Keepers of the Kalachakra

Excerpt from the Book – Keepers of the Kalachakra
The young man lay on the floor clutching helplessly for his left arm with his right. His howls were like those of an injured animal. Surrounding him were officers of the WHMU, the White House Medical Unit, as also agents from the Secret Service. Standing still, some distance away, was the President himself. The goggle-eyed guests who had been invited to the state dinner at the White House were ushered out with a minimum of fuss from the State Dining Room and into the adjoining Red Room. The support staff was at its efficient best, although no one knew what the hell was going on.
The most they could conclude was that Jean Belanger, the Prime Minister of Canada, was in a bad way.
A medic held a cotton swab to Belanger’s mouth as he coughed. There was blood in his sputum. Even in his semi-comatose state, Belanger felt a maddening urge to scratch his left arm, to rip his own skin off. One of the nurses from the medical team quickly snipped off his jacket and shirt to expose the arm that seemed to be causing all the trouble. And that’s when they saw it.
It was swollen, a dark red and was twice the size of his other arm. All over his skin were scarlet blisters, pustules that oozed a strange mixture of blood and watery plasma.
‘I think he’s been poisoned,’ said the WHMU Director, a man also designated as Physician to the President. ‘There’s no time to lose. His heart rate is rapidly dropping!’
Upon a nod, the Director’s assistant hurried over with a defibrillator. ‘Charge it to two hundred joules,’ ordered the Director.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the assistant, kneeling on the floor next to Belanger. He applied two gel pads, one on Belanger’s upper chest, below the right clavicle, and a second one below his left nipple. Pressing the paddles firmly onto the gel pads, he applied twenty-five pounds of pressure.
‘All clear!’ he shouted as he depressed the shock button on the paddles. Belanger’s body jolted as the current hit. The Director stared at the monitor, hoping for a stable rhythm.
And then, Belanger retched. The vomit splattered over his tuxedo, trickled down and was slowly absorbed by the thick pile of the pale blue wool carpet on the State Dining Room floor. ‘We must shift him to Bethesda immediately,’ said the Director. He stole a glance at the President to seek his concurrence. The President nodded wordlessly.
Within seconds, an Air Force chopper landed on the helipad in the South Lawn and Belanger was efficiently shifted into it. As he was being slid in, the Director saw the next telltale sign.
Belanger’s face, like his arm, was now severely swollen on the right side. It had ballooned to the extent that his right eye was no longer visible. The Director quickly got into the helicopter along with other medics. In the distance, he could see men dressed in bio-hazard suits running across the lawn towards the White House.