Dusk of Humanity: Decay of Humanity, #1

CHAPTER ONE

THE BROAD DOORS OF Riverside Hospital’s emergency room flung open and two paramedics wheeled in a man strapped to a gurney, head thrashing about as he bit at anything that came near his rabid mouth.

Male. Thirty-seven, the elder of the two said to the attending physician. Found passed out in the bathroom at JFK airport. Security officers thought he was dead. Only injury we could find is a bite mark to the shoulder.

Dr. Sloan Egan took a step back to clear the way for the incoming patient and the doctors who would treat him. Unless he required surgery, she was nothing more than a spectator.

To her left, a psychiatrist sprinted by. What the hell is going on?

He appears to be suffering from some sort of schizophrenic episode, the paramedic said. He bit both officers and has attempted to bite anyone else he’s encounters.

Dr. Egan! the familiar voice of Beatrice Bickmore cut through the commotion, drawing her attention away from the crazed man. Wait up!

Sloan ducked around the developing crowd, refusing to acknowledge the bubbly pediatric surgeon. Exhausted after her fifteen-hour stint in the operating room, she was in desperate need of some sleep. There should be an empty bed in one of the rooms reserved for on-call doctors. If she were lucky, it would be quiet enough to allow her a few hours of shut-eye before her next shift started in the morning, but not before she stopped at the cafeteria. If Beatrice caught up, Sloan could subtract a minimum of thirty minutes off her total time of sleep; Beatrice was known for her drawn-out conversations.

Sloan! the woman shouted again, now steps behind her. Didn’t you hear me calling your name?

With a deep, calming breath, Sloan slowed her pace, allowing the rather plump woman to catch up. Sorry, Beatrice, I didn’t hear you.

Sure you didn’t. The woman rolled her big brown eyes. I was only screaming at the top of my lungs. If you don’t have time to talk, why don’t you just say so? Ignoring me is plain rude.

Sloan held her tongue to prevent herself from saying the snotty comment rolling around in her mind. I apologize. It’s been a long night. I was heading to the cafeteria if you would like to join me.

Beatrice laughed and pushed the few fallen strands of blonde curls out of her eyes. Oh, honey. I’m just messing with you. Don’t take things so seriously. Anyway, I’m on my way to see a patient. A regular. Poor baby; damn seizures are getting worse. But I passed the chief in the hall and he asked me to relay a message.

Since Sloan left the OR, Chief Terence McClain had paged her no less than ten times. She had ignored them all, confident they were in regard to the letter she received from Homeland Security a few days back. A letter which she had chosen to ignore and not spoken of to anyone until a government official contacted Chief McClain inquiring why she hadn’t accepted their invitation. What did he say?

Beatrice nibbled at her bottom lip in a blatant attempt to suppress her laughter. Get your ass in his office or you’re suspended for a week.

Shit, Sloan mumbled. The chief never threatened her with suspension.

Oh my word! Is that a curse word leaving the lips of our prodigy, the great Dr. Sloan Egan? In all my life, I have never heard of such a thing!

Sloan feigned a smile. She hated when her colleagues referred to her as such. Yes, she had graduated valedictorian and summa cum laude from Johns Hopkins School of Medicine years younger than the rest of her class and she was the youngest general surgeon the hospital had ever employed, but to say she was a prodigy was a bit extreme. I assume he’s aware I’m out of surgery?

Beatrice patted Sloan on the back. Oh, honey, you know he is. And he’s been pacing outside your OR for hours. The only reason he wasn’t waiting when you finished was on account of a very important phone call he had to take. I bet my bottom dollar it pertained to you. Want to tell me what you got yourself into this time, darling?

As much as Sloan desired to tell her friend the situation she’d found herself tangled in, it was forbidden by order of the United States government. I’m sure it’s nothing. The Chief has a way of blowing issues out of proportion.

What, you don’t trust me to keep your little secret? Beatrice slung out her hip, a dramatic hand resting on each.

This has nothing to do with trust. Which was true even though Beatrice had a reputation for being quite the gossip. Sloan had known the southern woman since she began her residency; though she did speak often about their colleagues, not once had Beatrice spoken an ill word of Sloan—at least not that Sloan was aware. It’s a top-secret matter. One which I’ve been instructed not to speak of, under penalty of prosecution.

Prosecution, schmosecution. You know how good I am at keeping secrets, sugar pie.

At times, Beatrice seemed to forget her audience and spoke to her peers as she would her young patients. Over the years, Sloan had learned to ignore the woman’s quirkiness, though at times it still grated on her nerves. I know— The pager at her hip vibrated. Sorry, Beatrice. It’s the Chief. I should go.

