Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2]

by Craig McDonough

  “They most likely won’t fire on us with a crowd of people around, either,” Mike added.

  As the chopper started back toward the inn, they ran for the entrance.

  They’d only traveled a few yards before Steve spoke up. “But what if they have photos? They might close the place down and search one by one. We—”

  “Would you rather wait out here where you’ll be shot for resisting arrest?” Grace was sick of his whining and wasn’t going to tolerate it any longer. She didn’t wait for an answer from the reporter and continued. The others followed.

  From the parking lot, they could hear late seventies British punk rock playing—loud. A banner above the entrance said, “The Vaccinations 9:30–1:30,” accompanied by an image of four tattooed and heavily pierced musicians.

  Tilford pointed at the sign. “I think I’ve had just about as much as I can take of that.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure more vaccinations are the last thing you want to know about!” Mike started to laugh, but stopped as the chopper approached came closer. “Get inside. Quickly, get inside!”

  Inside the Slippery Dick, they found themselves in a foyer, which appeared to be a recent addition, that contained a small ticket booth to one side. The inside of the entrance was bathed in a soft red light, just enough light for the cashier to see but not so much that it would disturb the performers in the next room. The stage was through an archway and to the left about twenty yards. There was a big crowd here tonight—enough to get your face lost in the crowd—and the smell of stale beer and sweat was prominent.

  A young girl of barely twenty, came from the central area into the foyer. Her hair was in shoulder-length pigtails. One side was platinum blonde, the other was pink. She wore tight red shorts with straps that came over her white T-shirt, which said in bold black letters, “Punk Fuckin’ Rock!” accompanied by pictures of notable punk rock artists from the era of the late seventies and early eighties.

  “I’m sorry,” she shouted as she walked to the booth, “I was groovin’ to the band. Have you been here long?”

  “No, we just got here,” Mike answered. He had the deepest voice, which helped with the conversation. The noise from the band was deafening.

  “Okay, it's six fifty to get in.” She also held up all fingers of one hand and the index of the other. After that she pumped all ten fingers, five times.

  Six fifty.

  Not one of them had a cent to their name, but they did have a TV reporter and a cameraman. Time for Steve to step up and do his part.

  “Tell her we’re here from the TV station and want to do a documentary on the venue and the revival of punk rock. The fans that follow and the bands that perform here. And you sell it good.” Mike whispered into Steve’s ear during a break from the three-chord sledgehammer action.

  Steve was aware of the importance of his role. Failure meant Mike most likely would beat him senseless, or leave him to the cops—who probably had orders to do the same. The Vaccinations ten-minute presented the opportunity to talk to pink-and-platinum pigtails without screaming to be heard over the music about the non-existent documentary. His spin was rushed with little sense, but he didn’t need sense or logic to excite the cashier. The moment Steve mentioned the TV station and filming, her eyes lit up like floodlights.

  “Oh, wow! That’s just so fantastic! I’ll get the manager, I’m sure he’ll want to know right away—I mean like now, man.”

  Steve watched with amusement as she clapped her hands and jumped on the spot, before running off with a little skip-jump motion which made her pigtails flail about in opposite directions from each other.

  Mike slapped a hand on the reporter’s back, then motioned for everyone to go into the main area but toward the back, away from the lights of the bar on the side and the stage upfront.

  Moments later, police officers in standard uniforms entered through the front, back, and side doors. They paused for a moment and stared into the crowd and the surroundings, then moved in. As soon as the punk fans noticed the presence of the law, they gave them the usual reception. Boos, jeers and calls of “fuck off, dogs!” were the norm, but stopped the instant the Vaccinations appeared back onstage with an evil, muted staccato riff that came directly from hell. To the fans shock and consternation, two officers from the Des Moines Police Air Wing climbed up on stage—right up there with the band. As one cop pulled instrument cables from the Marshall amps the other grabbed a microphone and called for calm—not a likely scenario.

  Their death warrant had been signed, sealed, and was about to be delivered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Please, we need your assistance. There has been—” he managed to get out before the crowd started chanting.

  “BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT!”

  The guitarist for the Vaccinations, completely pissed that the band was interrupted—and by fucking cops, no less—turned his guitar around. Holding it by the neck, he swung it like an axe. The body of the guitar connected with the back of the cop’s head in what was a terrific blow. The sound was heard by everyone inside the Slippery Dick, even without amplification.

  “FUCK YEAH!” the angry crowd cried, pumping their fists. Des Moines’ finest were about to find out that you don’t fuck with a punk rock concert by the Vaccinations!

  Other officers rushed to the aid of their fallen comrade—or tried to—the mob of punk fans pounced on them, preventing any rescue attempt.

  “This is our chance.” Grace grabbed Tilford and pulled him toward the front door.

  Three more police officers ran through the front door just as Mike—who had taken the lead—got there.

  “By the stage, officer. Your men need help and fast!” Mike pointed in the direction of the angry mob.

  “Let's go!” the first officer ordered, while drawing his baton. The other two did the same and followed.

  “Shouldn’t we do something? They’ll get killed in there!” Steve said to the others when he got outside.

