Black Vultures Overhead
by Gary Christenson
I am a damaged human being. Hatred, regrets, and fears dominate my life.
Yup, on the bat-shit crazy scale from one to ten, I’m an eight most days. Last night was tough. Memories of mortar attacks, CIA tortures, and screams interrupted my sleep. I left my cabin in the morning, only half-alert, wandering toward the food zone.
Hughie, wearing fatigues, combat boots, and a seven-inch red beard, peeked at me from behind a dead tree. I yelled, “Yo, Hughie.” He’s a burned-out Green Beret from the Afghanistan era. His brain function is several rounds short of a full M-16 magazine, but he’s deadly with a knife. I stay away if he scores uppers, but usually he’s mellow. If we could fit into normal society, we wouldn’t be living in dilapidated cabins in the woods of Virginia.
“Yo yourself, DD.” He looked me up and down. “You okay? Still fighting insomnia and your inner demons?” Hughie smelled like three-day-old, spoiled fish. I’m used to it, but upwind is better.
People call me DD, short for Daniel Dickenson. It’s also short for deadly and destructive. I earned the nickname because the military brass ordered me to commit atrocities while serving in Afghanistan. I rebelled and the CIA tortured and drugged me. Hughie says the CIA fucked me up, and my PTSD has nothing to do with karma. Maybe.
I eat once a day, more if I’m lucky. I don’t have a bank account, mailing address, phone, or appointments at the VA. Home is a one-room cabin with no electricity. Sometimes I score cash or drugs from minor thievery.
We survive one day at a time. It’s been a rough road.
Hughie and I ate donated restaurant scraps at our food zone. We had nothing to say, so we sat, the way damaged vets socialize. Later, we scanned the woods, highway, and restaurant parking lot for anything wonky. Hughie did a 360 looking for Taliban warriors while I checked for government agents. I didn’t enlist to help CIA operatives export heroin, but that’s what my colonel expected. They kicked the shit out of me when I refused, but I’m tough and didn’t break. One day, I promised myself, I’d kill the bastards.
My cabin is back in the woods, a twenty-minute walk from our food zone. Halfway home, a cargo plane overhead exploded into a fiery ball of light. Pieces of the plane crashed to the ground. A large trunk smashed through the trees a hundred meters to my right. I trotted toward it, hoping to find something I could use, sell, or barter.
Black vultures circled overhead. I shivered with anticipation.
Biohazard symbols covered the trunk lid. The padlock broke when I kicked it. Another box cushioned by a dozen inches of foam lay inside. A biohazard symbol on the lid warned of danger. Someone had printed “Pandora Formula” on the box.
When I opened the black box, I mumbled, “WTF?” Inside, I found a thirty-page document and two large vials of a greenish liquid. My hands trembled after I read the text.
According to the paperwork, the vials contained a deadly respiratory bioweapon manufactured in a Maryland government lab. The author, Dr. Wen Su Chang, summarized:
- Civilian mortality rates, after infection from the Pandora pathogens, should exceed 70%.
- The deadly Pandora pathogens are transmissible via air and communicable between humans. Once released, the disease will spread across the planet.
- The American political and financial elite will receive an antidote developed by our Maryland Lab.
Still in shock, I mumbled to myself, “Holy shit! They’re planning to kill most of humanity with a deadly disease, protect the insiders, and depopulate the earth. They’re going all out with weaponized pathogens.” Stunned, I sat on the ground and sucked in deep breaths. Later, I examined the trunk and the smaller box for GPS trackers. I found two and tossed them into the woods.
A lightning bolt of insight struck me. Someone in the government planned to release the Pandora pathogens. Many people would die, but it didn’t matter whether the government lab or I released the disease. Grabbing the Pandora Box, I rushed home.
Inside my cabin, I poured water into a basin, stripped off filthy pants and shirt, washed most of the stink off, and dressed in my only clean clothes. I pried up a board from the floor and retrieved my stash, an expired driver’s license and $173, enough for bus fare.
