KILLS 99.9%
The Next Pandemic?
Patrick Ottuso, M.D.
Copyright © 2011 Patrick Ottuso, M.D.
All names and events in this book are considered fictional. This book is not related to any true events nor does the book portray the lives of any true persons.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-07-24
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my family, both near and far. Without their support, this book would not have been possible. When I am long gone, I hope that this short novel takes a place on my childrens’ bookcases. Love you both…Daddy.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Linda Colontrelle, Charles Vitunac and my niece, Andrea Onorato for previewing and editing this book. Thanks also, to my friends who put up with my repeated requests to read my book. Luckily, they all enjoyed it, or at least they were good liars!
Prologue
The inappropriate use of antibiotics in both the human and veterinary arenas has created a worldwide cause for alarm with respect to multi-drug resistant organisms. Research indicates that over 50% of hospital administered antibiotics are unnecessary. In addition, physicians prescribe commonly used antibiotics for a number of viral illnesses including the common cold, of which these antibiotics do not treat. This may be partly due to patients expectations of receiving a prescription after seeing their doctor. In the field of veterinary medicine, the exposure of food producing animals to multiple antibiotics has also led to the emergence of resistant organisms. While all of the characters in this novel are fictitious, the potential for a ‘super bacteria’ arising from such non- discretionary use of anti-microbial agents may not be in the far too distant future. In fact, a Transatlantic Task Force On Antibacterial Resistance has been established between the countries of the United States and Great Britain to address this worldwide concern.
Beginnings
On September 6th, 2009, Billy Simpson didn’t know that he had only eight hours left to live. At the age of ten, dying wasn’t even part of his vocabulary. He was acutely aware, though, that Bo Reynolds, the leading home run hitter for the Stadium Avenue All Stars was at bat and pointing the aluminum bat in his direction. Billy was the happiest he had ever been in his life since locking in the position of starting center fielder. His dad would have been very proud of him if he had been watching. But yes, he was watching from heaven…he had been taken to heaven after an aggressive form of leukemia stole him away from Billy last year. Mom was in the stands, though, with that look of consternation on her face. Mom always thought the worst and was afraid he would get hurt playing baseball. Since dad died, mom was as protective as a mother bear for her cub. As a matter of fact, baseball had been a compromise between Billy’s first choice of football and Mom’s dream for her son, the art of tennis. After darting home from school and leaving his school clothes in a small pile in his room, Billy quickly donned the grey and white pinstriped little league uniform. Mom still couldn’t get that grass stain out on the left knee though. He complained about that several times but Mom told him that the stain made him look tough. His green and gold cap topped off the uniform, folded just right to keep the sun out of his eyes while tracking down fly balls. Grabbing his well-oiled Rawlings glove given to him by his dad, he left the house and headed for the park. He almost forgot to take the pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitizer that his mom insisted that he use before each game. She also made sure that he used the stuff before school, at lunch and before dinner: mom hated germs.
Billy knew the outfield well, including its boundaries and how the grass affected ball direction and speed. He also knew that he had 22 feet between his current position and the home run fence. With his brand new Puma cleats, tracking down anything in center field would be a piece of cake. He was tall for his age, taking after his father. Coach Schack knew Billy was made for center field, having great vision, speed and a precision throwing arm. The only thing that bothered Billy was that he couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was handed to him! He would work on his batting next week after school.
Johnny Nestor was a great fastball pitcher, the best in the little league and feared by most. Bo, on the other hand, ate fastballs for breakfast. Today was no different. As the ball hurtled toward home plate, Billy could almost see the twinkle in Bo’s eye as he steered the meat of the bat directly in line with the ball. The proverbial clap of thunder was distinct as the baseball arched skyward toward the center field fence. Billy was on it immediately, backpedaling toward the fence. It would be close but Billy knew that this ball was catchable.With only two feet of calculated distance remaining, it was time to use the fence for leverage and gain height for the jump. Ultimately, the miscalculation was only one or two centimeters shy, but after an amazing catch, Billy’s right wrist came down hard on the aluminum fence post.He hung onto the ball but felt the numbing pain shoot up his arm. The large bruise, the color of a ripe eggplant was almost immediate as was the swelling. The break in the skin was hardly noticeable to the naked eye but disrupted the skin barrier that nature so wisely provided for us. Holding his gloved hand close to his chest, Billy approached the dugout, clearly in pain. Mom was out of the stands like a thoroughbred out of the chute, racing toward her son, fearing the worst. While the hand was not broken, it was definitely swelling at an alarming rate. In addition to the aching and swelling, Billy could swear that he felt something crawling under his skin. Both mom and coach Schack agreed that the doctors at Pelham Memorial Hospital should check Billy’s hand. Billy left Pelham Bay Park that Monday afternoon amidst the cheers of his fellow teammates. He had saved the game!
Tunnels
Phillip Sabien was a multi-millionaire with everything a man could ask for. He had a 1986 Lamborghini Jalpa, the finest clothes, dined at the best restaurants in New York, and was always seen with at least one gorgeous woman on his arm. All that changed on October 19th, 1987. It was another Monday on Wall Street and Phillip was performing his magic, trading in derivatives when the bottom fell out. The Dow Industrial average fell 508 points and Mr. Sabien, known also as Goldfinger to his associates, found himself with his finger up his ass and even worse, broke. Soon thereafter, the women stopped coming around, his beautiful red Lamborghini was repossessed and he lost his penthouse suite on the upper east side. He also realized that he had no friends. Those whom he thought were friends suddenly disappeared, afraid that he just might ask them for their precious money. His whole life was formed around money and that life no longer existed. With no family, no friends and nowhere to live, he found himself in a homeless shelter for veterans located in Brooklyn. His six year stint in Viet Nam finally paid off, thought Sabien. There he was given a cot to sleep on and three meals a day. The only requisite was that he needed to actively look for a job. On the fourth night at the shelter he was awakened by a sharp sensation felt just below his jaw bone which turned out to be a very well honed pocket knife attached to the arm of a very large black man.
“Gimme everything you own dick head or you’re gonna die,” whispered the stranger. He soon was forty eight dollars poorer and minus his toiletry bag and pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The next morning, with the shelter behind him and facing the Chrysler Building, he headed back to Manhattan…for better or worse.
With only the clothes on his back, a replacement bag of necessities, and twenty dollars given to him during his departure from the shelter, Sabien found Manhattan no more forgiving of his plight. Shelters were dirty and dangerous and with the winter approaching fast,