Fine, she huffed, but just so you know, I’ll be asking the same questions tomorrow and the next day and the one after that until you come up with a fresh answer.

Some would have laughed at Beatrice’s threat, but Sloan knew better. Her friend would never let up until she got to the bottom of whatever it was she wanted to know.

CHIEF MCCLAIN’S OFFICE was located on the first floor of the hospital along with the rest of the administration. Before he took the Chief Of Surgery position a couple of years back, he had been Sloan’s mentor. She credited her rapid success to Terence’s superb guidance. He had taken her under his wing, so to speak, when she first began her internship at the age of twenty-two and then her residency a year later. He helped her maneuver the red tape of standardization, which dictated how many years she was required to remain at the residency level—five years for surgeons—and completed the program in three years.

At twenty-five, she had become an attending surgeon when her colleagues wouldn’t achieve such a feat until their early thirties. Now, two years later, she was training many of the same people she’d begun her internship with—hence the prodigy nickname, which in her case, was not a compliment.

Sloan let herself into the Chief’s office without bothering to knock. He waited for her behind his desk, his scruffy white eyebrows a sharp contrast to his deep brown skin as they furrowed and he flipped through a stack of paperwork. She stood in the doorway and waited, not quite ready for the stern lecture he undoubtedly had prepared. It wasn’t the first time she had walked on the edge of ethics. Though she had never ignored something as serious as a federal summons, Sloan couldn’t imagine there would be any sort of consequence for disregarding a four-day retreat—government hosted or not. 

You going to stand there staring or take a seat? Terence’s deep voice boomed.

Sloan crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite of her boss. I didn’t want to interrupt.

He looked up and lowered his glasses so they hung around his neck. Last week you stormed into my office no less than fifty times for a variety of reasons, none of which were life or death—once when I was on a call with my wife, deep in discussion over the budget of our house renovations. It was a conversation I was about to win when you caused me to lose my train of thought.

How is Adele?

Peachy, considering she now has ten-thousand more dollars to spend of my hard-earned money on our kitchen. A kitchen, I might add, that was perfectly fine.

It was a lovely kitchen. Sloan enjoyed goading the Chief more than she would admit. In some ways, he was more of a father figure than a boss. Her own father had died weeks after her high school graduation; she had been only sixteen and her older sister Britney became her guardian. Neither had handled the situation well. Britney was nineteen at the time and had to drop out of school to return home to run the family cattle ranch. When Sloan left the following fall to start college, a rift had formed between them. One that had yet to be filled. Though the guest bath...

He lifted a finger to halt the conversation. For the love of God, don’t you dare finish that thought.

Sloan had stayed with the Chief and his wife for a few days last year when her apartment had been fumigated, much to the dismay of Beatrice, who said her southern upbringing had groomed her to be the perfect hostess. Didn’t matter she lived in a studio apartment with three cats and a daybed that doubled as her couch.

I wouldn’t dare speak ill of the guest bathroom to Adele.

Don’t even speak it to me, the Chief said. I swear that woman can read my mind.

It was more likely after being married for thirty-five years, Adele just knew him too well, but Sloan kept that thought to herself.

So, about this letter, Terence began. "What the hell were you thinking? Did you really think you could ignore a federal summons and get away with it? Worse, I have people calling me from the Pentagon—the Pentagon—threatening to take legal action against not only you but the hospital."

Sloan sank back into her chair. He was the only person whom she allowed to outwardly intimidate her. I apologize. When I received the letter, I thought it was a prank or a scam of some sort. It made no sense for the government to hold a tour of a classified facility.

And the two that followed? Including the one which came through certified mail?

Had the Pentagon told him about all the additional notices? She thought the invitation was top-secret—for the recipient’s eyes only. "I have patients, interns, and residences that need me. I can’t just drop everything for a social function."

It’s my understanding this four-day event is not just a social gathering but a way for the government to obtain input on their new facility from the greatest young minds this country has to offer.

I appreciate the invitation, but as I stated earlier, I have patients. Responsibilities. A surgery tomorrow on a man I’ve been treating for months using a technique of my own design.

The call I received this morning said you were to be in Fort Hood at eight p.m. yesterday for orientation. That this tour, as you’ve called it, begins today and lasts through Sunday.

Sloan smirked. Appears I’ve already missed it.

He rustled a few papers and handed her a thick, white envelope. Your flight to Fort Hood departs at noon. That gives you five hours to get home, pack, and get your ass to the airport. Miss your flight, you will be court-martialed and tried for insubordination.

