Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  The oven was on. Elliott squatted down and hit the light. It was pre-heated but empty.

  “Rose?” he called.

  No response.

  He walked to her office off the kitchen. The day’s mail lay on her desk, unopened.

  He found her in their bedroom, lying on top of the comforter, her clothes still on, the lights off. The curtains were open. The setting sun shone through the French doors that led to the patio.

  “Rose?”

  She didn’t move.

  Elliott sat on the edge of the bed and gripped her hand, feeling her pulse with his finger. She was burning up, her heartbeat rapid. He held the back of his hand to her forehead. Definitely running a fever.

  She opened her eyes and, upon seeing Elliott, instantly grew worried. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

  “Oh, no, I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  She pushed up on trembling arms, coughed, and fell back to the bed, reaching for the tissue box on the nightstand. Elliott heard the congestion in her chest as she coughed violently into a tissue. There were plenty more used tissues in the wastebasket beside the bed.

  “When did you start feeling sick?” he asked.

  “Shortly after you left this morning. It’s nothing. I’ve got to get dinner ready.”

  Elliott felt her neck. Her lymph nodes were swollen; her body was fighting an infection.

  She sneezed into the tissue, then sneezed again. Elliott brought the box closer, leaving it next to her in the bed.

  “No, Rose. You’re going to stay in bed, and I’m going to fix dinner.”

  She studied him skeptically.

  “Okay. I’m going to pick up dinner.”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand.

  He helped her out of her clothes and under the covers, then went into the bathroom to search the medicine cabinet. All the cold and flu tablets had long since expired. He found a bag of zinc lozenges and returned to the bedside with them.

  “Stay in bed, honey. Try these—they’ll help. I’ll go get dinner and some cold medicine. Be back soon.”

  Elliott ate a small snack to soak up some of the alcohol, then turned the oven off and moved the uncooked food to the refrigerator. Completing Rose’s cooking was above his pay grade; a few hot trays from Whole Foods were his usual fare when she was out of town. That would have to do for tonight.

  The drugstore parking lot was filled to capacity; Elliott actually had to wait for a spot. The scene inside took him aback. People filled the aisles and argued at the checkout line.

  What’s happening here?

  He went to the aisle that held the cold and flu medicine, but the shelves were utterly bare. Every last box and bottle of medicine was gone.

  There was a commotion at the back of the drugstore, near the pharmacy desk.

  “My kid is sick—”

  “When will you get more—”

  A pharmacy tech strode past the dropoff window and met Elliott’s eyes.

  “Excuse me,” Elliott said. “Do you have any cold medicine left?”

  The young woman shook her head as if she’d gotten that question a lot. “No, and we don’t know when we’ll get more.”

  If this was happening in Atlanta, it was likely happening across the country. Things were worse than the stats had revealed—much worse. Elliott needed to get back to work. They needed to get more aggressive, and fast. And it was now urgent that they get the virus sequenced so they could compare it with the samples from Mandera. If the viruses were the same… He didn’t want to even think about the possibility. The US wasn’t prepared for that. No country was.

  He considered calling Rose, but that might wake her. She needed her rest, and she probably wouldn’t have eaten much anyway. There were still leftovers from last night in the fridge if she did get hungry.

  On the way to the CDC, Elliott dialed his son, Ryan, in Austin. Ryan and his wife and son were scheduled to fly to Atlanta that night to spend Thanksgiving at Elliott’s home. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi. I was hoping to catch you before the flight.” Elliott could hear cars honking in the background.

  “Why? Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” Elliott lied. “Of course. Just checking on you. There’s a bug going around here.”

  “Here, too. Feels like half the city is sick,” Ryan said.

  “Adam? Samantha?” Elliott asked.

  “They’re fine. We’ve all been lucky—dodged it so far. But Adam’s day care sent all the kids home yesterday.” He paused. “We’re almost to the airport. You sure we should still come?”

  Elliott had been pondering that very question. If things went south, he would rather have his family close. And he didn’t want to worry them. “Definitely. We’re looking forward to it.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you later tonight.”

  “Be safe. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Dad.”

  At the front desk of the main CDC building on Clifton Road, Elliott swiped his access card. A red beep. He tried it again. The security guard at the desk walked over.

  “I think something’s wrong with my card,” Elliott said.

  “It’s not your card, Dr. Shapiro. Your access to the campus has been revoked.”

  “What? By whose order?” In his peripheral vision, Elliott saw two more security guards walking to the turnstile.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

  Elliott took a few steps back from the entrance, allowing other staff to make their way past. They glanced back at him. He took out his cell phone and dialed the director.

  “Steven, I’m having a problem getting into the building.”

  “Get used to it. You won’t ever get back in the building if I have anything to do with it.”

  Elliott considered playing dumb, but figured appealing to the director’s sense of duty was the stronger play. “Look, whatever you think of what I did, it’s done now. We’ve got a serious outbreak going on. We need all hands on deck—for the sake of the American people—”

  “Save it, Elliott. We’re well aware of the situation. Go home. And don’t you dare say another word to the press.”

