Arlene Wojtalik, the best mother-in-law in the whole world,
and the best five-string banjo player in his height, weight,
and age group,
the one and only Mort Castle.
Table C-1: Summary of WHO Global Pandemic Phases (WHO Global Influenza Preparedness Plan, 2005)1
Interpandemic Period
Phase 1. No new influenza virus subtypes have been detected in humans. An influenza virus subtype that has caused human infection may be present in animals. If present in animals, the risk of human infection or disease is considered to be low.
Phase 2. No new influenza virus subtypes have been detected in humans. However, a circulating animal influenza virus subtype poses a substantial risk of human disease.
Pandemic Alert Period
Phase 3. Human infection(s) with a new subtype but no human-to-human spread or at most rare instances of spread to a close contact.
Phase 4. Small cluster(s) with limited human-to-human transmission but spread is highly localized, suggesting that the virus is not well adapted to humans.
Phase 5. Larger cluster(s) but human-to-human spread is still localized, suggesting that the virus is becoming increasingly better adapted to humans but may not yet be fully transmissible (substantial pandemic risk).
Pandemic Period
Phase 6. Pandemic phase: increased and sustained transmission in the general population.
PHASE 1
CHAPTER 1
7:13 PM
December 27
The change in cabin pressure squeezed Viktor’s skull mercilessly, yanking him out of a dreamless void and thrusting him into cold, hard reality as his international flight out of the Koltsovo Airport in Yekaterinburg descended into Chicago. He blinked; the rows of seats ahead of him floated, drifting from side to side in his blurred vision. His heart raced. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach threatened to erupt. He didn’t think he had eaten anything since a rushed breakfast before the flight.
If that was true, he hadn’t eaten in over eighteen hours. Had he been asleep the entire flight?
Not sleep, his body insisted. Something worse.
Viktor swallowed. Carefully. Something was very, very wrong. Under everything, even beneath the shakily controlled panic, there was something else.
He itched.
The sensation was insidious. Awful. Excruciating. He froze. He couldn’t put his finger on where he could scratch. It seemed to appear all over and nowhere at once, as if the horrible sensation slithered throughout his body with the speed of thought, stretching out its jagged fingernails to caress just under the skin of his armpit, his face, the center of his back, his scrotum. He reached a trembling hand out and took hold of his water bottle.
The thought of the tepid liquid triggered an eruption of nausea and he let go.
Across the aisle, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit tucked a paper cross into a Bible and gathered his belongings. Viktor slowly turned to the right. It felt like the bones at the base of his skull were grinding glass between them as he moved his head. The seat next to him was empty, and in the seat nearest the window, an older woman studied her crash-landing instructions, working hard to avoid his stare.
The captain’s voice clicked over the whispered hum of air rushing past the fuselage. He spoke for a while in a southern Russian accent. After the announcement, one of the flight attendants translated his announcement into German and then still another gave her best shot at an English version. “This is Captain speaking. Continuation of final approach is fast approaching. If everyone please can sit still, putting seating belt on, remaining calm, we will be landing in Chicago in few short minutes. Home of Cubs footballs and Blackhawk hockey. Ha. Ha. Ha. Also Al Capone.”
Viktor unbuckled his seat belt. Struggled to his feet. He hoped he could make it to the bathroom before one of the flight attendants tried to stop him. He wasn’t sure what would happen then.
Sweat collected under the illicit cargo hidden carefully along both sides of his chest and stomach. Acutely aware of these small lumps, he knew he had to look truly awful as he found his feet and stood, hitting his head on the overhead bin.
The nice leather jacket, the new jeans, the crisp white shirt were all supposed to convey that he was the lazy son of someone rich. But the new clothes couldn’t hide how he felt. He was tall and underfed, and he lurched up the aisle like a scarecrow running from a storm. Passengers flinched when they saw him.
Viktor made it inside the restroom before any of the flight attendants said anything. He sagged inside the plastic door, trying to slow his breathing. He turned on the light above the mirror and saw that he was much worse than he had feared.
His eyes were red and began to weep in the light. His skin had gotten frighteningly pale. It didn’t make sense. His heart raced; his face should be red from all the blood surging through his body. He fumbled with the buttons to his crisp white shirt, and lifted the heavy T-shirt underneath.
The cargo was still there. Still quiet. Still unmoving.
“Don’t worry. They won’t get loose. No. It’s the squeaks that will get you caught,” Roman had said in his native language. Roman was a man full of nervous laughter and nicotine.
When Viktor stepped into the back room of the vet office outside of Yekaterinburg, he found the tiny cages, each no bigger than a toaster, on the operating table in a neat line. His passport, student visa, two credit cards, a driver’s license, and just over three hundred dollars in U.S. currency had been stacked in the opposite corner. Down there, some of the metal surface was still smeared with congealed blood.
Roman held up a wisp of a vest, made from flesh-colored nylon pantyhose. He laughed. “I know, I know. It looks like something a prostitute would wear.”
Viktor stripped to his underwear and stepped into it. He slid the straps into place, stretching the nylon from underneath his crotch, knotted it together at the hips, and ran it up the sides of his stomach and chest until it ended in a loop around each shoulder. Roman tied these across his shoulders.
“Trust me, they all wear these. I know a man who carried twenty-four lizards and snakes into Los Angeles not four years ago.”
Viktor held up his arms and turned in a slow circle.
Roman said, “These animals? They will have it easier than you, my friend. Nineteen hours without a cigarette! Put on your pants. Walk around. We have . . .” He checked his watch. “Forty-three minutes.”
“Until the flight?” Viktor asked, confused, trying not to let any panic show.
“No. Until we leave this office.” Timing was everything. A difference of an hour in the international flight time could mean life or death for the cargo.
Viktor went to splash water on his face in the cramped airplane bathroom, but the sound of the trickling water wormed into his head and he suddenly spewed bile onto the mirror. His legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, dry-heaving into the metal sink. He hoped the gagging sounds couldn’t be heard outside of the bathroom. Reaching up, he managed to pull one of the paper towels out of the dispenser and laid it on the damp bottom of the sink. Using that, he wiped some of the sweat off his face.