened his spine.

     Arastoo held the assault rifle in his lap. Cradling it, he pressed it against his chest.

     Flattening onto his stomach, the zealot crawled toward his cave's entrance. A slight noise from the cavernous laboratory attracted his attention. The rifle rasped against the rock floor as he slithered forward. Arastoo stopped and listened. Nothing.

     Five minutes passed before he moved again. Arastoo Mazanderani inched forward. Peering into the cavern, he strained his one eye. Zeeba Bahrami's body remained against the rock wall. In the shadows, she appeared as a hump. He did not notice the presence of anyone else.

     Breathing a sigh of relief, the chemist returned to his original position. The assault rifle lay across his lap. He gripped it in a death hold.

     "Soon," Zeeba's hollow voice assured him.

     Arastoo looked up at his lab partner. Spector-like, Zeeba Bahrami stood over him. Her cheek held the marks of his whip. Jagged red welts painfully crossed her face, slanting from her forehead to chin. They undulated slowly on her flesh as she spoke.

     “Soon,” Arastoo repeated, comforted. He wished she were with him to join his fate. However, she would surely greet him at the great gate of Paradise.

     Arastoo reached out to Zeeba, and she vanished.

 

******

 

     "Dead." Arastoo Mazanderani heard the word as clear as a bell. Again, he crawled toward the cave's entrance.

     This time uniformed men crowded the laboratory. One squatted before Zeeba’s body and rolled her over.

     “A woman?” Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot questioned. He crouched next to Sgt. Razban Amiri. “A woman did this?”

     “Hush,” Captain Ahmad Jafari cautioned. Motioning with his hands, he waved the men to silence.

     Talbot swiftly scanned the area. Lab equipment lay shattered across the hard floor. The occupant had flown into an apparent rage. Killing his partner, he proceeded to destroy his equipment. Determinedly, he strode toward a corridor branching off the main room.

     Jafari’s hand stayed the Lieutenant Colonel. Again, he motioned for caution. Talbot formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger.

     In his hidden lair, Arastoo relaxed. He wanted the group of soldiers to approach him. 

 

  

 

 

        

 

 

          

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot waved his team to silence. Gritting his teeth, Captain Ahmad Jafari obeyed the command. Although he resented Talbot, he upheld his superior’s authority. In the hushed cavern, the men ranged out. They gripped their weapons, prepared to fire.

     Talbot stepped cautiously over the ruined lab equipment. Glass crunched beneath his combat boots. He paused and shifted his eyes from left to right. Gonzalez shadowed him.

     Sgts. Emil Hollister and Razban Amiri covered the two men. Jafari and Jones kept watch from the rear.

     Detecting a glimmer of light from a nearby cave, Talbot and Gonzalez advanced. Arastoo Mazanderani held his breath. Only the rock face separated the zealot from the soldiers.

     Arastoo aimed his M4 assault rifle and trained it upon the intruders. Talbot and Gonzalez stepped out of range.

     “Nobody here,” Lt. Col. Talbot remarked, addressing Jafari.

     “The cave system runs deep,” the Captain responded. “He could hide anywhere.”

     “Spread out, check everywhere,” Talbot ordered. “Advance with caution.”

     Slowly, the team moved around the cavern. Never putting their guard down, the soldiers crept around the defunct laboratory.

     Out of sight, Arastoo waited with his back against the wall. He grasped the rifle and pointed it toward the rocky ceiling. Impatiently, he bided his time. Shadows played against the walls. Twice his adversaries moved within range. Twice he considered firing. However, a voice in his mind warned him to hold back.

     “Over here,” Sgt. Hollister stage whispered.

     Motioning for the others to wait, Talbot stepped forward. A stillness hovered within the cavern. In the distance, a stone fell. Along a dark corridor, a stone avalanche tumbled down a wall. The team stood rigid, waiting for it to stop. Then, they began to move slowly.

     “Zilch, nada,” Talbot responded. Taking a stride backward, he bumped into Captain Ahmad Jafari. “Watch it,” the Lieutenant Colonel hissed.

     "Watch it yourself," the Iranian Captain mocked back. He found it difficult to hide his resentment.

     Slitting his eyes, Lt. Col. Talbot glared at his counterpart. Although he understood the bitterness, he expected professionalism. Talbot wanted to wash his hands of the situation�"the sooner, the better. However, instead of exchanging harsh words, he focused on his mission.

