no effective medical treatment. Even Spanish flu . . .” His voice faded for a moment. “In 1918 and 1919 it killed more than thirty million people worldwide.”
“I’m aware of the history of the Spanish flu,” Halabi said calmly.
“All evidence suggests that this disease is even more contagious and has a significantly higher mortality rate. Add to that the rise in long-distance travel and the increase in the world population, and you could be talking about casualties in the hundreds of millions.”
“That’s my estimate as well.”
Still, Bertrand’s’ expression suggested that he believed he wasn’t being clear. “This can’t be controlled. It won’t just kill people you think are your enemies. It won’t be just Americans. Or Christians. It’ll come here. It’ll spread across the Middle East. It’ll kill your men, members of your family. Maybe even you.”
“If that’s God’s will.”
“Are you out of your mind?” the Frenchman said, finally starting to grasp what they were talking about. “If it was God’s will, he’d do it himself. This isn’t a bullet or nerve gas or even a nuclear bomb. You can’t target an opposing army or country. You can’t predict what it will do. And you can’t stop it once it’s started. It’s impossible to win because winning doesn’t exist.”
“You’re wrong, Doctor. With its complexity, interconnectedness, and reliance on technology, the industrialized world will completely collapse. It won’t just be disease that kills them. It will be starvation. Cold. Darkness and chaos.” He waved a hand around him. “Certainly, millions will die in this part of the world, but that isn’t enough to destroy us. It’s the way we’ve lived for millennia.”
Bertrand took another step back. “You think . . . You think you can level the playing field?”
Halabi smiled. “I’d forgotten that idiom. Thank you. It encompasses my goals perfectly. The West’s financial, human, and military resources will simply cease to exist. As will their desire and ability to interfere in the affairs of others.”
The Frenchman had finally retreated far enough that his back hit the cave’s stone wall. He seemed to be trying to speak but found himself unable to do so. Halabi filled the silence.
“As I said, infecting my men and getting them into America is relatively simple. As is selecting the cities they’ll be sent to. Based on population density, location, and airport activity, the obvious choices are Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, New York, Seattle, and Atlanta. My men will have no problem finding menial work—cleaning, food service, and the like. The details, though, are somewhat more difficult. How would this best be done? Transportation hubs seem obvious. But what about theaters where people are in very close contact and the virus wouldn’t be subject to direct sunlight? What about cashiers who handle money for hundreds of customers a day? And what about when my people begin displaying symptoms? Perhaps nightclubs where the disorienting environment would make those symptoms less noticeable to the people around them?”
“Are you . . . Are you asking me to help you?”
Halabi ignored the question. “Another issue is how to protect my American disciples who will be hosting these people. They’re all anxious to be martyred, of course, but it seems that it would be most advantageous not to infect them until my other people are near death. That would create a second wave of infection before the CDC and other authorities fully grasp what’s happening.”
“I made the anthrax,” the Frenchman responded. “And that was probably a mistake. But if you think I’m going to help you do something like this, you’re insane.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Bertrand responded. “Once this is put into motion, I’ll no longer be of any use to you. You’ll kill me. And even if you don’t, there’s a good chance the disease will.”
The scientist fell silent and looked around him, peering into the shadows as though there was something meaningful hidden there. Halabi had seen it many times before. He was experiencing the confusion that all nonbelievers suffered when they realized their lives would soon end. The only thing ahead of him now was a dark, empty eternity.
“Come,” Halabi said, standing and walking past Bertrand into the passageway. With no other option, the Frenchman followed. As they approached the end of the corridor, two men appeared and dragged him into a chamber to the left. A strangled scream rose up and then died in Bertrand’s throat when he saw what was waiting for him.
Much of Victoria Schaefer’s body was rotted away and what was left had been mummified by