OCTOBER 13, 7:25 A.M., MONTIFIORE HOSPITAL, 1190 RIVERVIEW DRIVE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

The car slewed into the entrance to the Emergency Room of Queens General Hospital. Even before it squealed to a stop, a special agent was out and running towards the entrance.

“Get a wheelchair out here now! The Congressman needs help.”

As hospital staff came running, the other agent ran to the passenger side door, yanked it open and, by himself, lifted a quivering, whimpering body out of the back seat. Carrying the body to the wheelchair being brought to meet them, he gently seated his charge before grabbing the chair away from the orderly and quickly pushing it inside. Before they made it inside the thing in the wheelchair had already expelled multicolored vomited onto the sidewalk.

The other agent ran ahead and had the elevator ready when the wheelchair arrived. Without stopping, the first agent wheeled the Congressman in and turned around to face the closing doors. Standing in a relaxed posture, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind their backs, the agents listened to the Muzak.

Back at the car, a hospital aid out for a smoke break watched a sloppily clad female form slowly exit the car. The woman walked a bit unsteadily off toward the subway entrance.

OCTOBER 13, 7:35 A.M., APT. 112, 1196 JEROME AVENUE, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

“George! George, you’re burning up. I’m calling Dr. Weems.” Marge made one last pass across her husband’s head with the damp washcloth in her hand and started to reach over him for the telephone.

George grabbed at her hand but missed. His limbs no longer seemed to move right. Clumsily he tried a second time, this time catching her wrist. With his waning strength, he pulled the hand to his chest.

“No, Marge,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “No doctor. I’ll be alright.”

“Oh, George! You’re such a scaredy-cat. I don’t know why it is that you hate doctors so.” She bent over and kissed him gently on his profusely sweating forehead. Standing up again, Marge bit her lip worriedly and said, “I’ll wait a couple of hours but if you still don’t feel better, I’m calling Dr. Weems no matter what you say.”

OCTOBER 13, 7:40 A.M., INTERSECTION OF 56TH STREET AND PARK AVENUE

The city was slowing waking. Bums were just crawling out from the cardboard boxes they called home. Garbage trucks were rumbling down the road to the nearest coffee shops so the drivers could stoke up for work. The night shift cops, finished with another night’s “cooping” were kicking the straggling bums to get them moving as they sauntered slowly back to their precincts, coffee cups in hand. To the catcalls of both cops and bums, Joanie trudged on.

Finally reaching her destination, she grabbed the stair rail leading down to the subway station with all her might as she awkwardly staggered down the stairs in her high heels. About halfway down, her left foot slipped on some urine soaked newspaper, but she managed to use her strong grip on the rail to keep her upright.

Making it down to the first level, she looked for a manned token booth and saw none. Next, she scanned the train platform for a cop and again saw none.

Frustrated, she took the time to examine the turnstiles. For years now, the MTA had been gradually exchanging the old turnstiles with three separate rotating bars and clear space above with door sized metal monsters with interwoven bars. Apparently, the MTA had still not gotten around making the changeover at this station as there were several old-style turnstiles. With this little bit of good luck to buoy her hopes, she quickly crawled over the turnstile and moved away from the entrance to wait for the next train.

OCTOBER 13, 7:45 A.M. 56TH STREET IRT STATION, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Still uncomfortable with her new body shape, Joanie fearfully examined her surroundings. The station platform seemed empty, and she couldn’t see anyone on the other platform across the dual set of tracks. Relaxing a bit, she stood leaning tiredly against a tiled pillar.

There was the smell of Sterno ® and the stench of old wine and puke just a second before she was grabbed from behind. Dirty gray mittens surrounded by raggedy clothing grabbed her and spin her around. Before she could react, a face with a scratchy beard was kissing her on the lips hard enough to draw blood. Another hand reached out for her breast and squeezed painfully.

“How ‘bout a little fun, lady?”

Joanie took screamed as loudly as she could while kicking the man in the crotch.

I find it hard to imaging inhaling deeply as I kick. I don’t think the physiology is right.

Spinning away as the man sagged in pain, she ran for the other end of the platform praying that he wouldn’t follow. A rumbling sound began to grow in the distance. A train! Maybe she would be alright after all.

