He felt the world dying. No one needed to tell him about it. The darkness had him and if his calculations were correct, that same darkness and deafening silence that would soon envelop the world. That’s the way of it sometimes. That’s the way of a killer that steals lives indiscriminately ....silently arriving and taking some, crippling some, releasing some. Yes, that’s the way of a virus.
And so, he sat. Weston Anderson sat silently and stared at the empty laptop screen in front of him. It’s time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard of his laptop. His eyes stared intently and then the five-year-old tattered printout from Legacy.com that he had taped to his wall caught his eye. “World renown scientist dead at the age of 78.” For a moment, Weston let those words linger for him. Was this truly all that his grandfather’s years of service to the world boiled down to in the end? No. Weston rubbed his eyes for a moment half out of fatigue and half hoping somehow he could rub away the voices of his grandfather’s accusers which echoed so loudly in his head: Accused, but not convicted...WHY? His virus “stolen”? Stolen or SOLD?
The words found their way to his mouth: “Accused but not convicted.” Weston said the words very slowly and allowed them to hang in the thick darkness around him.
His small two-bedroom apartment was almost always silent. But now the silence was painful. The pain was choking his soul. For the first time in his life, the feeling that he was alone in this world became overwhelming. This was a strange new feeling. Being alone had never bothered him before. Hell, the whole reason he had such a small residence was that he preferred to live his life in the laboratory. He didn’t want a house that might take him away from his work or any of that messy family stuff. No, he wanted the clean glass vials, the strict
organizational structure, and the high-level of control he had. But as he turned to survey the tiny room in which he sat, he realized that it had all just been an illusion.
What do to with that thought? There was no answer in this dimly lit space. The window shade, which he had not bothered to raise in months, seemed to suggest the only solution....stay closed. Stay sheltered. Stay away from more illusions. The problem was....he no longer knew what was illusion and what was truth.
For a moment he sat and stared. Then carefully he picked up a pen, he marked through his grandfather’s name. With a shaking hand he held it up and looked at the article with new eyes. Then slowly, meticulously his pen wrote WESTON ANDERSON at the top, after which he returned the piece of paper to the otherwise barren, off-white wall.
Weston ran his hand through the wave of gray and black hair that fell across his forehead and then turned back to the laptop. “Confession—good for the soul,” he whispered. The words hung in the air. In high school he had dated a Catholic girl and confession seemed to be all she ever wanted to do after sex.
The random thought made him smile for just a moment.
Then he focused on the monitor, so empty, so non-judgmental about the figures, numbers, charts, and symbols that the 52-year-old scientist had filled it with for more than four years; four years in which every passing minute taunted him with possibility that was always out of reach. What was it that Beeman always said? “Every human act revolves around the quest for power or the despair of powerlessness,” Weston whispered. Then he looked at the summons to appear before a Senate panel in January. “Power,” he whispered. “Power.”
Weston leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms. As he tapped the tips of his fingers together he thought back to the day he met Beeman and his fat, slimy
assistant....what was his name? Oh, yeah, Michael Jameson. Closing his eyes, Weston saw that first conversation so clearly.
“We’re so pleased you agreed to join our project,” Beeman had said as he thrust his hand out awkwardly.
“Thank you,” Weston responded as he shook Beeman’s hand. Briefly he looked up and down the tall thin man. Noting Beeman’s pale appearance he was tempted to ask if the man had been ill, but something about the way he sniffed at the air and stepped backwards as if Weston was not worthy to share breathing space made him think better of such a personal remark.
Jameson cleared his throat and quickly added, “Everything you asked for is here. It’s all here. It’s all here.”
“I can see that,” Weston replied as he looked around trying to stifle a chuckle at the chubby little man’s over eager response. “Impressive! Back at the university I had to fill out a thousand forms to get any new equipment and it was nothing like this.”
The countertops were black and shiny. So clear that the light danced across them and a few wet drops of disinfectant not yet evaporated from the morning’s cleaning could still be seen. The far wall was all windows, which were a pleasant surprise to the scientist who was so used to working in rooms with no windows.
“There are curtains,” said Beeman quickly when he had noticed Weston looking at the windows.
“What?” replied Weston, startled by Beeman interrupting his thoughts.
“If you’re worried about security, there are curtains you can close and I promise you that the company owns ten acres all the way around the building, and no one can ever get close to your work.”
“Oh, and armed guards patrol the grounds at all times,” added Jameson.
Almost as if on cue, a guard appeared in the distance against the backdrop of the line of thick pine trees that marked the boundaries of the company’s property on three sides. The guard was wearing gear that made him look like he was more ready for entering a war zone than walking the perimeter of a pharmaceutical company. The last time Weston had seen anyone even close to this heavily armed was when he went to a meeting attended by Bill Gates and a group of bacteriologists in New York.
Beeman ran his index finger along a countertop as if checking for dirt as he responded, “Pharmaceutical companies have deep pockets and there are many parties interested in your work.”
“Containing virus mutations is a game changer,” replied Weston who was ready to launch into a discussion of his research, when Beeman and Jameson abruptly turned and began walking briskly towards the door.
