Continuing
https://hvom.blogspot.com/2026/04/today-is-04292026.html
From 5/8/1994 ( premiere USA TV miniseries "Stephen King's The Stand"::miniseries premiere "The Plague" ) To 4/29/2026 ( ) is 11679 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 10/24/1997 ( premiere USA film "Gattaca" ) is 11679 days
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119177/releaseinfo/
IMDb
Gattaca
Release info
United States October 24, 1997
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King, author
(from internet transcript)
excerpt, Chapter 3
Hap was in the garage bay putting a new tailpipe on Tony Leominster’s Scout and Vic Palfrey was rocking back on a folding camp chair, watching him and drinking a Dr. Pepper when the bell dinged out front.
Vic squinted. “It’s the State Patrol,” he said. “Looks like your cousin, there. Joe Bob.”
“Okay.”
Hap came out from beneath the Scout, wiping his hands on a ball of waste. On his way through the office he sneezed heavily. He hated summer colds. They were the worst.
Joe Bob Brentwood, who was almost six and a half feet tall, was standing by the back of his cruiser, filling up. Beyond him, the three pumps Campion had driven over the night before were neatly lined up like dead soldiers.
“Hey Joe Bob!” Hap said, coming out.
“Hap, you sumbitch,” Joe Bob said, putting the pump handle on automatic and stepping over the hose. “You lucky this place still standin this morning.”
“Shit, Stu Redman saw the guy coming and switched off the pumps. There was a load of sparks, though.”
“Still damn lucky. Listen, Hap, I come over for somethin besides a fill-up.”
“Yeah?”
Joe Bob’s eyes went to Vic, who was standing in the station door. “Was that old geezer here last night?”
“Who? Vic? Yeah, he comes over most every night.”
“Can he keep his mouth shut?”
“Sure, I reckon. He’s a good enough old boy.”
The automatic feed kicked off. Hap squeezed off another twenty cents worth, then put the nozzle back on the pump and switched it off. He walked back to Joe Bob.
“So? What’s the story?”
“Well, let’s go inside. I guess the old fella ought to hear, too. And if you get a chance, you can phone the rest of them that was here.”
“The Atlanta Plague Center’s federal,” Vic said. “Would they send out a planeload of federal men just for cholera?”
“Search me,” Joe Bob said. “But I thought you guys had a right to know. From all I heard, you just tried to lend a hand.”
“It’s appreciated, Joe Bob,” Hap said slowly. “What did James and this other doctor say?”
“Not much. But they looked scared. I never seen doctors look scared like that. I didn’t much care for it.”
A heavy silence fell. Joe Bob went to the drink machine and got a bottle of Fresca. The faint hissing sound of carbonation was audible as he popped the cap. As Joe Bob sat down again, Hap took a Kleenex from the box next to the cash register, wiped his runny nose, and folded it into the pocket of his greasy overall.
“What have you found out about Campion?” Vic asked. “Anything?”
“We’re still checking,” Joe Bob said with a trace of importance. “His ID says he was from San Diego, but a lot of the stuff in his wallet was two and three years out of date. His driver’s license was expired. He had a BankAmericard that was issued in 1986 and that was expired, too. He had an army card so we’re checking with them. The captain has a hunch that Campion hadn’t lived in San Diego for maybe four years.”
“AWOL?” Vic asked. He produced a big red bandanna, hawked, and spat into it.
“Dunno yet. But his army card said he was in until 1997, and he was in civvies, and he was with his family, and he was a fuck of a long way from California, and listen to my mouth run.”
“Well, I’ll get in touch with the others and tell em what you said, anyway,” Hap said. “Much obliged.”
Joe Bob stood up. “Sure. Just keep my name out of it. I sure wouldn’t want to lose my job. Your buddies don’t need to know who tipped you, do they?”
“No,” Hap said, and Vic echoed it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIuXYI6oOzQ&t=13s
ARISTIDE BRUANT - V'la l'cholera qu'arrive
Klim Sanguine {from YouTube}
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King, author
(from internet transcript)
excerpt, Chapter 4
“If only Campion hadn’t run,” Starkey said. “That was sloppy security, Len. Very sloppy.”
