Liberals Refusal to Secure Our Borders Invites Ebola... And Worse
By Kurt Schlichter
TownHall.com
“Are you sick, señor?” the
coyote asked, eyeing his customer. “You look sick.”
Michael Nbume wiped the sweat from his face with his
sleeve and leaned on the tailgate of the battered
truck. Inside its sweltering back, a dozen Latin
Americans waited to head north, staring at the
African.
“No, it is just the heat. It is drier than in
Liberia. I am not used to it,” Mbune lied in fluent
English. He knew he was sick; he had seen so many
die around him as the epidemic swept through the
packed slums of Monrovia. When he first felt the
severe headache and fever, he knew that to stay
would be to die and be bulldozed into the mass
graves like all the others. America – yes, there
they could help him.
He was lucky; he had the money not only to buy the
airline ticket but to pay the bribes that let him
avoid any questions at customs. Not in America, of
course; they would catch him at the airport and send
him back to die. Instead, he came through Mexico,
where a $1,000 bought him a wave through the
turnstile. Now was the easy part – to cross into
America through its porous southern border and claim
asylum while he sought treatment. Even in Africa, he
had heard that American hospitals were required by
law to treat anyone who asked for help, including
those in America illegally.
The coyote nodded and helped Mbune up into the truck
as the others took his arms and pulled when he
faltered. African crossers were unusual but not
unknown; while most were Latin American, he had
taken over Asians, Arabs and everyone else. To him,
pollos were pollos, and their dollars – he only took
dollars – all spent the same. With the promise of
amnesty in the air, business was good.
As the coyote walked to the cab, he noticed a smear
of blood on his hand. The coyote figured he had cut
himself and thought no more of it. He started the
truck and drove out of Ciudad Juarez.
At the drop-off point an hour later, the other
crossers were upset. Mbune had begun coughing up
blood in the packed compartment. The coyote told
them to shut-up, grab their packs and follow him
north on the desert trail. He had them pause at the
border to he observe. As usual these days, the
Border Patrol was nowhere to be seen, so he led them
across and into the United States. There was no
fence to stop them.
A couple hours and several hard miles later, Mbune
fell to his knees and vomited out a great gush of
red. “Sangre!” one of the women said in horror.
Mbune was rolling on the desert floor now, moaning.
The coyote looked around. No Border Patrol, but that
might not last. He had done what he had been paid to
do; the man was in the United States.
“Leave him,” he said, chasing away the women who had
bent down to help the sick man. “Move!”
Reluctantly, the women stood and followed the group,
wiping the blood that stained their hands on their
coats as the sound of the dying African receded in
the distance.
Carlos Gomez steadied himself over the stove,
another wave of stomach pain nearly knocking him off
balance and onto the sizzling eggs and bacon. He
coughed, doing his best to cover his mouth with his
sleeve. It came away from his face red again, but he
was not going to lose this good new job. Kansas City
was expensive, and though he roomed with a dozen
other illegals, he needed every penny for the many
back home he was now supporting. He had come too far
to let a cold stop him from working; he gave no
thought to the sick African he had shared a truck
ride with the week before.
Maria Fernandez’s sister had gotten her a job as a
nanny for a family in Las Vegas. The mother was very
glamorous and liked to try out her Yankee-accented
high school Spanish. Maria patiently went along, but
her heart was with the three adorable little
children. “Yo te quiero,” the little girl had said,
hugging her new nanny and smiling as Maria walked
her to the elementary school. “I love you. I hope
you feel better!”
“What do you mean we can’t say that?” demanded Dr.
Jim Talmadge. The Centers for Disease Control (CDC)
doctor rarely suffered fools gladly, and today he
was suffering greatly. “The infection is in the
illegal immigrant community. We have to tell
people.”
“Undocumented workers,” Chelsea Puig corrected him.
The 26-year old White House aide had graduated from
Harvard with a double major in Sociology and
Feminist Theory, qualifying her to explain the
situation to the 30-year epidemiologist. “We are not
going to allow negative stereotyping and speculation
let racist Teabaggers mislead the American people
about our immigration policies.”
“Negative stereotyping? We have over 100 known Ebola
cases in the undocumented worker communities in ten
different cities. It won’t stay there. We have to
tell people the truth. We have to stop it.”
“Your truth,” Puig sniffed. “is frankly more than a
little racist.”
“Hey stupid, truth isn’t racist. It’s truth,” he
shouted. “I know what this is. The midterms are
coming and you political hacks are terrified because
this came through the border you wouldn’t close. We
told you this could happen. We told you but you
wouldn’t listen. And you aren’t going to shut me up.
I’m going to the media.” Puig snarled, stood, and
left the meeting.
An hour later, Dr. Talmadge’s supervisor and two men
in suits walked into his office. The epidemiologist
looked up from his forecasting models – they
predicted that the virus would spread exponentially
– and asked, “What is this, and who are these guys?”
“Jim, I’m sorry but we’re suspending you
indefinitely while you’re being investigated for
violating the CDC’s sexism and harassment policies,”
he said reluctantly, seemingly embarrassed. “It
was…orders.”
Before the stunned Dr. Talmadge could respond, the
taller of the men in suits produced an ID and a
badge. “I’m Agent Duffy of Homeland Security. I’m
here to formally notify you of your mandatory
confidentiality requirements. If you disclose
confidential information related to your former
position, you will be arrested, you will be
prosecuted, and you will go to prison.”
Several days later, a glamorous mother of three in
Las Vegas found herself caring for three very ill
little children without the help of her nanny, who
had left sick one day and never returned. Other moms
from her kids’ classes were texting her about how
their kids were sick too.
At the same time, a dozen people who had eaten
breakfast a few days before at one particular Kansas
City diner found themselves sicker than they’d ever
been before in their lives. In a crowded house not
far away, a dozen illegals debated what to do about
their friend Carlos, who had died the night before,
bleeding out from every orifice in his body.
In Ciudad Juarez, an Arab man looked closely at the
coyote he was paying to help him cross the border
with a dozen equally serious friends and the bulging
backpacks they jealously guarded from prying eyes.
“Are you sick?” the Arab asked. “You look sick.”
“I am fine,” replied the coyote, though he felt
anything but. Still, sick as he was, these Arabs
were paying too much for his help to pass up.
The Arab, an Iraqi who had spent the last decade
fighting the infidels, nodded. All he needed was for
this dog to get them over the border. Once that
happened, they’d kill the Mexican and wait for their
compatriots already in the United States to pick
them up and drive them to their targets in cities
across the country. There must be no witnesses who
could compromise this martyrdom operation.
He smiled, his hand instinctively reaching inside
his jacket to caress the knife he had used to kill
so many prisoners. While the United States was in a
panic over this Ebola outbreak, he and his friends
from the Islamic State, and the 40 kilograms of
Semtex
plastic explosive looted for Assad’s stockpiles that
each was carrying north, would soon give the
American devils something to truly panic about.