And my patients?

Cordon will handle everything while you’re out. Now get out and don’t let me ever hear of you pulling this kind of stunt again.

BEFORE SLOAN COULD leave the hospital, she needed to have a word with Dr. Steve Cordon. He was a fine surgeon and quite capable of taking on her patients, but he disregarded the instructions of his colleagues when he acquired their cases—a practice which irritated Sloan to no end.

Sloan stopped at the nearest nurses’ station in the ER and had Cordon paged. He was slated to arrive at seven this morning. It was a quarter till eight, which meant chances were good he would begin rounds shortly, after being briefed by the overnight on-call doctors.

Dr. Egan? You called?

Sloan turned as Cordon strolled down the hall. Good morning, Steve.

He leaned against the counter and smiled at the nurses. Morning to you too, ladies.

A few of the newer nurses giggled while the more seasoned ones minutely shook their heads. His blue-green eyes and boyish good looks only got him so far. Dr. Cordon had a reputation—one that involved several nurses and a few interns. Beatrice had filled Sloan’s ears—against her ever- present protest—with all the sordid details. Most did not paint Cordon in the most flattering of ways.

Dr. Cordon? Sloan snapped to draw Steve’s attention away from the young blond he had struck up a conversation with.

He twisted his head and grinned. Yes, ma’am.

I am to catch a fight at noon today and will return Monday morning.

So I’ve heard. Some top-secret invitation for the whiz-kids of the country. As expected, a passive-aggressive jab from the forty-year-old surgeon.

Cordon was good at what he did, but within the year Sloan would surpass him in every aspect of the job. That alone should have been enough to put a wedge between the two colleagues. Turned out, what put them at odds was of a primal nature. On more than one occasion, Cordon had propositioned Sloan on a very personal and inappropriate level, and each time, she had turned him down. She was not one to intertwine intimate relationships with work. From his over-exaggerated, dramatic reaction, he was not used to being told no. He persisted to the point Sloan had threatened to go to HR and file a sexual harassment complaint. That led him to file a complaint against her—not to HR because they knew of his reputation, but with Chief McClain about her irregular, impractical surgical methods. What Cordon hadn’t known was that on many occasions, Sloan used her mentor as a sounding board for such ideas.

The conversation between Cordon and McClain did not fare well for Cordon. Sloan, on the other hand, ended up with a beautifully written apology courtesy of the seasoned surgeon and a promise their relationship would be held at a professional level going forward. That lasted three months. The only difference now was she had learned to deflect his innuendos and get what she wanted from them.

Yes, something of that nature. Before I leave, I thought it would be good if we went over my patients’ charts and surgeries to see if you had any questions.

He snatched an apple from behind the nurses’ station and bit into it, sending splatters of juice in all directions. Nah. I can handle whatever little surgery you have planned.

Remain calm; don’t overreact, Sloan told herself. "I’m not suggesting you can’t handle the surgeries. There are minute issues which I believe would be beneficial to point out."

He took another bite of his apple. Are these issues documented in the patients’ charts?

That goes without saying.

Good. My interns are charged with reading the charts and will provide a full report.

Still—

Sloan? Chief McClain’s voice echoed down the hall. I know that can’t be you because I ordered you out of my hospital an hour ago.

Looks like Daddy caught you breaking curfew. Better scram.

SLOAN LIVED LESS THAN a ten-minute walk from the hospital. The Lake Side apartment complex was dubbed the official dorm of Riverside Hospital since ninety-nine percent of its occupants were either doctors or interns. When you worked as many on-call hours as she did, it was imperative to live close to work. A bonus was that she was able to go home to shower instead of using the communal ones if she was unfortunate enough to be covered in some sort of unpleasant bodily fluid—which happened more times than she could count.

Her third-floor apartment was not what she would call cozy. Sloan had an odd assortment of furniture, most given to her or purchased at second-hand stores. There was not a single item hung on the walls and there were no shelves adorned with knick knacks, only medical books and journals. The few personal items she kept visible were family photos. One was from when Sloan was twelve and was the last picture taken before her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The others were of her nephews and niece.

Sloan’s closet was not even close to full. Most of her wardrobe consisted of scrubs, which she folded neatly in her dresser. She refused to be one of those surgeons who dressed in casual business attire to make her rounds.

The invitation had mentioned a farewell party with a cocktail dress code. She had one knee-length black dress for such an occasion. The rest of the weekend, it was suggested the attendees dress casual with comfortable shoes good for walking. That was a dress code Sloan had no problem accommodating.