  “I’ve had just about enough from you.” Delaney took hold of Steve’s arm and spun him around. “What do you think they intended to do with us—read us our rights?”

  “We don’t have time for this. If you want to go back and help them you’re welcome, but we’re out of here,” Mike added his two-cents to the conversation, gave a quick glance back at the entrance then moved away.

  The others fell in behind, leaving Steve by himself.

  “Wait. Wait up,” Steve called. He may have been stubborn or full of himself or just plain shit-scared, but he knew where his best chances of survival lay.

  “Which road goes to Des Moines?” Delaney asked.

  “I think it’s that one, why?” Mike pointed to his left.

  “There’ll be a lot more cops on their way soon. Not for us, but to attend to that.” Delaney pointed back at the Slippery Dick and, more specifically, the riot taking place inside. “We need to go in the opposite direction and put some distance between ourselves and Des Moines—at least for the moment.”

  “For the moment?” Tilford questioned. “If this outbreak of the Baltic Flu is anything like you think, then don’t we need to make our departure more permanent?”

  “What possible reason could you have for going back, if that is what you’re thinking?” Steve would always be a reporter, no matter the situation.

  “There’s no time to explain now. Trust me, I’ll—”

  “Hey over here, this one's open,” Richard interrupted the CDC officer.

  The TV news camera operator had found a plain gray Chrysler 200. It was exactly the type of car they needed—wouldn’t attract attention from the many patrol cars out on the roads—and there would be many.

  Grace knew the parties involved in this massive racket would use every available resource at their disposal to look for them. Those that weren’t in their pocket no doubt bought the lies from the more powerful ones who did the selling. Huge bonuses waited for whoever could silence Grace Delaney and her friends—permanently.

/>   As Mike drove out of the parking lot, the need to lie low for a couple of days was discussed and unanimously agreed. An out-of-the-way motel was decided as their best bet—long as all five weren’t seen. The realization that the lives of millions of Americans were dependent on their survival hadn’t hit them—yet.

  2

  Two

  Even in the worst of emergencies, Calgleef never worked this late. After his flight back to Atlanta, he took a cab and headed straight to his office at the CDC building. His NSA contact told him that it might be a good idea, in case Thorncroft called. Calgleef knew these intelligence types never suggested anything; they knew exactly what was about to happen.

  Calgleef poured himself a drink as soon as he got to his office—he needed one. After some more thought on the matter, he asked aloud, “Just who the hell does he work for?”

  The NSA spook was always near and seemed to know everyone's next step—including Calgleef’s—before they made it. Still, he wondered because the agent–at times—acted like his contact with Thorncroft was indirect—or perhaps it was through surveillance only.

  Was he watching me to find out Thorncroft’s moves or mine, should I have cold feet? Maybe he was a part of the overall conspiracy but there to safeguard government departments and officials should things go south? Or was it a massive sting operation by the NSA? Calgleef knew the NSA were masters of such deception, just like their sister agency—the CIA.

  Calgleef dismissed the thought. If his NSA contact was gathering evidence on the entire sordid scheme, he already had enough to indict many government department heads—the Director of the FDA, top agents within the Bureau, many police from various states, and on and on. He would also have enough to approach Interpol to issue an international warrant on Thorncroft.

  But he hadn’t, so the Agency’s or Brown’s job must have been to protect the participants and guarantee the success of the racket.

  “That’s what it is, all right. Makes Al Capone look like a petty thief!” he said, then sipped his bourbon as he looked at his watch. He would finish this drink and if the phone didn’t ring, he’d make his calls to put the plan—as discussed by the agent and himself—into action.

  Just as he’s finished that thought, the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID He knew who it would be. “Calgleef.”

  “Mr. Calgleef. How lucky I am to catch you, it must be very late in Atlanta?”

  “That's okay, Mr. Thorncroft. I had to attend to a few things after my trip to Des Moines. Minor paperwork, that sort of stuff.”

  He seems genuinely surprised to have caught me here.

  “I thought it best to call you at your office. I thought it would look more, official, shall we say, between my company and the CDC. Now, tell me about Des Moines. It was last reported the escapees had been followed to a public establishment of some sort, is that correct?”

  Calgleef had his explanation for why Thorncroft didn’t want to use a private phone. Cutting all personal connections would make it appear like official business only. “Yes, sir. It appears they made it to a roadside bar on the outskirts of Des Moines called the Slippery Dick. That’s the latest information I have.”

  There was a slight pause before Thorncroft continued. “And what of the hospital itself?”

  “Undoubtedly sir, there has been a breach in containment—I’m still waiting for updates on that situation—but suffice to say, the Legionnaires' disease won’t hold water any longer.”

  “And you suggest…?”

  “That we tell the truth, that it is the Baltic flu. We can lay the blame on Moya as the carrier, that the exemption given to him for air travel was negligent, but given the desperate circumstances of the US government, it was perhaps lucky to get away with just this one breach. Moya makes the perfect candidate, when we consider the amount of people he had been exposed to. We can tie it in—the Legionnaires’, the flu shots, and Moya who had close contact with the terminally ill—a case of coincidence and negligence, but that’s all.” Calgleef surprised himself with his clandestine ploy.