 

******

 

     Arastoo’s lips formed the words of his prayer. Fanatically, he dedicated his life to Allah and cleansed himself of sin. He prayed for God’s mercy and forgiveness. Soon…soon, he would stand at the Gates of Paradise.

     Boldly, Arastoo Mazanderani stepped into the cave's entrance. Moments ticked past with no one noticing him. Sgt. Razban Amiri spotted him. Zealously, Arastoo pressed the trigger and muttered ‘one-thousand-and-one.’ Abruptly, thirty rounds sprayed the cavern. The sound echoed loudly. Amiri went down like a rag doll.

     Jafari stepped toward his fallen comrade. Roughly, Talbot dragged him down. Crouched on the floor, the men covered their heads. Then the Lt. Col. and Captain rose. Arastoo stepped further into the cavern.

     “Halt!” Talbot commanded.

     Arastoo Mazanderani ignored the order. Stepping over Amiri’s body, he re-aimed his weapon.

     “No one move,” the mad chemist instructed, sweeping the room with the M4. “I will blow you straight to hell.”

     At first, Lt. Col. Talbot believed the Iranian extremist meant to fire again. Then, he spied the suicide vest.

     “You don’t want to do that,” Talbot called out. With great difficulty, he kept his voice calm.

Visions of Nicola Prescott played in his mind's eye. He focused on his love for her. At that moment, he visioned himself knocking on her door. A bottle of champagne and an armful of roses gathered in his arms.

     It all boiled down to survival…and the future.

     Talbot's eye traveled stealthily to his team. Major Alberto Gonzalez crouched behind the overturned lab table. Next to him, Sgt. Tyrone Jones sat with his back against it. Frog-like, Captain Ahmad Jafari crawled toward Amiri's limp body. All accounted for except Sgt. Emil Hollister.

     Hollister! The Lieutenant Colonel's eyes traveled around the scene. Where was Hollister?

 

******

 

     Captain Jafari dragged Amiri’s body across the stone floor. Reverently, he sat against the wall and cradled the head. He realized he faced instant death. Repeating Arastoo’s prayer, he prepared to enter Paradise.

     Arastoo Mazanderani boldly stepped further into the cave. Aiming his assault rifle, he pointed it at each man. Teasingly, he lightly pressed on the trigger but did not fire. His insane laughter reverberated back and forth.

     “Are you ready to die?” the chemist jeered, pushing the rifle’s nozzle into Gonzalez’s face. “You will die, Infidel.”

     "Go ahead, pull the trigger," Major Gonzalez advised his face a deadpan. "And I'll get to hell before you."

     Working his jaw sideways, Arastoo considered Gonzalez’s threat. Then, he lowered his weapon.

     “Why should I kill you one-by-one?” the zealot remarked, stepping into the cavern’s middle. “I can take you all at once.”

     Arastoo fumbled with the suicide vest’s cord. His sweat-slicked palm slipped. Angrily, he wiped his hand against his pant leg. Then he grabbed the cord again.

     Tensely, Talbot awaited the explosion.

 

******

 

     From the corner of his eye, Lt. Col. Talbot detected a movement. The barrel of a sniper rifle came into view. The single shot caught Arastoo Mazanderani in the middle of the forehead.   Staggering backward, he fell against the wall and slid to a slumped position. Sgt. Emil Hollister stepped out of hiding.

     Talbot breathed a sigh of relief. Squatting next to the body, he checked for a pulse and declared Mazanderani dead.

     “Good job, Hollister,” Lt. Col. Talbot declared. Rising, he slapped the Sergeant on the back.

Gonzalez and Jafari echoed the compliment.

     “We can go home now and get out of your hair.” Talbot turned to Jafari and shook his hand.   The Captain stepped back and saluted his superior. 

 

 

Chapter Thirty

 

     Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot stood in front of his brother’s grave. Reverently, he knelt and bowed his head. Allowing tears to escape, they rolled silently over his cheeks and dripped off his chin.

The grey granite monument reached solemnly toward the cloudless sky.

 

IVY MASTERSON

Formally known as:

Ivan Talbot

Beloved Son (and Daughter) of

Gen. I. Geoffery Talbot and Beatrice Talbot

Born October 27, 1985

Died June 8, 2022

A Beautiful Soul

 

     Nicola Talbot bent to lay a bouquet of forget-me-nots before the grave. Tenderly, she placed her palm on Oliver’s back. He glanced up at her, his lips forming a thin smile. Then, grasping her hand, he brought it to her lips.