Creighton nodded.
“Go on.”
“Arnette has been quarantined. We’ve isolated at least sixteen cases of constantly shifting A-Prime flu there so far. And those are just the overt ones.”
“The news media?”
“So far, no problem. They believe it’s anthrax.”
“What else?”
“One very serious problem. We have a Texas highway patrolman named Joseph Robert Brentwood. His cousin owns the gas station where Campion ended up. He dropped by yesterday morning to tell Hapscomb the health people were coming. We picked him up three hours ago and he’s en route to Atlanta now. In the meantime he’s been patrolling half of East Texas. God knows how many people he’s been in contact with.”
“Oh, shit,” Starkey said, and was appalled by the watery weakness in his voice and the skin-crawl that had started near the base of his testicles sad was now working up into his belly. 99.4% communicability, he thought. It played insanely over and over in his mind. And that meant 99.4% excess mortality, because the human body couldn’t produce the antibodies necessary to stop a constantly shifting antigen virus. Every time the body did produce the right antibody, the virus simply shifted to a slightly new form. For the same reason a vaccine was going to be almost impossible to create.
99.4%.
“Christ,” he said. “That’s it?”
“Well—”
“Go on. Finish.”
Softly, then, Creighton said: “Hammer’s dead, Billy. Suicide. He shot himself in the eye with his service pistol. The Project Blue specs were on his desk. I guess he thought leaving them there was all the suicide note anybody would need.”
Starkey closed his eyes. Vic Hammer was… had been… his son-in-law. How was he supposed to tell Cynthia about this? I’m sorry, Cindy. Vic took a high dive into a cold bowl of soup today. Here, have a “downer.” You see, there was a goof. Somebody made a mistake with a box. Somebody else forgot to pull a switch that would have sealed off the base. The lag was only forty-some seconds, but it was enough. The box is known in the trade as a “sniffer.” It’s made in Portland, Oregon, Defense Department Contract 164480966. The boxes are put together in separate circuits by female technicians, and they do it that way so none of them really know what they’re doing. One of them was maybe thinking about what to make for supper, and whoever was supposed to check her work was maybe thinking about trading the family car. Anyway, Cindy, the last coincidence was that a man at the Number Four security post, a man named Campion, saw the numbers go red just in time to get out of the room before the doors shut and mag-locked. Then he got his family and ran. He drove through the main gate just four minutes before the sirens started going off and we sealed the whole base. And no one started looking for him until nearly an hour later because there are no monitors in the security posts—somewhere along the line you have to stop guarding the guardians or everyone in the world would be a goddam turnkey—and everybody just assumed he was in there, waiting for the sniffers to sort out the clean areas from the dirty ones. So he got him some running room and he was smart enough to use the ranch trails and lucky enough not to pick any of the ones where his car could get bogged down. Then someone had to make a command decision on whether or not to bring in the State Police, the FBI, or both of them and that fabled buck got passed hither, thither, and yon, and by the time someone decided the Shop ought to handle it, this happy asshole—this happy diseased asshole—had gotten to Texas, and when they finally caught him he wasn’t running anymore because he and his wife and his baby daughter were all laid out on cooling boards in some pissant little town called Braintree. Braintree, Texas. Anyway, Cindy, what I’m trying to say is that this was a chain of coincidence on the order of winning the Irish Sweepstakes. With a little incompetence thrown in for good luck—for bad luck, I mean, please excuse me—but mostly it was just a thing that happened. None of it was your man’s fault. But he was the head of the project, and he saw the situation start to escalate, and then
“Thanks, Len,” he said.
“Billy, would you like—”
“I’ll be up in ten minutes. I want you to schedule a general staff meeting fifteen minutes from now. If they’re in bed, kick em out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Len…”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you were the one who told me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Creighton left. Starkey glanced at his watch, then walked over to the monitors set into the wall. He turned on 2, put his hands behind his back, and stared thoughtfully into Project Blue’s silent cafeteria.
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 04:34 AM Pacific-timezone USA Wednesday 04/29/2026
