Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)
Page 24
When the team had first arrived, kids had interrupted their soccer games as the convoy passed, or rushed to the streets to get a glimpse of the visitors. Villagers carting produce and herding livestock had clogged the thoroughfare. Now there was not a soul in sight. The buildings, both new and ramshackle, lay empty. To Millen, it felt like a ghost town from America’s West—an African version of Dodge City. A boom town gone bust. But a different kind of boom had gone off in Mandera: a biological bomb, perhaps more deadly than any the world had ever witnessed before.
Millen expected the city’s, and possibly the region’s, last survivors to be concentrated at the hospital. But he found the tent complex empty and disheveled. Someone had raided every thing of use. The food, and every last medical supply box, was gone. Some water remained, likely because it was too heavy to carry.
“We’ll run out of food before the transport gets here,” Millen said. “The soldiers only left me a little.”
“We’ll search the town,” Halima said. “We’ve become good at scavenging.”
Millen got the PPE out of the back of the truck and began donning it.
Halima pointed at the hospital. “You’re going in there?”
“Yeah. It’s my job.”
The halls of the hospital were lined with empty buckets, bottles, and boxes that had once held medical supplies. The debris was stacked in tumbling heaps, with only a narrow walkway between them, like a mountain pass had been carved in the piles of used medical waste. Millen stepped carefully through the halls, mindful not to snag the suit or step on a needle. A mistake could be deadly.
In the large open room where Hannah had taken the samples, he found rows of dead bodies. Some held wooden crosses at their chests, their eyes closed. Others stared upward, glassy-eyed, at ceilings fans that sat idle. At the back of the room, body bags were stacked against the wall, a black plastic staircase of human death that led nowhere. Flies swarmed.
There were no unopened or unused medical supplies. No uneaten MREs. The room told the story of a medical mission slowly losing its battle against disease. They had bagged and burned the bodies for as long as they could, then had focused on the ones they hoped would survive. And then they had pulled out.
Millen was certain he would find no survivors here. Or food.
He wandered the halls after that, peering into the patient rooms, being thorough, looking for any clues or observations he could take back to Atlanta. He found only dead bodies, all with the same hemorrhaging, jaundiced eyes, and signs of severe dehydration.
Suddenly, he heard a rustling. Just down the hall from him, boxes fell to the floor. He raced toward the noise, moving as fast as he could in the bulky suit. At an open doorway, he peered in.
Empty.
Something darted from beneath a rolling cart. It dashed toward him, between his legs, and out into the hall.
Millen stepped back and turned quickly. A bat-eared fox. The sight of the animal filled him with excitement. He’d read about them before the deployment, but had never seen one. He would have loved to have seen it up close. The small fox fed mostly on termites and other insects—spiders, ants, and millipedes in particular—but also occasionally ate fungi or small animals. They hunted not by sight or smell, but sound, their large ears helping them locate even the smallest insects on the sprawling savannas of Africa. They were mostly monogamous, and the male, not the female, took the lead with caring for their young.
Another bat-eared fox emerged from the room, followed by another. That made sense; they were highly social animals that typically hunted in packs.
Behind him, Millen heard a door creak open. To his shock, an African man stood there, leaning against the door frame. He was weak, barely alive. But for the first time since Millen had entered the hospital, a living set of human eyes stared back at him.
The survivor tried to take a step, but his legs were unsteady. Millen was at his side in seconds, offering his hand to steady the man.
“I’m Millen Thomas. With the CDC.”
The middle-aged African surveyed Millen’s face through the suit’s helmet. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Elim Kibet.”
Millen knew the name. “You’re the physician in charge here.”
Elim smiled weakly. “Was the physician in charge here. I’m just a patient now.”
“I think you might be the last one.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Millen said.
“No. Thank you, but I need to walk. My fever broke this morning. And I’ve been in that room too long. In bed too long. I need to use my muscles before I lose them.”
For the next thirty minutes, Millen helped Elim pace around the hospital. The older physician looked into the patient rooms as they passed. At the large open room, he paused for a long time, his bloodshot eyes filling with water.
Millen couldn’t imagine what it was like for the physician—being trapped in the place where he had worked, where he had saved lives and done so much good. A prisoner inside his own failing body, barely able to walk, unable to escape from a deserted, post-apocalyptic realm. Millen wondered how he would react if he were trapped alone inside the CDC building in Atlanta, the outside world having fallen apart. It was a nightmare. But the horror of this place hadn’t broken the Kenyan doctor’s will to live. Millen was glad.
For the most part, they walked in silence. Elim gasped for breath as he put one staggering leg in front of the other. Millen held him as best he could. It was a furnace inside the suit, and sweat poured down Millen’s face. He couldn’t wait to take it off, but he wouldn’t leave the man’s side, not until he was finished.
When Elim was too weak to proceed, Millen helped him back to his room and into bed.
“It’s amazing how quickly the muscles atrophy,” Elim said. “If disease doesn’t kill you, lying in bed will.”