     Eight months passed since Lt. Col. Talbot and his team faced life and death. The Iranian cave seemed a distant memory. A happy future spread before him. However, he could not move forward until he reconciled himself with Ivan’s death.

     “I love you, bro,” Ollie whispered. His hand trembled as he reached to caress the heated granite. The San Francisco sun beat warmly on his bent neck. “I…I’m sorry…sorry for everything.”

     Nicola stood back and watched. She, too, allowed her tears to flow freely. Although she never met Ivy, she understood Ollie's need. She encouraged the San Francisco stop-over.

     Nicola Prescott became Nicola Talbot on the previous day. The couple departed for a Hawaiian honeymoon following a small, intimate wedding ceremony. Although she waited many long years for the marriage, she readily agreed to visit Ivy's gravesite on the way.

     Solemnly, Nicola looked across the cemetery. Maureen Tapper placed flowers on Jackie Wentworth’s nearby grave. Nic liked Maureen at once. The boutique owner met the couple at the airport and brought them directly to the cemetery. She seemed genuinely interested in assisting the couple.

     “I am sorry for your loss,” Nic stated, stepping up behind Maureen.

     "Thank you," the older woman whispered in return. "Damn the plague." Briskly, she stood and wiped the dirt off her hands.

     "Too many lives worthlessly lost," Nicola somberly agreed. Her mind flashed to Milt Kromesky and Gabby Sanchez. Both of her good friends succumbed to the virus�"vibrant lives that left too soon. "Such a shame."

     Maureen and Nicola sighed simultaneously.

 

******

 

     “Love you, darling,” Nicola Talbot whispered, pressing her nose against Oliver’s. For a moment, they rubbed them together, then Ollie’s arms tightened around her waist. Then, they kissed�"deep and long.

     “Love you back.”

     Oliver kissed her new wife again and rolled onto his back. For a prolonged time, he stared at the ceiling. In the darkness, Nic waited for him to speak.

     "I'm sorry I mistreated you," Ollie stated, his voice choked with fresh tears. "I should have never left you. I should have stood up to my mother."

     “Hush, love,” Nicola cooed, snuggling into the crook of his arm. “It’s all behind us now.”

     Silence filled the hotel room. Rising, Oliver stole toward the floor-to-ceiling window. He slid it open and stepped onto the balcony. The silver moon glowed down upon him, casting his silhouette across the floor. Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the Embarcadero.

     Oliver thought back on his life with Elizabeth with regret. He never loved her. However, he accepted her at his mother's urging. In his heart, he knew he belonged to Nicola. The fact weighed heavily on him. He wanted to talk about it, make her see his weakness and wrongdoings.

     "You have nothing to worry about," Nic stated, wrapping her arms around Ollie's waist.  "Nothing at all. Elysian Fields Forever." She pressed her face into his warm flesh, placing a kiss on his shoulder.

     “I want you to know…to understand…I…”

     “I don’t have to know or understand anything, love,” Nicola assured, smiling and kissing him again.

     Oliver remained silent. The moon continued to hang above them, casting its warm glow.

     “Moonlight and Love Song, Never Out of Date,” his wife sang, her voice low and sweet. The old song, ‘As Time Goes By,’ meant a lot to her. Throughout the lonely years without him, she kept the tune as a reminder of their love.

     Ollie turned and snuggled his face into her hair. His tears mingled with her soft strands. In his chest, his heart pounded a steady staccato. Nicola placed her warm hand against it and felt its beat. He walked her toward the bed and lay her down on it. Passionately, the lovers melted together as one.

 

******

 

     Nicola Talbot woke up in the warm California morning. Sprawled out beside her, Ollie slept like a baby. She smiled and cuddled into his curved body.

     "Good morning, sunshine," Nic exclaimed, rising on her elbow. Oliver returned the greeting. "So, what's on the agenda this morning?"

     "Loving you," her husband exclaimed, grabbing her and pulling her close.

     “Have it your way.” Nicola grinned. Her banter came quickly and easily. “Honolulu tomorrow.”

     Nicola looked forward to beginning their honeymoon. Many states had already lifted their plague mandates, including Hawaii. The Talbots planned to spend their time on the beach, relaxing. However, Nic planned on attending a few shows and a luau. Oliver left the entertainment organization up to her.

     “And no writing!” Ollie exclaimed. Before the wedding, he extracted the promise from her. “All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.”

     "Oh, not that Jill again," Nic exclaimed, giggling. She had heard the expression many times before; Ollie favored it. "How did she get mixed up in this?"