In her small carry-on, Sloan packed a few pairs of jeans and fitted t-shirts along with undergarments, work-out clothes, and her two-piece flannel pajamas. Her limited experience with travel taught her most rooms were kept cooler rather than hot. The one thing that would prevent Sloan from getting a good night’s sleep was a chill in the air.

After Sloan checked her toiletry bag to ensure all items were packed, she rolled up her cocktail dress and grabbed a pair of black heels. There was no point in taking a garment bag just for one dress. Her running shoes, she would wear today. Aside from her Crocs, they were the most comfortable shoes she owned and she only wore them at the hospital.

The clock on the stove read five past ten. She ordered an Uber and poured herself a glass of wine. Not that she made a habit out of day drinking, but it seemed fitting considering the nature of her circumstances. Tonight, she had planned a quiet evening at home; order Chinese food, run a bath, and drink a few glasses of cab. She doubted wherever she was going would have such luxuries.

When she got the notice her ride had arrived, Sloan drained the glass. With a last look around her apartment, she grabbed her suitcase and favorite family pictures, stuffing them into her messenger bag which doubled as a purse. If she was going to be surrounded by strangers the next few days, a little piece of familiarity would be needed to keep her company.

AS SLOAN WAITED FOR her flight to board, she decided a quick call home wouldn’t hurt. Her sister’s cell didn’t get much signal while working cattle in Montana, so she called the house phone. It rang five times before the answering machine picked up.

Hey, Brit. It’s Sloan. I’m going to be... Sloan paused. She had no idea where she would be after departing Fort Hood; the location was confidential. I’m going to be away until Monday and I’m not sure I’ll have service. I thought it best I’d let you know in case you called or something...

Sloan hung up. Why did she even bother when she hadn’t spoken with Britney in weeks? It wasn’t like her sister called much anyway, and when she did, Sloan spent most of the call on Facetime with the kids.

Brit still hadn’t gotten over Sloan’s abandonment, which had left her to run the family ranch alone after their father died. Sloan tried to explain to Brit over the years that she had to leave. After their mother passed, she dreamed of one day becoming a surgeon with the ability to save those that no one else could. A surgeon who could do the impossible and save people with inoperable cancer like the one that took their mother.

It wasn’t like Brit hadn’t planned on returning to the ranch anyway. She had only gone away to college to study business so she could be better equipped to take over the family business when Dad retired. From a bystander’s perspective, it appeared her life worked out well nonetheless. She married a fellow rancher who lived down the road. They combined their lands and cattle and grew an impressive business together. Plus, they had three adorable children. Brit had accomplished everything she ever dreamed of and then some. Sloan wished her big sister would one day find it in her heart to forgive her.

We will now begin boarding flight 872 to Fort Hood, Texas, a woman said over the intercom. First class will board first.

Sloan checked her ticket one last time. She was shocked when she opened the envelope on her walk home to find a first-class ticket. She thought for sure she would be stuck in coach in the worst possible seat available.

The woman at the counter checked her ticket and ushered her down the walkway. Each step Sloan took towards the plane sent her heart racing. She hated to fly. Chief McClain said it was because Sloan disliked anything where she was not in control; Sloan thought it was more that she disliked the idea of soaring above the ground at thirty-five thousand feet without a backup plan if the engines decided to stop mid-air.

A flight attendant escorted Sloan to her seat and offered her a beverage. She ordered a shot of the strongest Bacardi they had available. The woman brought her two and kept them coming until Sloan could fall into a blissful slumber.

She was awakened sometime later by the same flight attendant to inform her they had landed. Sloan slipped the woman a twenty for the attentive drink service as she disembarked.

The only instructions given for after her flight were to locate the pick-up area and wait for an escort. There were no other details except for he or she would be military—which, in Fort Hood, did nothing to help.

Dr. Egan? A clean shaved man dressed in Army camouflage approached. I’m Private Jones. I’m to escort you to Fort Hood.

He reached for Sloan’s suitcase, but she pulled it out of his grasp. Thank you, Private. I can manage.

Yes, ma’am. His jaw clenched. This way, please.

Sloan followed the young man out a side service entrance to a parked military-grade Humvee. Two additional soldiers waited; one in the driver’s seat, the other in the back.

Ma’am. Private Jones held the rear door open. I’ll take your luggage now, if you don’t mind.

A slight chill prickled her skin though the September air was unusually hot for this time of year.

Ma’am, Jones said again. Is there a problem?

No. Though I feel as if I should ask for identification of some sort from you gentlemen.

