The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 1: Books 1 - 3 (Sick, Exit 9, & Pale Horse)

by Brett Battles

  “Matt?”

  He turned and found Jordan standing a few feet away, a closed laptop in his hand by his hip. If anyone had taken Billy’s death harder than Matt, it was Jordan. He clearly felt responsible since he was the one who had found the container. Matt had told him he had nothing to do with Billy’s and Karen’s deaths, that finding the container had been vitally important. It didn’t seem to help.

  But now, Jordan looked different, almost excited.

  “What’s up?”

  Jordan took a hesitant step forward. “I think I might have figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “How they’re distributing everything.”

  “We already know it’s the containers, at least in part.”

  “No, no. I mean who.”

  “Who?”

  “The front.”

  Matt stared at him.

  “Here. Let me show you.”

  Jordan set his laptop on Matt’s desk. As soon as it was open, a web browser page appeared for Hidde-Kel, the company whose factory the container that killed Billy had come from.

  “We already know Hidde-Kel’s the front,” Matt said.

  “Not the front. A front. I know how we can identify the others.”

  He brought up a new page. It was a map of an area surrounded by four rivers.

  “Recognize it?” Jordan asked.

  “No.”

  “There are hundreds of variations, so that’s understandable. This is Eden.”

  “Eden?”

  “Yes. These four rivers are the Pishon, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “The Tigris and Euphrates had different names when the story was written. The Euphrates was called the Phrath, and the Tigris the Hiddekel. Hidde. Kel.”

  Matt felt the skin on his face tighten. Project Eden had taken its name from the Christian version of the origins of man, when people were few and resources plentiful. Had they used the reference beyond that?

  “I found several other companies around the world utilizing the name Hiddekel or Hidde-Kel, and one even using Hid-de-kel. Not all of them are involved, but some definitely are. And that’s not all. I broadened the search and found suspect companies using Gihon, Phrath, and Pishon as part of their name.”

  He brought up another web page. The header read PISHON CHEM.

  “This company has supposedly developed a spray that it says will eradicate mosquitoes carrying malaria. It’s hired thousands of locals and is going to do a trial in dozens of major cities throughout Southeast Asia, South Asia, and Africa.” Jordan looked over at Matt. “It’s scheduled for Friday.”

  It was as if every centimeter of Matt’s skin had gone numb. Not only had Jordan potentially discovered how to ID those distributing the virus, he had also turned up a date.

  Friday was the day after tomorrow.

  Then Matt realized something else—it was also the day before Christmas Eve. In the predominantly Christian countries, the streets would be full of shoppers, easy targets for the virus.

  “We’ve only got two days?” Matt said. It wasn’t nearly enough.

  “No,” Jordan said. “Not two days. Friday starts in some of these countries in less than six hours.”

  Thirty-Two

  I.D. MINUS 10 HOURS 6 MINUTES

  LOCAL TIME 12:24 PM

  SANJAY DIDN’T RETURN to the dormitory after he found Ayush. Instead, he fled to the slum where he grew up and hid in the small, single room that belonged to Ayush. He stayed there all the next day, then through another night, scared out of his mind.

  Sage Flu. Ayush. The spray. Kusum.

  Sleep came in fits and starts—an hour here, another there—only occurring when his exhaustion momentarily won out over his fear. But it never lasted long.

  The last thing he’d eaten was the pani puri he had in front of the building on Gamdevi Road. That was over thirty-sixty hours earlier, and though he still wasn’t hungry, he knew he should eat something. He began rummaging through Ayush’s things, and had just discovered a warm bottle of cola when a rumble of voices and shouts began moving in his direction.

  He moved to the doorway and sneaked a look outside. The narrow passageway that ran in front of Ayush’s home was lined on either side by the huts that had been built with whatever material could be found—metal, wood, rubber, plastic, paper. It snaked off both ways so that Sanjay could see only thirty or forty feet in either direction.

  The noise seemed to be coming from the right. He leaned farther out until he was able to see a sliver of the alley another seventy feet down. Everything looked normal—a few people passing by, and the back of a woman who seemed to be talking to someone. Then suddenly the woman jerked around and pressed against one of the homes as three men walked by. The two in front were big and angry-looking. But it was the one behind them, the European man, who made Sanjay race out of Ayush’s room and down the passageway in the other direction. It was the mean, older man from the Pishon Chem compound. The senior manager.

  They had to be looking for him. They must have figured out he was the one who’d discovered his cousin. Of course, he’d made it easy, not showing up at work. That was all the admission of guilt they needed.

  Staying under the shelter of the slum, Sanjay cut back and forth through several alleys, trying to get as far away from the men as possible. When he finally reached an opening to the street, he paused, checking the road to make sure no one was out there waiting for him.

  It appeared to be clear, so he sprinted across, and into another warren of huts on the other side.

