A Cold Black Wave

Prologue

Kim Koung kneeled next to his young daughter and held her cold, trembling hand as she lay on the infirmary bed. She couldn’t speak, for the fluid in her lungs barely gave her room to breathe. The artificial respirator breathed in a steady, monotonous way at her bedside. Her dull, brown eyes looked to him with pain and trepidation, then to her mother, who cried as she brushed her hair back and told her that everything would be okay.

Kim wanted to grab her into his arms and hold her warm body one last time, to feel her heartbeat against his and feel her breath upon him, to somehow take away the pain and fear from her.

His wife Ann prayed through whispering lips as her thumb ran back and forth over her daughter’s pale hand, tubes and IVs running from Jasmine’s veins and stretching upwards like strings from a marionette.

Jasmine’s breathing changed as she took in deeper gasps of air. They both startled and grabbed each other in anticipation of their daughter’s final breath.

Ann reached over and kissed her cheek, tears falling onto her daughters breathing mask. “It’s okay, God is here. He is with you, we’re with you ...”

Jasmine slowly reached with her other arm and pulled off her mask and with belabored effort, tried to say something but could only mouth incomprehensible words between shortened breaths.

“My sweet girl,” she whispered, leaning in to press her face against Jasmine’s. “I’ll always be here for you. We’ll see each other again, I promise.”

Still holding his daughter’s hand, Kim laid his head on his wife and sobbed. Only moments had passed when young Jasmine’s breathing stopped. Ann knew the moment it happened, and she felt a pain in her chest as if Jasmine’s ghost were desperately reaching for her as it drifted away.

Ann clutched Jasmine’s listless body. She kissed her cheeks over and over, unable to let go, desperate to hold onto even that final minute when she could still feel her breath. For the nothing that death leaves in its wake stirs a palling emptiness that cannot be filled, and Ann could not even find the air to cry over Jasmine.

Just outside the room, their family doctor had waited, giving them time with their daughter. Time was running out though, and the President’s advisor James Tully walked briskly towards Dr. Theriault.

“I told you to wait,” Dr. Theriault said impatiently.

“We’ve waited long enough. We need him now,” James said without emotion.

“As you can see,” Dr. Theriault motioned through the tinted window, “they’re a little busy.”

“Is she dead?” James asked dead-pan.

“If she was I wouldn’t tell a heartless sonofabitch like you. What are you doing here anyway?”

James quickly snapped back and calmly stood close to Dr. Theriault in subtle intimidation. James Tully wasn’t exactly a muscular man, but he stood tall and his cold demeanor exuded the sort of evil that could speak to another’s soul.

“There’s more at stake here than their feelings. People are dying all over this ship, not just her.”

“I know full well what the hell is going on,” he said, the images of countless people he couldn’t save weighing on his words. Dr. Theriault shifted to face James Tully and pointed at the President on the other side of the glass. “This man,” he started, “has done more than any of us could ask for. Give them some time. What is it to you?”

James Tully responded abruptly, “What this man does in the next hour will determine whether we survive or not. As you well know doctor, even your experienced hands have let slip many lives. How many doctor? Have you been counting the dead?”