She turned around to check on her assailant. The bum was getting up! He was still doubled over in pain, but there was a malignant gleam in his cloudy eye and even as Joanie’s mouth dropped open in fear, he began to stagger towards her, mumbling filthy, vindictive curses.

The rumbling was growing louder. That meant a train should be coming into the station any second. She could just see some flickering lights through the steel and concrete support beams as it rounded a corner in the distance. Would it be soon enough?

The bum heard it too. The sound seemed much louder than normal.

Now he was fully upright again and moving much faster, hands outstretched like claws to tear her to shreds. If he caught her now, it would be worse, much worse. Joanie’s mouth closed and she silently cursed herself for having fought back. God, but she missed her muscles!

Moving to the edge of the platform, Joanie looked wildly about for a weapon. Unsurprisingly, there was little on the platform but some heavy stone benches and some garbage cans with refuse overflow onto the floor.

The train came into the station. Oh, no! It was going the wrong way, south instead of north, and it was stopping at the other platform. Now she was in real trouble; the bum was less than thirty feet away and closing.

Over the rumble he smiled in anticipation, “You’re mine, you filthy bitch. I’m going to make you very sorry for what you just did.”

Suddenly, he stopped and his expression changed from anger to frustration.

A train flashed past her on this platform. It was slowing to a stop and there were a couple of early commuters in several of the cars. The bum took a few more steps towards her, but then apparently thought better of it and turned away rather than be seen attacking her by the commuters.

Grateful and shaking in fear, Joanie slid quickly through the sliding door before it was even fully open. Dropping into the first seat, she warily craned her neck back to watch the bum through the subway car’s window until the doors closed and the train slowly began to move out of the station. Grimly clenching the chrome bar by her hand, she sat shivering in fear, tears dribbling down her cheeks, as she waited for her stop.

OCTOBER 13, 8:40 A.M., MONTIFIORE HOSPITAL, 1190 RIVERVIEW DRIVE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

“I haven’t the foggiest idea of what we’re dealing with here. It’s probably viral, but I’ve never heard of anything so pervasive. It’s spreading to every section of his body at an incredible speed. Quite bluntly, I’m out of my league here and would welcome any help I can get.” The green garbed intern looked at the twelve other people sitting around the hospital’s conference table.

Dr. William Zigno, Chief of Medicine, sat at the head of the table, one hand on his ever-expanding paunch as if to rub away the heartburn while the other tapped nervously on the tabletop.

He stopped tapping just long enough to rub his hand over his balding head, smoothing the few strands left at the sides, as he looked to each of the others surrounding him for suggestions.

“So...to summarize, we have a virulent, fast-acting virus of unknown source and unknown nature. We do have the Congressman in strict isolation, right?” he stopped to glare at the intern as if the virus were his fault.

“Yes, sir.” Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead even though the room was comfortably air-conditioned.

“Have his relatives been notified?”

“Yes, sir. They’ll be here within the hour.” The beads grew larger and began to slowly course down his face. He wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Did pathology have anything to offer?”

“No sir,” the intern responded. His voice sounded loud, too loud, in the quiet room. “They suggested contacting CDC.”

“Great.” Dr. Zigno again circled the table with his eyes. When no one else chimed in, he continued with a huge sigh. “Do it! And then notify Public Relations. This is going to be a nightmare.”

OCTOBER 13, 10:05 A.M., APT. 112, 1196 JEROME AVENUE, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

“Damn it, George! Shove over and share the covers. Now I’m sick too!” Marge slid under the covers. George’s body jerked as her cold feet touched his feverish thigh, but he didn’t awaken or answer. Five minutes later Marge was softly snoring along with him.

OCTOBER 13, 11:10 A.M., 12ST STREET AND WEST STREET, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Joanie trudged down the block towards the apartment where she used to keep her whores. Her eveningwear made her look out of place amongst the late morning shopping crowd. Her feelings of frustration and futility were echoed in every step she took. Her life had gone from heaven to hell in less than one week. Going back to the apartment would just subject her to more torture from the women she had pimped out in the past, but she had no money, no clothes and no friends that would recognize her. Even if he had gone to one of his fellow pimps, they would never recognize him. They would just laugh and add her to their own stables. Going back was her only choice, a shitty choice, but the only one she seemed to have.