  When he emerged again twenty minutes later, he knew his only choice was to get out of the city. Subconsciously he touched the top of the pouch that he’d stuffed in his pocket. Inside were the syringes the woman had filled from the same vial of vaccine he’d made her take a shot from. He hadn’t been sure at first whether to believe her story, that the contents of the barrels he and the others were going to spray around the city was not intended to kill mosquitoes but the residents themselves. It seemed too crazy to even consider. But there, on the other side of the plastic wall, had been his cousin and the men who had been working with him, all suffering from a severe flu. And now, the people from Pishon had come after him.

  Get out of the city. It was the only thing he could do to survive. But there was something else he needed to do first.

  When he reached the market, he feared Kusum wouldn’t be there. Then, as soon as he saw her, he feared he wouldn’t be able to talk her into coming with him. The plan he’d thought up while he was running seemed weak now, but he had nothing better.

  “Sanjay,” she said as he approached. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “Not today,” he said. “They have given me the day off, for working so hard.”

  Kusum’s mother was sitting nearby. “Really? Since when do companies give time off for working hard? Isn’t that what you are supposed to do?”

  He forced a smile. “Apparently they do it differently in Europe.”

  “A waste of a good day, I think.”

  It was too good of a lead to pass on. “For them,” he said, “but not for me.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because I can take you and Kusum to lunch as a thank you for your kindness.”

  “And who would watch the shop?” Kusum’s mother asked.

  “Is no one else coming today?” He already knew the answer. On Thursdays it was just the two of them.

  “Do you see anyone else?”

  Sanjay bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I had only been hoping. You cannot go, so I understand.” He glanced at Kusum, then back at the mother. “Unless…it would be okay…”

  The mother raised an eyebrow. “For you to take Kusum alone?”

  “It would only be for lunch.”

  “And how long would you be gone?”

  “An hour. Two at the most.”

  “Two? And I am to be here alone the w
hole time?”

  “Mother,” Kusum said. “Don’t worry. I will stay with you.”

  Her mother huffed under her breath. “You would only mope around here all day if I don’t let you go.”

  “So she can?” Sanjay asked.

  The mother gave him a sideways glance. “As if this was not your plan all along. Yes, she can go.”

  “Thank you,” Kusum said, smiling.

  “Don’t tell your father. He won’t be happy.”

  “Of course.”

  Sanjay wanted to rush Kusum out, but he let her take her time making sure there was nothing else her mother needed her to do. Finally, they were walking through the market toward the street.

  “And where will we go to eat?” she asked.

  “Someplace special.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, worried if he said anything more, he would give himself away.

  When they reached the street, it took him only a few minutes to find someone who would rent a motorbike to him.

  Surprised, Kusum said, “Are we going far?”

  “A little far, but don’t worry. You’ll like it.”

  She seemed a little hesitant, but climbed onto the back of the bike and put her hands on his waist.

  An hour later, as they were riding—now heading east out of the city—she demanded to know where he was taking her. It was another hour, though, before he pulled onto a side road and they got off.

  “Take me back! Take me back right now!” she demanded.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Are you kidnapping me? My parents do not have any money.”

  “I’m not kidnapping you. I’m saving you.”

  “What do you mean? Saving me?”

  Without warning, he stabbed the needle into her arm and depressed the plunger. She tried to pull away, but he injected all the vaccine before she did.

  “What is this?” she asked, staggering back from him. “Are you drugging me? What is wrong with you, Sanjay?”

  “I’m not drugging you. I told you, I’m saving your life.”

  He put the other needle into his own arm.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “A vaccine.”

  “A vaccine? For what?”

  When he told her, she didn’t believe him.

  Not at first.

  Thirty-Three

  I.D. MINUS 9 HOURS 29 MINUTES

  LOCAL TIME 8:31 PM

  PALMER GROANED. THE phone was ringing again. How was he supposed to ever get out of there if he had to keep answering it?

  As usual, he was the last one in the office. He’d been hoping that in another five minutes, he’d be out the door and on his way to his friend Curtis’s house for the waiting beer and steak he’d been promised. But the damn phone! Every time it rang, it pushed his departure back further and further. Unfortunately, as the owner, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let calls go to voice mail if he was actually there. You never knew when the opportunity for new work might come in.

  On the third ring, he grabbed the receiver. “Palmer Transport & Shipping. This is John Palmer.”

  “Mr. Palmer, thank God you’re still there. This is Jordan Evans with the World Health Organization.”

  Palmer paused, caught off guard. “I’m sorry. Where?”

  “WHO. The World Health Organization.”

  Palmer leaned back. Maybe this was more work.

  “And what can Palmer Transport do for the World Health Organization?”

  “We understand that you may have been hired to do some work for a company called Hidde-Kel Holdings. Is that correct?”

  Frowning, Palmer said, “I don’t make it a habit to talk about clients.”

  “But Hidde-Kel is a client, right?”

  “I’ve done some work for them. Why is that important?”

  “Did it involve the transportation of any shipping containers?”

  “That’s a large part of the work we do here, so it wouldn’t be unusual.”

  “And where did you take them?”

