The Medusa Strain

References to certain historical figures, books, movies or other forms of media used in this writing are used in a fictitious manner unless the event referenced is footnoted with historical reference. All other characters are fictitious and the author bears no responsibility to any resemblance to real people, living or dead.

The reader should be warned that extremely frank language in conceptual situations is contained in this novel and any language that the reader may deem to be offensive should be in no way construed as the author's actual beliefs. The author in no way bears any responsibility for those that continue to read this book and find themselves to be offended. While predominately a work of fiction, "The Medusa Strain" should serve as a dire warning about the possibilities of attacks on American soil that do not originate in the Middle East.

PREFACE "Death for a cause or in vain is still dead"James Wilke 2005

Mexican/US Border

March 2003

He waited alongside 50 other people dressed in astonishingly diverse attire. The only similarity in their collective garb was the layers of clothing, allowing them to take the journey without having to worry about suitcases. The desert was cold at night and there was no guarantee that they would be able to find shelter when and if they got across.

These crossings were always wrought with dangers. Between the extreme heat and the extreme cold, snakes and spiders, there were also the humans they had to be concerned about. There were four groups of people that these people had to be careful not to run across. Of course there was the Border Patrol, but the most that they would do was put a person in jail for a couple days before shipping the person back across the border so that the attempt could be tried again. More dangerous were the people who owned the land that they would inevitably have to cross; there was always the possibility that the owners might shoot first and ask questions later. Even worse was the chance that the newly formed Minuteman Brigade would catch the border-crosser and then all bets were off. Then there was the one element that one could never be safe from and that was the "Coyotes", the people that had made the arrangements for their transportation to safe locations throughout the US. There were often reports that the Coyote would, after having been paid, kill their charges and leave the bodies in the desert.

He was confident in his ability to avoid all of these dangers. His plan was quite simple, immediately after the group got across the border, he was going to separate from the group. He would be able to blend in with Americans easily, as far as he was concerned he was one already. He had all of the necessary documentation which as long as it wasn't scrutinized to closely would get him around any potential problems with police. His looks were patently American, light skinned, blond hair and blue eyes. He also had no accent that could be discerned allowing him to blend in with the proverbial melting pot that was the US. And he had the one thing that the majority of people that made these crossings didn't have and that was money.

There had been a long drawn out discussion with himself about whether this course of action that he was embarking on was the right thing to do, but after reviewing all of his other options he couldn't come up with anything that had the remote possibility of working. His immigration status was such that if he was caught in the US, there was little chance that he would actually be deported. There was a greater possibility that he would be brought up on a sundry of charges that would insure that he wouldn't see the light of day for the remainder of his natural life.

In the 1990's he had tried to immigrate with his wife and children legally. The situation in Bosnia-Herzegovina had caused the INS and the US State Department to be more than a little wary of people trying to emigrate from that area. Up to that point the only thing that the US had done to relieve the suffering of the Croats or the Serbs was to send Peacekeepers into the region to observe the slaughter of the innocents but not actually to do anything. President Clinton had sent a contingent of cruise missiles into the area but they were only basically effective as a "shot over the bow" and the killing continued. His problem with immigration was a matter of semantics. Certain people claimed that he had been involved with certain aspects of an incident that was labeled as ethnic cleansing. He fully believed that the refusal of the State Department to accept him in the US caused his wife and two children to be raped, murdered and put in hole in the ground with a hundred other bodies.

In crossing this boundary in front of him, he would be setting in motion the mechanism of pain and misery that the US deserved. Once he completed his mission, his wife and children and a million other souls on the planet could rest in the realization that their revenge was complete.

There was no signal, just a sudden wash of people dashing down the hill. The crossing had begun and it wouldn't cease until someone stopped it on the other side. Making sure that he was in the thick of the crowd he paced himself to be an anonymous body in the throng. A little over a hundreds were left and the crowd began to split into family units, and others that were to meet their respective Coyotes in America. He didn't have a coyote to meet, all he had to do was to get to the nearest town and secure transportation in the morning.

As he scaled the small ineffective fence on the US side of the border, he could see the flickers of Border Patrol lights on the west horizon. Once over the fence he began to make his way toward the east where he could see the lights of Laredo, Texas. Once there, barring any unforeseen complications, he would be home free.