     “You promised.”

     “Okay, okay.”

     Surreptitiously, Nicola eyed her traveling bag. Her laptop, tucked inside, waited for her. She saved the final draft of 'Cricket Madison' in MS Word. She planned on completing it during their honeymoon. Her publisher expected it by the end of the month.

     “Do you know what Hank asked me?” Nic asked, changing the subject.

     "Besides, are you my new mother?" Oliver replied with his question.

     “Besides that.” Nic’s smile widened to a grin.

     Nicola immediately loved Hank on their first meeting. The boy seemed to accept her without question. His mother's loss affected him deeply. However, he appeared ready to consent to a new woman taking his parent's place.

     At first, Nicola felt nervous about meeting the Talbot family. Following Lt. Col. Talbot's return from Iran, he appeared at her door with roses and champagne. She fell into his arms in relief. Always in the back of her mind hung the thought that he would not come back. Nic often feared for Ollie's safety. However, he always returned.

     “Mission accomplished,” Oliver exclaimed, relieving the tension. After a pause, he continued, “Liz died in Jamaica.”

     “I’m sorry,” Nicola demurely responded.

     “Me too.”

     Oliver sat on the couch and grasped his hands between his knees. Nic perched beside him. She wondered if Ollie realized his newfound freedom. Although she did feel sorry, gladness enveloped her.

     “If you are agreeable, we’ll wait about six months,” Ollie stated, anxiety tingeing his words. “I hope you don’t mind, but I want to marry you immediately.”

     “Yes, oh yes!” Nicola exclaimed, full of excitement. Leaping up, she threw her arms around her lover’s neck and kissed him.

     “You’ll have to meet my family, of course.” Oliver’s anxiety increased. Unsure of his mother’s reaction, he suddenly grasped Nic’s hands. “My mother…she…”

     “Don’t worry, darling,” Nic announced, hugging him tighter. “I’ll take care of her.”

     Nicola did not have to 'take care’ of Beatrice Talbot. Oliver's mother welcomed her with open arms. Inviting her inside her Naples, Florida home, Bea kissed Nic on both cheeks. Then, the two women hugged.

     Standing in the lanai doorway, Hank Talbot watched. His blue bathing suit dripped onto the tiled floor. No one noticed him. For a moment, shyness overcame him. Then, he rushed into his father's arms.

     By the end of a week, Hank realized he loved his father's fiancée. He still loved his mother. However, his acceptance of Nicola occurred swiftly. Warm and inviting, she included him in all their activities. Day after day, they visited theme parks and rode amusement rides. Then, he discovered his father's preparations for a new marriage with Nicola Prescott.

     “Are you going to be my new mother?” Hank asked Nicola. His child’s hand stole into her palm.

     “Yes,” Nic answered, smiling warmly.

 

******

 

     Oliver waited patiently for Nicola’s answer. Her continued silence began to unnerve him. Realizing she teased him, he kept his lips sealed.

     Finally, Ollie could not bear it any longer. He played along, but he wanted to know.

     “So, c’mon, what did he ask?” he finally urged.

     "He wanted to know if we really would have five cats."

     Smiling, Lt. Col. Oliver Talbot realized his newfound happiness. 

 

THE END

Reviews

[Ruby Heggie (PB Jacobs)]

I'd write about your intentions with this content. Punitive Avenger types would be less likely to get any ideas. Essentially, I wonder how much you have planned for success, and everything else that goes along with it. You did a great job with this! My only thing is how much you ramble. You did an awful lot of dialogue in the beginning of chapter one. I love the tone of it, though. Maybe you could include a picture of a kitchen table, so your audience is clued in on your superior table talking. Seriously, you talk a mean table, Lea! But, when your rambling sidetracks me, I have to put an effort in to stay focused on your story line content. Yes, you have to give your audience the gossip. Of course you do, BUT, your audience has to be on the same page as you, or the too-muchness of your table talk writing style will get a few scoffs. Educate your audience to be on the understanding and appreciation end of your "I love to talk" writing style and you got it! I love your story. I hereby promote you to the status of Gossip Queen. Yours is gossip that encourages people to be more thoughtful and considerate, if you ask me. BUT, remember aggressive male and female types... I do like this, though. You have to revise here and there, but you know that, I'll bet. And you even accommodate lazy mentalists with your formatting! Lol I wouldn't over think your revisions, though. So far, so good, though, Gossip Queen. Lol

[Lea Sheryn]

Thank you forvyour review. I will take your comments into consideration.