  “Listen, Mr. Evans. I don’t care who you are with. If you don’t tell me why you’re asking these things, I’ll hang up right now.”

  Silence at first, then, “There was apparently a mix-up when Hidde-Kel’s containers were loaded. We believe the contents have been contaminated with material that was meant to be shipped to the Centers for Disease Control in the States.”

  Centers for Disease Control?

  “What kind of…material are we talking about?”

  “Contagious material.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Palmer, some, if not all, of the containers you handled for Hidde-Kel could be extremely harmful to whoever opens them up.”

  “This is a joke, right? Who is this, really?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer. I wish it were a joke.”

  Palmer was stunned.

  “There’s another problem,” Evans said. “According to our experts here, there’s a good chance that by tomorrow, the contamination will leak out of the containers and affect anyone nearby.” He paused. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” Palmer said.

  “Listen very carefully. We need you to collect all of the containers that came through your facility and—”

  “I’m not going to let my men near those things!”

  “I understand your feelings, but I can assure you that at this point, your men won’t be harmed. You have a chance to do something about this. If you don’t, and it starts to affect others tomorrow, you will be responsible.”

  “Don’t you try to put this on me.”

  “I’m not,” Evans said. “You’re just in the unfortunate position of being caught in the middle. The people who will blame you will be the media when they realize who put the containers in their neighborhoods. How long do you think your business could last after that happened?”

  As much as Palmer hated to admit it, the man was right. It wouldn’t matter that he’d just been doing the job he was hired to do. Once he was associated with any problems—or, God forbid, deaths—he’d be ruined.

  “What…what do I do with them once I have them?”

  “You need to dump them in the sea so that they are completely submerged.”

  “I’m sorry. Dump them in the sea?”

  “It’s a drastic measure, but the only one that will ensure no one is harmed. We have dispatched a crisis team to your location, but they won’t arrive until tomorrow. They’ll deal with things at that point. But all the containers need to be disposed tonight.”

  “Tonight? Do you realize what time it is? It’s getting on nine p.m.”

  “This is a health emergency, Mr. Palmer. The time of day is not important.”

  Palmer thought for a moment. He could probably round up enough drivers to get the containers in the Perth area, but elsewhere? “Some of the containers are quite far away. I don’t see how I could possibly get them all tonight.”

  “It doesn’t matter where they are. It needs to happen. Can you do it?”

  Palmer stared blankly at the wall across from his desk. “I’ll…try.”

  “Good. Let me give the number you can call if you have any further questions.”

  THERE WERE NEARLY two dozen people in the Bunker making calls around the world, doing whatever they could to put a dent in the Project’s plans.

  As soon as Jordan hung up, Matt asked, “Did he buy it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Will he be able to do it, though?”

  “He wasn’t sure, but he was going to try.”

  “Okay,” Matt said, wishing the answer had been more definitive. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Jordan nodded, looked down at his list, and dialed the next number.

  PALMER LOOKED OUT his window at the night sky.

  Contaminated. Extremely harmful to whoever opens them.

  How the hell had that happened?

  He turned back around and reached for his phone, intending
to call his assistant Cora at home and have her get as many drivers as quickly as possible, but he paused, his fingers touching the handset.

  Why hadn’t Mr. Vanduffel called him about this? Did the people at Hidde-Kel Holdings not even know? That seemed unlikely.

  He hesitated a few seconds longer then called Cora anyway, so that the drivers would be ready to go. As soon as he finished with her, he dialed a much longer number.

  “Hidde-Kel Holdings,” a male voice said.

  “Mr. Vanduffel, please.”

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “John Palmer. Palmer Transport & Shipping in Perth.”

  “One moment, Mr. Palmer.”

  It was over a minute before the line clicked.

  “Mr. Palmer? I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is there a problem?”

  “A big problem. Why didn’t you tell me your containers are contaminated?”

  Silence. “Did something happen?”

  “I got a phone call is what happened, from someone at the World Health Organization. He tells me your containers are contaminated and I need to dump them in the sea before tomorrow.”

  More silence. “Who exactly called you?”

  “A man named Jordan Evans.”

  “Did he give you a number?”

  “Have you not heard from them?”

  “No. We haven’t.”

  “So you know nothing about this?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Palmer frowned. “I thought they’d have called you first.”

  “Of course they would have. Which leads me to believe this Mr. Evans isn’t who he claims to be.”

  “So you think he was lying about them being contaminated?”

  “Mr. Palmer, I can assure you, the only things in those containers are what we put there. Whatever this man told you is a lie. Now, could you give me the phone number? I’d like to check it out.”

  After hanging up, Palmer didn’t know what to think. If Mr. Evans had truly been from the WHO, surely he would have called Hidde-Kel by now, but could Palmer take the chance of ignoring the warning?

  There was one thing he could do that might answer the question. Check out one of the containers himself. If he took appropriate precautions, he should be able to protect himself from anything inside. The closest one was only ten minutes away, right in Perth.