Millen nodded.
Elim motioned to the cart. “There’s food there. Take some.”
“Thank you, but some people with me are scouring the town. We’ll be fine.”
“The rest of your team is here as well?”
“No. They’re gone. Our camp was raided while I was away. Most of my team was killed, along with the Kenyan soldiers assigned to protect us. Two of my team members were abducted.”
Elim exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. Disasters are an opportunity for the worst of humanity. And the best.”
A pause, then Elim asked, “Were you close to your colleagues?”
Millen hesitated. “I’ve only been working with them for six months. But I was getting closer to one in particular. My…” he grasped for the right word, settled on, “roommate.”
Elim smiled. “Does your roommate have a name?”
“Hannah Watson.” Not knowing what else to say, Millen described her briefly. Talking about her actually helped; he didn’t realize before then how hard it was to think about her—or to even say her name.
Elim thought for a moment. “Yes. I remember her. She took the samples when you were here last. Very thorough.”
Millen smiled. “Yes. She’s very thorough.” He grew quiet. “They shot her when they invaded the camp. She was one of the ones who was abducted. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead.”
Elim spoke slowly. “I’ve recently learned the value of something I’ve never had much use for: faith. Last night, I thought I would never leave this room. Have faith and patience, Dr. Thomas. Time works miracles. We must have the courage to wait for them.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, sweat dripping from Millen’s brow, soaking his face, the taste of salt touching his lips.
When Elim had caught his breath, he asked, “If your team is gone, who is searching the town?”
“Survivors. From a village nearby.”
Elim looked surprised. “They were given ZMapp?”
“No. They survived the virus.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m taking them back to Atlanta. Hopefu
lly we can study the antibodies for clues about how to treat the infection.”
“Have you told them?”
“I have. They know what they’re signing up for. They’ve agreed.”
“Good. It’s a good plan.”
“When will you be ready to move again?” Millen asked.
Elim peered out the window at the sun. “If you must, come again at sunset. It will be cooler.”
Halima and the other two survivors returned pushing a cart filled to the brim with produce and packaged food. They joined Millen in the main tent and sat around the long table, sharing in a bizarre feast of junk food, MREs, fresh produce, and soft drinks.
When the sun began to set over the rocky hills in the distance, Millen again donned the suit. He was about to coat it with chlorine when Elim emerged from the hospital, pushing the cart full of supplies that had stood in his room.
In seconds, Millen and the survivors were at his side.
“I didn’t want to spend another night in there,” Elim said, panting.
“I don’t blame you,” Millen said.
He introduced the Kenyan physician to the villagers, and the five of them made their way to the tent complex, which they set about transforming into a makeshift rehabilitation facility for Elim.
Chapter 51
In Atlanta, the day had gone mostly as Elliott had expected. The stock market crash had rattled everyone. It was a cloud that hung over the euphoria of Black Friday.
The most difficult part of his plan had been convincing the other five families to pool their money with his for the purchases, which together added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars. They had begun by renting two twenty-six-foot U-Haul trucks. They drove them to Costco and filled them with survival necessities. It was mostly food; Elliott planned to be near a freshwater source if worst came to worst.
Next, they purchased two high-end RVs. The price was exorbitant, but they carried a thirty-day money-back guarantee, and they only had to make a down payment—the remainder was financed. Elliott had assured his neighbors that within thirty days, they would either be incredibly glad to have the two homes on wheels—or they’d have their money back.
Now he sat in his study, watching the news, waiting for the event he believed would come.
He hoped he was wrong.
DAY 7
900,000,000 Infected
180,000 Dead
Chapter 52
Desmond’s captors were trying a new approach. Gone were the teams that showed him pictures and played music. Now three skinny white guys were camped out at a long folding table, typing on their laptops. Black cords snaked out of their computers, connecting to dozens of cell phones and tablets.
Periodically, the three stooges, as Desmond had nicknamed them, would erupt in an argument. They stood, shouted, paced, pointed, and threw their hands up. He couldn’t hear them, though—they had turned off the speaker in his cell—so he could only watch the three guys argue like a silent slapstick comedy.
He had almost drifted off to sleep when a fourth figure entered the scene beyond the thick glass wall. She struck a sharp contrast with the greasy-haired guys. She was tall, blond, with piercing green eyes. She glanced at Desmond, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, then turned away. The exchange was so brief that he instantly wondered if he had imagined it. She focused her attention on a tablet and tapped several times.
The speaker in his cell crackled to life. Did she turn it on? Why?
“Where are we?” she asked, her tone forceful.
“Grasping at straws,” the closest programmer said.
“Grasp harder. We’re running out of time.”
Desmond wanted to turn toward them, but his instincts took over. He sensed that she—or whoever had turned the speaker on—wanted to keep that action a secret from the programmers or anyone watching the video feed. So he lay still in the bed, occasionally glancing over, showing only mild interest in the scene playing out.
