Pestilence (Jack Randall #2)
Read Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) Online
Authors: Randall Wood
—TABLE OF CONTENTS—
PESTILENCE
RANDALL WOOD
PESTILENCE
Copyright © 2011 by Randall Wood.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data
is on file at the Library of Congress
Wood, Randall, 1968-
Pestilence
/ Randall Wood – 1st ed.
ISBN-13:978-1-938825-10-1
First Edition: August 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I looked, and beheld, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name of Death; and Hades followed with him. Authority was given to him over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.
—Revelation 6:4
Disease is the retribution of outraged nature.
—Hosea Ballou
World population projected to reach 7 billion in 2011.
October 20, 2009—CNN
—ONE—
M
uzzammil Hassan was one week past his sixteenth birthday. If the day went as planned he would not see his seventeenth. As he watched the men work he thought of the small party his parents had thrown for him. Like most families in his country, his was large and poor. His mother and father had worked hard for the extra food to serve that day. His father had spoken proudly of his son to all that were present, but Muzzammil knew he would never rise to the successes his father had predicted. It was enough to simply stay alive in his country. Muzzammil knew suffering. He had lost a sister and uncle to AIDS, and two brothers to the tribal warfare that often plagued his country. His hope was that his decision would not only bring pride to his father, but provide for his family. He had been promised repeatedly that they would be well cared for and would never again suffer from hunger or lack of medical care. That his family name would be spoken with honor and reverence and he himself would be elevated to a place of distinction few of his people could hope for.
But the price was great. He thought of the words he had spoken into the camera a short time ago. He had delivered them with force and volume as instructed and could only hope that his fear had not shown through. It was a speech he had heard growing up from others before him. He had learned the slogans before he was ten and delivered them with a fury he had not felt before today. The men he now watched working had observed silently until he was through, and then applauded his performance before returning to their shovels and buckets.
The men worked tirelessly as they had throughout the night. The bags were pulled from the pallet left by the forklift. There had been over two hundred total, but they were now down to the last ten. The bags were emptied into bathtubs that had been pulled from the rubble of the city. The mixing was performed by men wearing masks and supervised by the Arab. Muzzammil did not know his name, and neither did any of the others. While the man spoke his language, it was obviously not his native tongue. He barked at a man holding a jerry can of diesel and the man quickly poured some more into the tub until barked at a second time. The mixing resumed until it was to the Arab’s approval and he signaled to other men waiting nearby. They reached into the tub wearing leather gloves over the plastic ones they had donned first. This protected their hands from the nails and other small pieces of metal that had been added to the mix. The fumes were strong, and the Arab positioned himself in front of one of the multiple fans they had set up to circulate the air. The men packed the thick slurry into five-gallon buckets that were carried to the truck. Here the buckets were handed up and then down into the large tank where Muzzammil briefly saw the hands of his friend, Hanni, accept them. This was followed by the muffled noise of him packing the mixture inside the tank. Muzzammil smiled at his friend’s discomfort. Being young and skinny as he was, he was chosen for the job of packing the truck, as he was the only one who could fit through the opening. At least he had a gas mask that kept the fumes at bay. The heat could not be escaped. The empty buckets soon emerged and were passed back for another load.
Muzzammil’s thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see the robed man they all looked to for guidance standing over him. His one good eye sparkled with pride at Muzzammil, and he smiled at the boy before watching the last of the bags of ammonia nitrate being mixed in the tub. As the mixing process was finished and the last bucket loaded, the men slowly approached and offered their prayers and admiration to Muzzammil. All under the careful eye of the robed figure standing behind him. Hanni, his skinny friend, was the last to leave. Muzzammil looked from his friend’s sweaty face to the red irritated skin of his arms and legs. The mark of the gas mask ringed his face and gave a comical frame to the lopsided smile he offered. What little he had to say would not come, he simply smiled, clasped his friend’s hands in his own, and with a nod departed the garage.
The robed man took a seat next to Muzzammil and they both watched silently as the Arab moved around and under the fuel truck. Although less than half the size of a semi-truck, it still carried a 5000 gallon capacity. More importantly, it was indistinguishable from the other government owned gas trucks in his country. The steel reinforcements added to the front end and heavy bumper were hidden to all but the most careful observer. An effort had been made to preserve the well-used appearance of the truck, as anything out of the ordinary would compromise their mission. The Arab had been insistent on every aspect of the operation, and all of his wishes were followed. The fertilizer had been purchased in various quantities from several places and stockpiled until it was needed. The diesel fuel had been slowly siphoned from several trucks and saved as well. While the fuel was not necessary for the reaction the Arab desired, he had explained that its addition would increase the chemical energy of the mixture, hastening the violence of the detonation, and providing more of a shock wave. Now the man was busy completing the wiring he had started a day ago. After a few minutes in the cab of the truck, he walked to the two men and took a seat facing Muzzammil.
“You remember the instructions?” he politely asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, please tell them to me one more time?”
Muzzammil recited the instructions he had memorized the night before. “I drive the truck on its normal route at its normal time. I obey all traffic laws and do not speed any more than the other traffic. At the last intersection, I attach the cord on the wheel to my wrist and grip the wheel. I then wait for traffic to open up in front of me before using the space to speed up as much as possible. Others will help by shooting at the guards. I drive through the barrier and get as close to the building as possible.”
“Good, and then?” the Arab pressed.
“I simply pull my hand away from the wheel,” he replied.
“. . . and grasp the hand of Allah as he welcomes you to paradise,” the robed man finished.
“Yes, Teacher.”
The Arab looked at the boy for some time. Muzzammil met his gaze without faltering.
“They will speak your name around the world, my young friend. You are already known to Usama, he speaks of you with pride,” the Arab lied.
Muzzammil’s back straightened with the statement. He stood as the other men did.
The Arab adjusted the boy’s clothes before stepping back to look him over.
“The clothes fit you well.” He checked his watch before looking at the robed man.
“A prayer, before you depart,” the man announced.
Mats were pulled from nearby chairs and the three men knelt together on the floor. When finished, the boy was escorted to the truck and the two men watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat. They looked for any hesitation or muscle quiver. Any sign of the boy changing his mind. The Arab pointed out the cord on the steering wheel and the boy nodded. A squeeze of the shoulder before the man left to open the garage door.
“I am very proud,” the robed man stated.
“Thank you, Teacher. I am proud to serve our cause.”
“The world will know your name tomorrow. All of your brothers and sisters await you. Allah be praised, go now, my son.”
Muzzammil started the truck and with only a slight jerk eased it out the door and into the rising African sun. The door was quickly pulled shut behind him.
The Arab searched his pockets for a cigarette as he walked back to the robed man.
“He will do it?”
“I have no doubts,” the robed man replied.
“If he develops any, we will help him.” The Arab pulled the remote detonator from his pocket.
“I do not think that will be necessary, but we cannot have him captured. It is becoming more difficult to find men willing to do these things. You will take care of the family as promised?”
“Funding is becoming more difficult, but improving the lives of his family will cost little. The boy is a fool, but it will be done. After all, we may need more ‘volunteers’ in the future. Come, my friend. This building will burn in less than thirty minutes. We must depart. And I wish to be well on my way out of this country. By the end of the day it will not be safe for either of us.”