The soldier in the back pulled out a slip of paper from one of his many pockets. This is a copy of your orders, given to us by our commanding officer.

Sloan took the piece of paper. It was an exact replica of the notices she’d received. And how did you know my face without asking for my ID?

Jones glanced towards the driver, who handed him a folder, who passed it to Sloan. We have files on each of the attendees.

She flipped through the papers which contained a picture and more information on her life than her own sister knew. It’s thorough; I’ll give the government that.

If you would please, Dr. Egan. Jones ushered Sloan into the truck. All other attendees flew this morning to The Bunker for the meet and greet and to get settled. The last flight, which was to depart at three, has been put on hold until your arrival.

Sloan leveraged the grab handle and hoisted herself into the massive vehicle. The last flight? I assumed personnel who worked at...The Bunker?

The man next to her nodded.

Those who worked there would have free range to come and go as they please.

No, ma’am. As The Bunker is a top-secret facility, access is limited, the driver said.

If access is limited, why are they having a grand opening, so to speak?

That, ma’am, Jones said, is above our pay-grade.

THE HOUR PLUS DRIVE to Fort Hood was a quiet one. The soldiers, who grew weary of Sloan’s questions after the first ten minutes, turned their focus outward. With a gun in hand, the men, aside from the driver, gazed out the window as if some unknown assailant would appear at any moment and attack. Even when they reached the confines of their base, the soldiers did not relax. If possible, they appeared more on guard.

They parked in front of a small unmarked building. Jones hopped out of the truck and held Sloan’s door. The other, who sat next to her but never introduced himself, grabbed her bag.

Private Jones led Sloan inside to a small waiting area which consisted of an old brown couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a TV tuned to Fox News, volume muted. Please do not leave this building. Major Archer will arrive shortly to retrieve you. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.

Before she had a chance to thank the man, he was out the door and she was alone. She retrieved her cell phone from her messenger bag and sent a text to Chief McClain to let him know she had arrived. She also sent a message to her sister, reminding Brit she would be out of town for the next few days.

Before she had a chance to check her email, a text from Beatrice came through. Cordon just informed me he would be taking over your patients the next few days! How could you not have told me you were going out of town????

Sloan had been so distracted by the Chief and then Cordon’s behavior that she had forgotten to mention her sudden departure to Beatrice. There were very few lies her friend would believe so Sloan settled on the most logical. There was a last-minute cancellation for a surgical conference the Chief had me wait-listed for.

She copied the message and sent it to Terence. Sloan wouldn’t put it past Beatrice to stop the Chief and talk his ear off about Sloan’s whereabouts. 

Beatrice messaged back: Must be nice. Hope you’re somewhere sunny. Text me when you have a minute. I have some juicy news... The message went on for the length of Sloan’s screen.

Not bothering to read the extent of the gossip, she sent a text back and let Beatrice know she had to run and returned to checking her email. There were no new messages, which was unusual. Either it was a slow day at the hospital, or the more likely reason: McClain had spread the word Sloan was out of town and not to be disturbed.

With her phone back in her bag, Sloan turned her attention to the news. She caught the tail-end of a headline that read something about a virus, which wasn’t too much of a concern in her eyes. Every year there was always talk about viruses; most didn’t cause too much damage and only needed to run their course, but they were news nonetheless.

Several anchors were deep in discussion—about what, she couldn’t decipher—and the remote was nowhere in sight. A video of a man who displayed symptoms similar to those of the man brought into the ER this morning played in the background. Sloan stood to turn up the sound on the TV itself when the screen went black.

News, a man said. Can’t believe a damn thing those bastards say. Always blowing shit way out of proportion.

Sloan pivoted around. Do you know what they were discussing?

Nothing that pertains to us. He crossed the room. Lee Archer, but everybody calls me Archer. You must be Dr. Sloan Egan.

She shook the man’s hand. I am.

Glad you could make it, Dr. Egan.

He wasn’t quite what she expected. With his light brown crew-cut hair, green eyes, and fair skin, he looked more like a movie version of a soldier than the men who escorted her from the airport. Please, call me Sloan.

This the only bag you brought? He motioned to her small carry-on.

That and the one I’m holding. She patted the bag slung across her chest.

You know there’s a cocktail party the last night?

I’m aware and packed for the occasion.

That must be one hell of a dress.

Sloan’s eyes narrowed. I don’t know what that means.

A mischievous grin spread across Archer’s face. To fit a dress into that tiny suitcase, it must be short. Short equals hot which makes it one hell of a dress.

Sloan stood there flabbergasted at the borderline inappropriate remark. If