  DAY 5

  50,000,000 Infected

  12,000 Dead

  Chapter 38

  Desmond awoke with a new, more intense pain. The welt covering the left side of his chest was like a bee sting—from a Volkswagen-sized bee.

  While he had been unconscious, they had moved him from the barn. His new cell was quite different. He was indoors, in a very new and sophisticated facility. Metal walls painted white surrounded him on three sides, and a thick glass barrier looked out onto a wide corridor. He lay on a narrow bed with a simple mattress and no sheets. This was a proper prison—and a high-tech one at that. There was a speaker in the ceiling, and a pass-through slot on the wall opposite the glass, presumably for food.

  The tranquilizer dart the soldier in the barn had shot him with had been powerful; Desmond sensed that he had been out for quite some time. And much had happened: they had taken his clothes, replaced them with green scrubs, and seen to all his wounds. He pulled up his shirt and inspected the cotton bandage on his side. It covered the shallow rut he had carved.

  His hands and feet were unbound. It felt good to be at least that free again.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how he knew, but he sensed that he was on a ship. Perhaps it was the slight movement, or simply the proportions of the space and the fact that the walls, floor, and ceiling were all metal.

  He sat on the bed and waited, for how long he didn’t know. The hum of the fluorescent lights slowly became annoying, then deafening.

  Footsteps: boots on the metal floor, marching with purpose. A man stopped in front of the glass divider and stared for a moment. Desmond recognized him instantly: the scar-faced man from his memories. His hair was longer now. The blond locks hung across his face, partially obscuring the scars. The mottled, burned flesh stre
tched up from his chest, across his neck, chin and cheeks, and stopped at his forehead. He wore a scruffy sandy-blond beard that grew in uneven patches. It did little to hide the healed wounds, which must have once been excruciating. He looked almost inhuman.

  Desmond rose and moved slowly over to the glass wall.

  “Why?” His captor’s question was laced with malice and, to Desmond’s surprise, hurt. The man seemed enraged but also vulnerable somehow.

  “Who are you?” Desmond asked.

  The man sneered and spoke with a thick Australian accent. “Drop the charade, Desmond. I don’t believe the whole amnesia bit.”

  “Look, I have absolutely no idea who you are. I woke up in a hotel room in Berlin a few days ago with no memories. I didn’t even know who I was.”

  “We’ll see about that.” The man brought a handheld radio to his face and said, “Proceed.”

  Inside the cell, a soft hissing began. Desmond looked around, searching for the source: the slot in the wall, where he had assumed food was passed. He was unconscious within seconds.

  Awareness came in slow, fuzzy waves. Desmond’s head felt heavy. He heard distorted voices, like people conversing quietly at the top of a well, with him deep inside.

  The light overhead was blinding. He was strapped to a chair similar to a dentist’s chair, his legs fully extended, his head strapped back. An IV was connected inside his elbow. A machine beeped somewhere beyond his vision.

  “What have you done with Rendition?” It was the blond, scar-faced man.

  “He’s conscious,” another man’s voice said.

  “Dose him again!”

  “You’re giving him too much. You’ve got to let it wear off.”

  “Do it.”

  When Desmond awoke once more, he was back on the narrow mattress in the metal and glass cell. His mind was sluggish, still drug-addled.

  Just beyond the glass, the blond man sat on a folding metal chair next to a small table, studying a tablet, his legs crossed. He set the device aside when Desmond stirred. His demeanor had changed: the hatred in his eyes was gone, replaced by a more serene, contemplative gaze.

  Desmond sat up. “You believe me now?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The man stood and walked to the glass.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Conner McClain. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Desmond shook his head.

  Conner turned his back to the glass. “Right now, events are taking place that will forever alter the course of human history. Behind the scenes, behind the headlines, a war is raging. Very soon, it will explode around the world.”

  Headlines, Desmond thought. “The outbreak in Kenya.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re responsible. You started it.”

  “No, Desmond. We started it.”

  The words hit Desmond like a Mack truck. He searched his feelings, wondering if it was true.

  “We’re running out of time,” Conner said. “I need your help. I need you to tell me everything that happened to you. I need you to help me stop what’s going to happen to all of us.”

  “Let me out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “Consider my position, Desmond. I don’t know what happened to you.”

  “What do you think happened to me?”

  “I see two possibilities. The first is that one of our enemies got to you. And they’re using you to try to stop us.”

  “One of our enemies?”

  “Yes. Until a few days ago, you and I were partners.”

  “Partners in what?”

  “The greatest scientific endeavor in history.”

  “The Looking Glass.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the second possible reason you might have lost your memories.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you did this to yourself—that you betrayed us and our cause. That’s actually the more frightening scenario. Either way, I’m not sure whose side you’re on, Desmond. But if you recover your memories, you’ll know the truth of what we’re facing. You’ll know that we’re humanity’s only hope—that the Looking Glass is our only hope.”