  “Won’t this cause a panic in your city?”

  “Nothing that can’t be controlled. The governor could go on TV and call for calm, that certain measures are necessary for public safety, and that a vaccine for the citizens of Des Moines is on its way—courtesy of the federal government, the CDC, and Thorn Pharmaceuticals. We’ll kill a few birds with one stone, Mr. Thorncroft.”

  “How so, Calgleef?” Thorncroft dropped the mister, but still sounded remarkably calm.

  “We calm the population, who’ll be expecting relief in the form of the vaccine shots. We’ll get positive publicity for the state and federal government and for my department—and of course, for you as well. All of which, went out of the way to get the vaccine to the people of Des Moines in time. Once that news gets out, people will line up across the country like they were getting free tickets to a Rolling Stones concert.”

  Calgleef assumed the silence which followed was indicative of Thorncroft thinking the process over and didn’t press for a response.

  “Yes, indeed, that does sound like a win for us all, doesn’t it? You’ve done well, Mr. Calgleef, very well. Thank you for taking the time to have this little chat, I’ll bid you a good night and let you get some rest.”

  I’m sure you’ll need it. Thorncroft didn’t say it, but Calgleef thought it.

  After he put the phone down, Calgleef looked at his drink for a good moment, then knocked it back in single gulp.

  “That bastard was too fucking calm the entire time. He already knew that shit and just wanted to make sure I—and more importantly, the CDC—was still onboard and would stay the journey. Been talking with Brown no doubt. He never once asked about the officers—my officers—that were killed when they entered the hospital.”

  Annoyed, Calgleef poured another drink—and not the last of the night either. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept on the office couch in the years he had served as director.

  Thorncroft pushed his large frame back into his leather chair at the very exclusive London club where he took morning coffee. A satisfied and lecherous smirk appeared on his face. The Director of the CDC was more than adequately steering the ship in the interests of Thorn Bio-Tech, but that wasn’t what occupied his mind. The Slippery Dick, the name of the roadside inn that Delaney and her friends had fled into, conjured many images that brought a smile to his face.

  “Mr. Thorncroft, sir, you don’t wish to wait for your breakfast, it’s—”

  “No, no. No time, I’ve got important things to do!” Thorncroft told the servant as he put down his coffee, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. If his young concubine, Jason, thought he was to have a sleep-in, he had another thought coming. The Slippery Dick Inn may have been in Des Moines, Iowa, but here in London, Thorncroft intended to slip his in as soon as he got home.

  “Ah, money, power, and all the young men it could buy. What a life!” he said in the back seat of his soundproof stretch limo. As long as he could keep the virus under control, and on the North American and Western European continents, he would have all of it.

  3

  Three

  Calgleef sat back with another drink. He couldn’t get his NSA contact—or the man’s motivations—off his mind. If this agent was protecting the principals from any fallout, then Calgleef believed he’d be fucked. For the principals, however, there was none better than the top intelligence agency—or rogue elements within—to cover your tracks should things go awry. He couldn’t concern himself with that right now. He had a plan to get into motion, and needed to do it before he had too many drinks.

  First, he called his counterpart at the Food and Drug Administration. He informed the Director of the FDA of Delaney’s escape along with the four others she was previously apprehended with. Because of their personal contact, with the known carrier of the Baltic Flu, the CDC director explained, their escape put everyone in Des Moines in jeopar
dy. The two directors agreed an immediate curfew and quarantine of Des Moines was necessary.

  “I’ve been informed that emergency vaccines are being prepared by Thorn Bio-Tech and will be here within days. We’ll need to do a joint press conference to announce this and to ask for calm across the city.”

  “Yes, yes indeed. Good thinking, Calgleef.”

  “The governor will have to declare a state of emergency and order the National Guard to erect barricades on all roads and streets leading into the city.”

  “That could make people feel uncomfortable…”

  “We have to make them understand it’s just precautionary and for their benefit.” Calgleef was quick to head off any negativity. “They’ll understand when the vaccines arrive, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll get that into motion.”

  “After you do that, grab a few hours’ sleep—we’ll need to keep our strength up!”

  Calgleef put the phone down and picked up his drink—his third, or was it his fourth? He was beyond caring. The FDA Director would make the arrangements. As far as the reasons why Des Moines had to be sealed off, the NSA would inform the president and other members of the cabinet and he, as head of the CDC, could sit back and lie through his teeth about how the combined departments of the United States had everything under control. Specifically, under control were the bank accounts of Thorn Bio-Tech’s CEO and owner, along with the individual government officials guaranteed massive inducements to play along.

  Calgleef wasn’t about to tell anyone—though he’d like to. As he sipped his bourbon he realized how much he was acting like Grace Delaney, his senior officer who he argued and fought with but who did what he couldn’t—stand up for your principles. She cared and was bold enough to ask for and seek the truth. Secretly, he admired her courage, and deep down he hoped—now that he understood the full ramifications of his treachery—she would get away. Slip through the dragnet and make it to Mexico or further south.