She’d just have to go back and stay cool for now, eating his whore’s shit whenever they got it into their cunty little minds to feed him another bite. Joanie clenched her fists in rage; the phony nails digging deep into her palms. Boy! Wouldn’t she like to beat the fuckin’ hell out of his whores! But her hands were small and weak and pathetic now. She was just another bitch, and that was that. What a fucked up world this was, where this could happen to a big, important man like John had been!

She turned and headed up the steps to the apartment building without even noticing the wolf whistles and jeers from the three scarf-clad teens sitting on the car by the curb across from the entrance.

OCTOBER 13, 5:40 P.M. LAGUARDIA AIRPORT, QUEENS, NEW YORK

“The flight was great,” Captain Schultz spoke into his cell phone. Update me on Sternlicht. Then connect me with Isaacs. Let’s see what he can offer.”

“Dr. Sternlicht has been working quite late each night. His current project is still a method for multi person infection with an expected completion date of two weeks from now. We have two groups of two maintaining twenty-four hour surveillance on him. The only change in his routine so far has been an increased tendency to eat out at a different restaurant each night, possibly tied to his late hours. Dr. Isaacs reports that he is convinced that Dr. Sternlicht is doing something else. He can talk for himself, but his reports to date have indicated that he has no clue as to what Dr. Sternlicht might be doing.”

“Fine. Get him for me, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Challer saluted and left.

OCTOBER 13, 6:00 P.M. LAGUARDIA AIRPORT, QUEENS, NEW YORK

“Flight twenty-two thirty-one, non-stop to Las Vegas, is now boarding. Those with first class tickets may commence boarding now.”

“Ooh, that’s us! Come on girls,” Sheila bubbled with excitement as she encouraged the others onward. The others bounced up and down with equal enthusiasm, except for Joanie. She remained slouched down in her plastic chair, head bowed forward dejectedly.

“Joanie! Get up, mujer! It’s time to go. And don’t forget the bags.” Carla called back as she headed towards the gate entrance.

Joanie picked up the two small bags being brought on board. One was make-up for all four women; the other contained all John’s money.

“Shit! This nightmare ain’t never going to end,” she mumbled almost inaudibly to herself as she picked up the bags and plodded along behind the others. She didn’t even notice the headline on the newspaper Ginette had tossed on the seat as she prepared to board.

“Congressman Goldman Gravely Ill: CDC Called in Due to Unknown Virus.”

OCTOBER 13, 7:00 P.M. FOURTH AVENUE AND 147TH STREET, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

The bum puked again and then continued staggering towards the steps of the mission, less than a block away.

The vomit made a sick splattering sort of sound as the bum leaned up against the lamppost and emptied his tortured stomach. It steamed in the cold air as he stood upright, the world seeming very distant and unreal. He had a fever as well. It caused a cold, oily sweat to form on his forehead. His balls still ached as well, ached terribly from where that bitch had nailed him this morning. The rescue mission was only a block away, but the tattered man was, for the first time, not at all sure that he was going to make it. He wiped his mouth with what once had been a blue-checked sleeve. For many years now, nothing had been very important to him except his next bottle of wine. Now, however, he suddenly found himself very frightened indeed.

The gang of black kids lounging by the entrance began teasing him and two of them started pushing him back and forth between them until one of the security staff from the mission intervened and chased the gang away. The security guy wasn’t trying real hard and it was likely they would be back within the hour unless they found something better to prey on.

“So, Jock. Back for another couple of ‘hots and a cot’?” Jock, who used to have another name, a real life name that he could no longer remember, just nodded. He felt like shit and wanted desperately to lie down.

“Remember to hit the chapel first. ‘No bow no chow. No kneel no meal’,” the security guard laughed. “Oh, and be careful. It’s a rough crowd tonight and you know we can’t be everywhere.

Jock nodded again and pushed past the still chuckling guard. Resigned to at least a half hour of pretending to pray before bed, he headed toward the chapel.

OCTOBER 13, 8:05 P.M., UNITED FLIGHT 1117 IN ROUTE FROM NYC TO LAS VEGAS

After getting settled in on the airplane, the others had left Joanie alone. They considered her whining and grumbling a downer. One of the stewardesses for First Class got her a pillow and a blanket, hoping she’d go to sleep before her complaints started grating on the other passengers. After that, even they had left her alone. Everyone was relieved when she had actually gone to sleep.

