So it was really out. She’d been hoping irrationally for some last-minute miracle, a hold on the story that would at least provide time for an official announcement.
Andrus didn’t understand her concerns at all. Yes, she had believed that the public should be told, but not by a breathless newscaster breaking into Saturday-night programming to deliver a scare story. She’d wanted it done right-a sober statement presented by elected officials in a reasoned, thoughtful manner.
From the start, a leak had been inevitable. The news should have been put out in a way that would minimize panic.
Using the remote, she shuffled through the other channels. A second network affiliate had already picked up the story, the anchor reading an AP wire service bulletin that apparently summarized the KPTI report. Nothing had come on the other stations yet, but she knew it was only a matter of minutes.
Her stomach rolled, reminding her that she still had not touched her meal. She unwrapped the cheeseburger and hungrily tore off a bite.
When she clicked back to Channel 8, she saw Myron Levine doing a live stand-up outside Parker Center, the downtown headquarters of the LAPD. City Hall East, with its underground command center, would have been more appropriate, but Levine might not even know about that.
"…serial killer nicknamed Mobius, who was in Denver two years ago when this reporter was himself stationed in that city. Mobius, known to the media as the Pickup Artist, was responsible for a series of slayings…"
So he knew the name Mobius-the name she’d let slip in Rachel Winston’s presence. Could Dodge possibly be telling the truth? She had no absolute proof he was behind the leak, just a strong suspicion reinforced by an equally strong dislike of the man.
She ate more of the burger, then paused, feeling a momentary shiver of light-headedness. Going without food all day had been a bad idea. She wasn’t feeling so great all of a sudden. But it would pass.
She took a swig of soda, hoping the cold slush of carbonated water would revive her. For a moment it seemed to work. Then distantly she felt a headache coming on.
Levine was probably the reason. Just looking at him, flushed with the triumph of his breaking story, was enough to make her sick. The guy was a weasel, always had been, climbing the career ladder with reckless indifference to journalistic ethics.
Hell, even if she had decided to leak the story, she wouldn’t have given it to that jerk A bubble of gas worked its way out of her throat with an audible burp.
God, what was going on with her tonight? She’d gone without sustenance for longer periods than this. Maybe she was coming down with the flu.
The flu…
A low warning thought rose almost to the level of conscious awareness, but before she could focus on it, the KPTI report shifted from Levine to a camera crew doing man-in-the-street interviews at Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me…"
"How do we know what’s really going on? The government never levels with us…"
"You’re saying there’s a serial killer that’s got hold of the stuff…?"
"Is this for real? Are you serious?"
"I’m just…it’s scary…everything’s scary these days, and just when you think it can’t get any worse…"
"I think I’d like to move to a small town someplace and stock up on supplies and just hunker down, you know…"
"I can’t talk to you; I’m looking for my kids… Marci! Terri! Where are you? We have to go…!"
Tess shook her head. "Thank you, Channel Eight," she muttered. "That’s very helpful. That’s just-"
She wanted to say terrific, but her throat was suddenly dry, and the word died in a croak.
Weird-and now she was conscious of a sick feeling in her stomach, a liquid queasiness that became a dry, pasty taste in the back of her mouth.
More soda. That was what she needed. Too bad there wasn’t some nice Bacardi in it.
She picked up the big paper cup and raised it to her mouth, and her fingers splayed and the cup dropped on the table, spilling its contents.
What the hell?
Myron Levine was back on-screen, but Tess wasn’t listening anymore.
As she stared at her right hand, another shudder twisted through the tendons and ligaments. Her fingers shook briefly.
And the thought that had almost surfaced earlier flashed with full clarity in her brain.
It can be all around you — Tennant’s voice came back to her- and you won’t know it until you experience the initial symptoms of exposure: runny nose, sweating, upset stomach, headache… VX.
She had been exposed.
She looked around wildly, her environment suddenly hostile, as she tried to understand how Mobius had done it. But how didn’t matter at this moment. She had to get out. That was what Tennant had said-in the event of exposure, evacuate the area immediately.
The door to outside was only ten feet away. She got up, grabbing her purse off the coffee table, took two steps away from the sofa, and her knees buckled and she collapsed on the floor.
She knew what was happening. The nerve agent attacked the central nervous system. It caused flulike symptoms initially, then tremors, then convulsions and paralysis.
Finally, asphyxiation as the lungs stopped drawing air.
She struggled to rise, but she couldn’t make her legs work. They were shivering all over with what Dr. Gant had called generalized fasciculations, a fancy way of saying that her muscular activity had been converted into a series of tics and flutters.
The most basic control she possessed, her control over her own body, was lost.
At the ATSAC briefing, both Gant and Tennant had stressed that a VX victim had to escape the contaminated area immediately, but neither of them had mentioned that she would be unable to use her legs.
Could she crawl? Maybe, if she dragged herself forward using just her arms…but if she couldn’t stand, she would never be able to get the door open.
Anyway, she didn’t have time for a slow, arduous crawl across two yards of carpet. Already her breathing was coming harder than before. Shortness of breath-dyspnea-another symptom mentioned by Dr. Gant when he was handing out…
Handing out the antidote kits.
She’d received one, too-a MARK I Nerve Agent Antidote Kit-the same thing combat soldiers were issued when they were headed into a hostile zone where chemical weapons might be used.
Gant had explained it all, as an official-looking crew passed out the pouches. Each kit consisted of two auto injectors, crayonlike devices that could be yanked free of their plastic holder and pressed against the outer thigh. A needle would deliver a standard dose of medication intramuscularly. The first injector contained two milligrams of atropine sulfate, which would improve respiration. The second device held six hundred milligrams of pralidoxime chloride, an antidote to VX, which would break the chemical bond between the nerve agent and the enzymes in the blood.
And she had it in her purse, which lay on the beige carpet beside her.
If she could reach it.
Her right arm was no good. It had stiffened up with a painful muscular contraction. She thought of rigor mortis and pushed the idea away. Death was not the imagery she needed in her head just now.
Try with the left arm. Teeth gritted, she willed her arm toward the strap. It was almost within her grasp. But her fingers wouldn’t obey her, wouldn’t close over the strap. They were fluttering, useless.
The effects of the nerve agent were spreading fast, covering more and more of her body. Soon the muscles of her rib cage would fail, and she would suffocate, smothered by her own body.
She didn’t want to die that way. Fear gave her strength. Clumsily she hooked her hand over the strap and dragged it toward her.
She had the purse. But it was shut. She had to undo the clasp. Couldn’t do it. No motor coordination. In desperation she slammed the heel of her hand against the purse. Again. Again.