***
Colonel Jason Aberdeen entered the Pentagon office, saluted General Hathaway, and stated, “Sir, I have a report on that missing cargo plane.”
The General drummed his fingers on the desk. “Skip the details. I want the big picture.”
“The cargo plane carried the Pandora Formula. We know the coordinates of the explosion. There were no survivors. I dispatched a team of Army Rangers and ordered them to locate and retrieve the Pandora trunk.”
“Colonel, it’s imperative we retrieve that trunk. I expect daily reports in person. Dismissed.”
***
That afternoon, a sunny June day, I exited the bus on Highway 123, south of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A stiff wind blew northward. I wandered until I found a deserted bench. There, I removed my backpack, retrieved a plastic plate, and poured one vial of the green liquid onto the plate. I set the plate on the bench, upwind from CIA headquarters, and saluted the building in the distance. “You CIA assholes murdered hundreds of thousands and almost killed me. I’m returning the favor. Bon voyage!” Winds blew the Pandora pathogens northward, toward my nemesis, the CIA. There, I’ve done it. Vengeance against the CIA.
I boarded the next bus and rode into Washington D.C., ground zero for political corruption. Men and women in summer clothes strolled the streets enjoying the warm weather. Frowning, I mumbled, “You people have no clue what your government has planned for you. Most of you will die from Pandora pathogens, riots, or starvation.”
I left the second vial of Pandora pathogens blowing toward congress and the White House. Politicians sent me to fight an unwinnable war while they encouraged graft, corruption, greed, and heroin imports. “You assholes created wars, deaths, and addictions. Fly away little bugs. Infect the jerks who instigated and profited from the Afghanistan nightmares.” This feels so right and totally wrong. Regardless, I’m doing it.
I returned to my cabin late that night. Next morning, I wandered toward the food zone, hoping to find Hughie. Instead, he met me on the trail looking pale.
“Hey man, where you been? All kinda shit’s been happening round here. They got Rangers everywhere hunting for something. Bad shit’s coming down.”
“I saw a doc at the VA, but I’m okay. Rangers find what they wanted?”
“They’re still looking, so I doubt it. Stay out of their way.” Hughie smacked his palm with his fist and stared at me. “Bad shit’s coming down. Watch your back.”
***
Colonel Aberdeen knocked on General Hathaway’s door. “Come in.”
The Colonel saluted and said, “Sir, I’m here to report.”
General Hathaway frowned, put down his pen, and said, “Continue.”
“Our Rangers found the biohazard trunk, but the Pandora vials were missing, and the GPS trackers lay in the woods nearby. Our Rangers will continue the search, but I have reduced my expectations for recovery.”
“Regrettable. Colonel, we must recover that box. Dismissed.”
***
Four months later, talking heads on major news stations announced, “The CDC reported the U.S. death toll from the pandemic reached 25,674,199 yesterday. That many Americans have died from the mysterious killer pathogens. Millions of others died from secondary causes, including unexplained heart attacks, unavailable medical care, riots, and starvation. Nations around the world have reported a staggering number of deaths since the pandemic began. Authorities believe a biolab in China created and released the pathogens.”
***
Hughie died from the disease. I buried him, but now I’m sick and will die soon. Black vultures are circling. May God have mercy on my soul.
***
General Hathaway answered his red telephone, the one used only by the person he knew as the mysterious Dr. George Guidestone. “Yes, Sir!”
The voice said, “General, congratulations on your successful distribution of the Pandora pathogens. The huge and escalating global death toll is encouraging.”
“Sir, we did not distribute according to our original plan. However, the alternate delivery method was effective.”
The powerful man said, “Regardless, our agenda is unfolding. Your allegiance and continued support are necessary. We project the U.S. population will decline by seventy-five percent within five years, thanks to Pandora and secondary consequences. The global population should fall well below two billion in seven years. Our plans for global domination and population control are progressing.”
The icy voice paused for a moment. “As you know, we reward our loyal servants. You will receive a large bonus and a Florida mansion when you retire. Thanks for your aid in distributing the Pandora pathogens. Good day.”