  “There are three pieces,” Desmond said. “Rook, Rendition, and Rapture.”

  “You remember?”

  “No. The journalist told me.” Desmond’s mind flashed to the man, the fear on his face when he’d said, They have my fiancée. “What happened to him?”

  Conner averted his eyes.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “We sent him on an all-expenses paid trip to Disneyland, Desmond. What do you think happened to him?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Rendition.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your life’s work. Your piece of the Looking Glass.”

  Sitting on the narrow bed, Desmond tried to remember anything about Rendition. Nothing came to him. The word evoked no memories—only a feeling: it must be protected. Instinctively, Desmond knew that if Conner gained possession of Rendition, an unimaginable catastrophe would occur, a loss of life on a scale never seen before.

  He looked up. “What about the other components of the Looking Glass?”

  “Rook is my project. It’s almost complete.”

  “And Rapture?”

  “Is safely secured by our partner. Listen, Des. It’s imperative that you remember what you’ve done with Rendition. Lives are at stake; the very future of the human race.”

  The two men stared at one another, each trying to read the other.

  The hatch to the corridor opened, and a man and woman marched in. They set a laptop and a flat-screen monitor on the table where Conner had been sitting. They turned the screen to face Desmond’s cell.

  “What’s this?”

  “We’re going to try to help you remember.”

  The woman typed on the laptop, and a picture appeared on the screen. It showed a young, blond-haired boy, perhaps seven years old, standing next to a tall, ruddy-faced man in overalls. An oil rig towered behind them.

  Desmond studied both faces. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do you remember him?”

  Desmond had seen the older man’s face once before—in a memory.

  Out of pure instinct, Desmond lied.

  “No.”

  To the woman, Conner said, “Keep at it. Call me if you make any breakthroughs.”

  Chapter 39

  When Conner had slipped out of view, Desmond again looked at the picture on the screen. Seeing it did bring back a memory. An unpleasant one.

  Soon after arriving in Oklahoma, Desmond learned why Charlotte had been so hesitant to put him on the airplane. Despite being his next of kin, Orville Hughes had no use for Desmond, or any five-year-old boy for that matter. The man was tall and muscular, with a mean face, constantly arranged in a sneer.

  He lived just south of Oklahoma City, in a small farmhouse outside Slaughterville. Orville worked on the oil rigs, usually on two- or three-week shifts, after which he’d be home for a few weeks. Desmond was largely left to fend for himself. He looked forward to the time alone.

  When Orville was home, he drank whiskey late into the night and slept half the day. Sometimes he listened to music, mostly cowboy songs. The rest of the time he watched reruns of old Westerns. Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Have Gun—Will Travel were his favorites. Desmond wasn’t allowed to speak or make noise in any way when a movie with Charles Bronson, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood was on. He was, however, required to cook and clean. His uncle meted out punishment only once for non-compliance. That was enough for Desmond.

  He soon identified a pattern to his uncle’s drinking. The first half of a bottle barely affected the man. The remainder was like a potion that changed him completely. He got meaner with every swallow. He talked more, sometimes to himself, som
etimes at Desmond, his English accent growing thicker by the minute.

  He talked about his childhood, in London, after the war. Everything was prefaced with after the war.

  “You think your life is hard, boy? You don’t know a thing about hard living. After the war, that was hard. You’re soft, boy. Your daddy was soft too. He took over that sheep ranch from your mother’s family, lived the soft life. Raised a soft little brat.”

  He talked about work on the rigs, how hard it was, how heroic he was. Late at night, when he was deep into the bottle, he talked about the accidents: men losing fingers, hands, entire limbs. Deaths. The stories were gruesome. When Desmond couldn’t take it anymore, he got up to leave. That was a mistake. His uncle yelled at him not to walk away when he was talking to him. “You’re so soft you can’t even bear to hear about real men’s work, can you?”

  He took another swallow of whiskey.

  “Can you?”

  He studied Desmond.

  “You watched them die, didn’t you? Then you ran away. That’s why you got them scars on your legs—from running.”

  He had argued then. That was his worst mistake of all. He learned after that. His uncle only wanted a verbal punching bag. It was like Orville was using his words to drain the poison out of himself. He didn’t want that poison returned. Desmond learned to sit in silence.

  A few weeks after he arrived in Oklahoma City, Desmond learned why the bitter man had taken him in. Orville was standing in the kitchen, the phone cord stretching from the wall, muttering about how much the call to Australia was costing him. When the line connected, he demanded to know when the money would arrive. Desmond sat in the living room, listening.

  “I don’t care if it’s burned worse than the gates of Hell! You sell that bloody property and send the money. That was the deal.”

  A pause.

  “Well send the money or I’ll send the snot-nosed brat back, and you can deal with him.”

  Desmond felt the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn’t bear to let that monster see him cry or to stay there another minute. He grabbed the rifle by the door and ran out of the house, into the early March afternoon. He had decided: he was running away. He would live off the land, build another fort, live there until he could get a real job and get away.