“Indeed,” said Beeman mechanically. “Indeed.” Then he turned back suddenly. “Do your work, Dr. Anderson. We’ll be in touch.”
Weston opened his eyes and returned to the present moment. As he placed his fingers on the keyboard, he swallowed hard. His fingers momentarily curled into fists leaving. Should he have seen through that illusion? He was a smart man....high IQ....certainly someone with a lower IQ and far less education should have been aware that unfettered resources...a scientists dream come true...would come at a price. What he was creating was dangerous and he should have known that if it could be weaponized, it would be weaponized. But Weston had so sure. He had been so damn sure that his colleagues wanted to overcome men like his grandfather. Foolishness. That’s what it was.
He turned to his left to see the whiskey bottle that sat waiting for him in the middle of the piles of lab reports, data from clinical trials, and memos neatly stacked on his desk. “Never any time for filing,” he mumbled. Looking up briefly, he craned his neck to see through the sparsely furnished living room, he reached for the bottle, displacing a tiny square ultra sound photo, that had been propped up behind it. He took a drink from the bottle and as he lowered it, he eyed the paper that was now lying flat on his desk. Slowly as if he were approaching something hot or dangerous, Weston reached for it. As if somehow hypnotized by it, he held his breath as his index finger traced the tiny figure, and then he turned it over. He saw the thumb print in blood pressed onto the back and he was immediately jolted back to his task and dropped it into the wire waste basket he had borrowed from the university where he once worked. Then he took another drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he kicked over the waste basket sending its contents sprawling out across the pale blue carpet. He turned back to the laptop and hit the power button. After hitting a few more keys he stared into the webcam at the top of the monitor. Weston felt like he might vomit or pass out. He put his hand to his mouth for a moment, and then grabbed the edge of the desk with his other hand to stead himself. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“October 7th. I am...I am...” he cleared this throat again and out of the corner of his eye looked at the bottle. “This will be one of my...,” Weston paused. “This will be my LAST entry. People are going to want answers, and this is the best I can do,” Weston paused again. He looked up startled at what he thought was the sound of the doorknob jiggling. “Who’s there?” he shouted. He caught his breath and listened. Nothing. After a moment of listening to himself breathe and staring intently at the gold knob, he continued. “RCG35-98. If you’ve been listening to my other entries and the recordings I plan to include with this you know this virus was created
by my grandfather. I still don’t completely know what’s going on. When I was hired, I lied. For the record, they were lying as well. They said they wanted me to anticipate flu mutations to help them create vaccines. I used their labs....their facilities to explore my grandfather’s work on RCG35-98. He created this virus for someone...” Weston couldn’t breath as he felt the weight of his words. He took another drink. “After my grandfather died, I found notes....information.... He wasn’t working alone. Nothing made sense, so I used my new lab to explore a bit. I just wanted to figure things out. I didn’t expect things to get out of control.” Weston stopped and took a deep breath. His life was over. Maybe he’d ruined the lives of his family as well. And the worst was yet to come. He struggled to breath as terror seized his body. Finally, after several minutes he continued. “RCG35-98 is no longer in my possession. No matter what they say. All I can say to the American people...the world, is that I am sorry.. and I know that means nothing. When they start counting the bodies, it will mean absolutely nothing.... find whoever is controlling this. It’s not me anymore....maybe it never was.”
Weston grabbed the bottle as he turned and then he slumped back into his leather chair and swiveled around to face the window. Pulling back the dusty, gray curtains, with one quick jerk of the window shade, he caused it to roll up. Illusions, he whispered. Then he silently stared dismally at the darkness.
At his feet sat piles of news reports from newspapers, journals, websites. The top headline read: CDC Predicting Pandemic; Lockdowns Possible.
One last time he turned towards his webcam. “Erica, I need you to do the right thing and get this evidence into the right hands because if you’re watching this, I’m dead.” Weston took a deep breath and whispered, “I’m dead.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he slowly turned again to the pile of papers on the floor. The world had changed...he knew that now. It changed
for him the moment he touched the keys to that laboratory...and now it had changed for the entire world. There could be no going back. Then looking into the camera one last time he said, “I didn’t do this. Just know that whatever happens, whatever is said I didn’t do this. Tell our daughter, I love her. I love her and I love you.”
With quick, decisive action, Weston pulled a flash drive he pulled from his top desk drawer. Inserting it into the laptop he downloaded the video then turned off the computer. Carefully he placed the flash drive in a box and addressed it. Then placing it in the zipper pocket of his Italian leather laptop case, Weston returned to his bottle.
He bowed his head for a moment and then took another drink, but even that did not give him the strength to look at the ultrasound picture laying among the McDonald’s bags and Snickers bar wrappers. Then he heard the doorknob again. Perhaps this was best... what he had on that flash drive proved his guilt. He had been so caught up in his world, that he’d helped destroy hers.

“Thick darkness has gathered over our squares, our streets and our cities. It has taken over our lives, filling everything with a deafening
silence and a distressing void that stops everything as it passes by; we feel it in the air ... We find ourselves afraid and lost.” (Pope Francis, March 27, 2020)

Chapter 1