She woke with a start. Whatever shit Sheila had given him had him flying high. Joanie’s first thought was that she had been having an especially vivid nightmare about somehow becoming a woman. She sighed in relief that it was over and stretched, keeping her body covered by the warm comfortable blanket.

Looking around she realized she was on a plane. That was where her dream had left off. And her clothes, they didn’t seem right. They were tighter than usual around her chest, she seemed to be wearing elastic pants (she hated elastic waist pants) and they had ridden up higher than usual on her waist, and her socks seemed to extend up to her thighs...no they felt smooth like stockings (kinky...what the hell was I doing last night, and with whom).

She grudgingly moved her hand out from under the warm comfortable blanket to rub her eyes and poked herself on the bridge of her nose. “Ouch. I need to trim my nails.”

Bringing it out from under the covers, she rested her hand on top of the blanket in her lap and stared at it in bewilderment. It had red nail polish on it. A truly horrible thought occurred to her. “Maybe it wasn’t a dream?”

Quickly one hand reached for her chest while the other moved to her crotch and she sat up in shock.

Breasts.

No cajones.

She really was a woman.

It started as a low moan and grew quickly to an ear-piercing screech of panic. The first stewardess was there before Ginette could turn and ask Joanie what was wrong. The second one was beside the screaming woman moments later.

“Ma’am? What’s wrong? Ma’am? MA’AM!”

The scream continued, now a wavering siren traveling erratically between alto and soprano as Joanie grabbed the arms of her chair, muscles rigid, as she held on to some one piece of the reality that was rapidly dropping away from her.

“Can I be of any help?” a tall, middle-aged woman with short black hair and a beak-like nose sitting two seats back asked. “I’m a doctor.”

The first stewardess looked away from Joanie long enough to accept the offer. The screaming woman was completely out of control. During the brief distraction, Ginette leaned over and hissed into Joanie’s ear, “You stop that right now if you ever wanna be John again. You hear me bitch?”

Joanie just kept screaming.

The doctor quickly stood and grabbed her medical bag from the overhead compartment. As she turned back toward the others, Joanie stopped screaming. Instead, she lunged at Ginette yelling, “YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

Joanie’s hands made it to Ginette’s neck, but before she could choke the life out of her, strong hands yanked her hands away and held them crossed in her lap.

Ginette moaned and rubbed her sore neck as she tried to move as far from the madwoman beside her as she could. Sheila reached over the back of her seat to try to comfort the panic-stricken girl while Carla cursed in Spanish. The doctor rummaged in her bag and came out with a needle and a vial. Quickly filling the needle, she jammed it into Joanie’s arm and injected her with something. Turning to the others, she explained. “I just gave her a cocktail of ten milligrams of Ativan and five milligrams of Haldol. She should be sleeping in about five minutes.

Bug-eyed, Joanie sucked in air to start screaming again, but Carla reached over the seat and shoved a healthy portion of her pillow into Joanie’s mouth. She held it there so Joanie couldn’t spit it out. Her struggles eased as the drugs took hold.

“It seems like your friend is suffering from a major psychotic break,” the doctor commented. “She should be admitted for hospitalization as soon as the plane lands.”

“Show’s over folks,” the stewardess called out to the rest of the passengers.

“We apologize for this situation and hope you will have a quiet flight from now on.”

Joanie couldn’t fight the drugs. She fainted. As a result, she did not hear, Sheila explaining her behavior away as night terrors so the doctor backed off on her insistence that she be admitted to the nearest psychiatric center.

OCTOBER 13, 11:20 P.M. APT. 937, 1256 PARK AVENUE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Words came from a bundle of blankets. “It’s your turn, Hans.”

“I don’t want to get up, Jules,” was the croaked response from the other pile of blankets. “I’m sick.”

A head slid out from the first pile. Hans’s eyes were dull, and his voice was thick and muffled. “So am I. It’s your turn and I want...I want...I...”
Hans was snoring again, but Jules didn’t hear as he was too busy vomiting into the wastebasket on his side of the silk covered, king size bed they shared.

“No more cheap wine for us,” he thought. “The Pink Chablis those bimbos wanted must have been tainted. I only hope they’re as sick as we are.” Flopping weakly back onto the bed, he was asleep within seconds.