Thirty minutes later he was crouched behind a dumpster in an alley removing his dusty outer shell of clothing and wiping off his shoes. From around his neck he pulled a medium sized canvas bag and stuffed his clothes inside. It wouldn't do for him to show up at a motel with no bags.

He casually stepped out from behind the dumpster and headed for the Greyhound depot. Ten minutes later he was nonchalantly leaning against the bus station wall watching people. What he was waiting for happened sooner then he had hoped. A bus driver was off-loading baggage from the storage compartment under the bus. One piece of luggage had tumbled over just out side of the small throng of people selecting their bags. He quickly walked up to the crowd, bent over and snatched the destination tag off the handle. He ambled away from the melee and disappeared around a corner.

Attaching the tag to his own bag he headed for the motel that he knew was nearby. A couple of blocks later he was praising Map-quest.com as the motel came into view.
He checked in quickly with no questions asked, although there was a curious glance at his bag, and once the tag that was prominently display was recognized all suspicion was cast aside.

The next morning he would buy a car, tag, insurance and be on his way. Tonight however, he simply wanted a stiff drink, a hot shower and a warm comfortable bed. Five years of planning, another couple of years to go and then God help the USA.

Port-au-prince, Haiti

June, 2005

While oftentimes people believe that those who practice Hoodoo and the other offshoot quasi-religious beliefs are nothing more than superstitious hacks, he knew that there was sound scientific reasoning behind many of the things that they did. He was willing to sit through the mumbo jumbo and pay to get what he wanted, so he was tolerated and even respected. Three weeks into his foray into the Haitian culture he had still not found what he was looking for. There had been some valiant attempts but they had all fallen short of what he was trying to accomplish.

The first problem had been getting the basic concoction to begin with, but the concentration and dispersal methods were turning out to be the most maddening. He had spent more time than he had cared to, sitting in rooms watching as compounds were mixed, incantations recited, sacrifices performed, and animals twitching in corners. He knew that only with the strongest discipline could he be patient enough to wait for the perfect results.

There was another option that he was considering, but it would place him at great risk of exposure. If this new shaman could not complete what he wanted then he was going to have to implement the other option.

The hut in which he found himself had a dirt floor, and apparently had dirt walls as well. Flies buzzed around his head and anything else that seemed to be made of flesh. There was an open pit flame in the center, and a large pissed-off goat, bleating as if the devil himself was prodding it with a pitchfork, chained to one wall. On the other walls there were masks of undeterminable origin, some looking like screaming demons from a religious nightmare.

The shaman mumbled under his breath while he ground the powder that had been delivered. Unbeknownst to the man that had brought it to him, the shaman had another job as a chemist, and the results that were desired of him were actually quite simple as long as the right agents were introduced into the mix.

Money was a luxury in Haiti and so he had accepted the secretive man's desire and his money without reluctance knowing that if something immoral was done with the concoction, he could easily sell his knowledge to the agency with the most lucrative offer.

He was almost done, the only thing left now was the test that the man wanted and he would get the rest of the money that the man had promised. Having a wife and kids in this country could get expensive regardless of the varying job opportunities. Inflation was excessively high and this man was paying in US dollars. What he would make when this was all said and done would buy a car and pay other expenses for at least a year.

The shaman took the finished mixture and poured it into a crucible into which he injected a bluish liquid and then held the crucible over an open fire and waited for the mixture to boil. The only thing that struck the shaman as odd was the amount of the final product, which if it were all used would have a devastating effect on a very large amount of people. Why anyone would want as much as this strange man did was a mystery, but the chances that he could use the amount that was being requested all at the same time were slim and none.

The mixture boiled. The shaman pulled the crucible from the fire and placed an air-tight seal over the top of it and immersed it in icy water, cooling the contents of the crucible instantly. He uncovered the crucible and with a syringe drew less then a quarter of a milliliter of the liquid. The shaman then picked up a small vial and drew 10cc of distilled water into the same syringe.

He stood up and walked over to the pissed-off goat, still bleating, and quickly injected the concoction. The results began to show themselves in about 20 minutes, and the shaman could tell that the man was impressed. Still there would be another four days before he was really impressed. Hopefully impressed enough to pay without any major problems.