“You know, telling us to work faster doesn’t actually help us, Avery. It just wastes our time.” The stooge grinned insincerely. “And I’ve heard we’re running out of time.”
“I see what you did there. That’s cute.” She raised her voice. “What would be helpful?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe some actual clue about what we’re looking for.” The programmer held his skinny white arms in the air and shook his hands theatrically. “I know that sounds super crazy. Like, why would we even need to know what we’re looking for?”
Avery turned away from them and once again fixed Desmond with a quick, fleeting glance. He thought this one said, Pay attention. Somehow he knew her. They were in sync, understood each other, like two friends who had known each other a very long time. Or lovers.
Avery’s tone was more measured when she spoke to the programmers again. “Look, Byron, you have all the information you’re going to get. Hughes has a Rapture Therapeutics implant in his brain. We think it’s been adapted to release memories. We know he has a substance throughout his hippocampus—in the memory center of his brain. Something sends a signal to the implant to unblock the memories. And somewhere in those memories is the key to finding Rendition. Without Rendition, the Looking Glass will never work. It’s very simple: you figure out how to trigger that implant, he remembers, we interrogate him, recover Rendition, and everyone lives happily ever after. You fail, the entire Looking Glass project goes down the tubes.”
Byron shook his head in disgust and looked over at the guy sitting next to him. “You know, I wish some useless hot chick would tell me a bunch of stuff I already know and pretend like she’s helping me.”
Avery’s tone betrayed no emotion. “I’m trying to help you see the big picture and anything you’ve overlooked. And, I’m trying to impress upon you the stakes of your task.”
“You think I don’t know?”
“I think you lack motivation.”
“Are you kidding? McClain telling me I better get this done or else is all the motivation I need. That guy’s like a walking Nightmare on Elm Street. Actually, Freddy Krueger’s got nothing on him.”
Avery smirked. “You know he’s watching right now.”
Byron went pale. The other two programmers slowly leaned away from him.
Avery broke into a grin. “Kidding.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is. That’s how scared you ought to be all the time—why you need to be working harder. Now—Hughes would have left himself a way to recover the memories. He may have already found it. Did you read the transcript from his interrogation?”
“Of course. He just found some prepaid credit cards and some dead ends. None of it worked.”
Avery nodded.
“Look, even if it is an app, and even if we could hack it, it might not matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“The implant could be set up to release the memories at certain times or certain locations. If so, until that time, or until he’s at the programmed location, nothing will happen. Or, he could have loaded a set of memories to release no matter what, and reserved whatever he didn’t want us to find for these locations or time points. Or—again, we have no clue how this thing works—memories could be keyed to sensations, images, sounds. Who knows?”
“Why do you think the memories might be triggered in different ways?”
Byron shrugged. “Simple logic. He wouldn’t want himself to be in the dark, but he also wants to keep us from knowing any sensitive information. If he runs into something he needs to know about, the implant could release memories to help him out without compromising his goal.”
Avery bit her lip. “Okay, fine. Just keep at it. Let me know what you find.” She held the tablet up again and tapped it. The speaker in Desmond’s cell fell silent, but Avery kept speaking to the programmers. Byron shrugged and gave an animated response, then Avery turned, again glanced quickly at Desmond, making eye contact for a fraction of a second, and left through the hatch.
Desmond wondered why she had let him hear the conversation. Was she an ally? Or was she trying to build trust? Was it part of their plan?
They were looking for an app. Could it be the Labyrinth Reality app? In Berlin it didn’t seem to work. Maybe Byron was right—maybe the app was waiting for the right time or location. But some memories had come back to him—memories of his childhood. They wouldn’t reveal what he had done with Rendition. Maybe that had been his plan: to hide the most sensitive memories until the right time. Or until he was ready.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He truly was in a labyrinth of his own making. He wondered if he would make it out alive. His breathing slowed, and another memory came.
One Saturday, when Orville was waking up, when he was sober, Desmond said, “I need you to take me to Oklahoma City.”
“What for?” the man grumbled.
“I need to buy something.”
Orville shook his head, annoyed.
“I need to buy a computer.”
The older man stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face.
Desmond had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his mind, imagining what Orville would say. That Desmond had no use for a computer. That he needed it like he needed a hole in his head. That it was a waste of money.
Instead, Orville put a large pinch of Copenhagen snuff behind his lip and simply said, “All right then. Go get in the truck.”
A minute later, Desmond sat in the Jeep pickup, waiting.
Orville walked past it, to the shed behind the house. Desmond heard him open the hood of the broken-down Studebaker truck he had been threatening to fix up for years. He tossed some tools around, then slammed the hood shut, got in the Jeep, and drove to the city.
The CompUSA store was larger than Desmond expected, the choices much more numerous. He had considered ordering the computer by phone, from a vendor in a magazine called Computer Shopper, but he felt it was too risky; if the computer broke, he wanted to be able to take it somewhere and have it repaired—under warranty.