Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  “Keep moving. All your questions will be answered. Keep moving, people. Fall behind, you go to quarantine.”

  The horde surged forward after that, some pushing.

  On level five, rows of booths were spread out. They reminded Elliott of voting booths on Election Day: each was just big enough for one person and stood on flimsy legs.

  “Take a station. Any station. Spread out. You have five minutes to complete the questionnaire.”

  Inside a booth, Elliott found a tablet propped up, a large green start button glowing. He tapped it, and the screen showed a graphic with a cell phone and a prompt that said:

  Place your cell phone in the box to your right.

  The black box slid closed the moment Elliott dropped his phone inside. He heard the faint noise of electric motors.

  On the screen, a questionnaire appeared. Many of the questions he had anticipated. It asked for his social security number, name, date of birth, home address, occupation, education, his current symptoms, when they began, his health history, especially any immuno-compromising drugs or conditions, and his travel outside the country, especially to Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda, and Tanzania. Elliott lied about his date of birth.

  Some questions struck him as odd: Was he comfortable using a firearm? Had he ever been to prison? Had he ever been in the military or had military training?

  What does it mean?

  At the end of the questionnaire, a large thank-you box appeared. The company logo below it was one he had never seen before: Rook Quantum Sciences. They must have developed the survey and database software the government was using.

  The black box opened, and he took out his cell phone. The screen was now black except for the Rook Quantum Sciences logo.

  He tapped the home button.

  Two dialogs appeared:

  You have completed your questionnaire for the day.

  You have no new messages.

  So they had created an operating system for tracking the outbreak. That was smart.

  Around him, several suited figures were walking up and down the aisles. Occasionally they paused at booths and spoke into their radios, calling for tech support.

  “Got an incompatible cell phone at 1291.”

  “Need a tablet reboot on 1305.”

  Seconds after Elliott stepped away from his booth, a suited figure wiped off the tablet he had used and directed him to the other side of the parking deck, where white curtains served as dividers between cubicles.

  Inside one small cubicle, a woman swabbed the inside of his cheeks and took two vials of blood, then placed the samples in a bag labeled “Phaethon Genetics.” She tore a label with a bar code off the sample bag and placed it on a bracelet, which she affixed to Elliott’s right wrist.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Sequencing your genome will help us find a cure.”

  She placed an identical bracelet on his other wrist.

  “Don’t take the ID bands off—you need them to get food rations and medical care.”

  He nodded. “My wife was taken—”

  “Sorry, sir, they’ll answer your questions at the next station. This is important, okay? Your phone will issue an alert each day. It will ask you questions about your symptoms. Answer the questions honestly. Your life may depend on it. Keep your phone charged.”

  He was about to ask a question when she raised her hand and yelled, “Next!”

  To Elliott, she said, “Exit to your right, please.”

  Ever since he had gotten off the bus, he had hoped to see someone he knew—a CDC official or Commissioned Corps officer. He hadn’t. And his time was up.

  It turned out there was no next station. After the blood draw, they herded everyone into a stairwell on the opposite side of the parking deck and back onto the bus they had arrived on. He waited for it to fill back up. It never did. Many of the people who had gone into the parking deck with Elliott didn’t return. The bus was less than half full when it pulled away.

  Elliott hoped it would return to the Georgia Dome. It didn’t. It barreled down the road, retracing its route.

  Before he left home, he had instructed his son not to get on the next batch of buses—the buses that would pick up anyone without symptoms. Ryan was an anesthesiologist, and Elliott assumed he would be identified as someone with essential skills, and would therefore be conscripted to help in the BioShield effort.

  But now everything had changed. He needed to make sure his son was on that bus—and that they kept him. Ryan might be their only chance of getting to Rose.

  He wondered how long he’d been gone. Had the buses for the well individuals already arrived? If so, that chance had already slipped away.

  On his street, he bounded off the bus and dashed inside his home, ignoring his neighbors calling his name, yelling questions about the outbreak.

  The house was quiet. The TV wasn’t even on. He searched the first floor.

  Empty.

  The second.

  Empty.

  He pounded down the unpainted wooden stairs to the basement. Stopping in the damp space, he searched for the light. He clicked it on.

  Ryan, Sam, and Adam were seated on an old couch that Elliott had abandoned in the basement years ago. Adam was asleep in his mother’s lap.

  Ryan looked up. “Dad.”

  “Change of plans,” Elliott said, panting.

  “What?”

  “You need to get on the bus when it comes.”

  “Why? What happened—”

  “They have your mother. In the Georgia Dome. Find her. Get her out of there.”

  Chapter 57

  Desmond had lost all sense of time. The only indicator of its passing was the growing trash pile that surrounded the three stooges—and even that was taken away when a janitor wheeled a cart in and cleaned the mess up.

  He maintained his exercise routine, pushing himself for more repetitions each time, cycling the exercises, careful not to overexert himself. His ribs still ached, but he was learning his limits and tender points. He was preparing. It was all he could do.

  Any break in the routine caught Desmond’s attention. So when the tall blonde strode into the corridor beyond the cell again, he stopped in mid-pushup, turned, and watched.

  She stood before the three slobs, questioning them. The words that flowed from her mouth seemed to assault them like a swarm of bees. They shook their heads, threw up their hands, pointed at the screen, and argued back. Soon she was pointing too. Was she their boss? A messenger from their boss (Conner, Desmond presumed)?

  Before she left, the blonde turned to him, for the briefest of moments, with a look that carried some meaning he couldn’t read, like a language he had once learned but had forgotten.

  And just as quickly, she was gone.

  Avery stood in Conner’s stateroom giving a report. He held his hand up, stopping her.

  “Just tell me if they can make it happen.”

  “They say it’s like a needle in a haystack.”

  “What about the apps being developed by the companies Des invested in?”

  “They’ve tried them. If it’s there, it’s in some kind of back door. They say the memories could be tied to a location or released at a certain time. Hacking it might not even work if the release is hardwired.”

  Conner looked up at the ceiling.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “We’re running out of time. We have to try something new. Drastic.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, I’ll let you know, Avery.”

  She averted her eyes. More quietly, she said, “Dr. Shaw is infected.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “With the Mandera strain—not the precursor flu virus.”

  “I said, I’m aware of that.”

  “Should we administer the cure?”

  “No. Leaving her infected gives us more control over her.”

  Day 9

  3,800,000,000 Infected
<
br />   620,000 Dead

  Chapter 58

  Desmond lay on the bed, giving his muscles a few minutes to rest. He contemplated what the most recent developments meant.

  The three stooges were gone. The folding table sat abandoned. Empty cans and food cartons lay where their computers had sat.

  Were they giving up on him? He hoped so.

  A crack shattered the silence. A seal breaking. Rubber brushing past steel. The glass wall of his cell slid to the right, into the bathroom wall.

  His cell was opening.

  Desmond rushed to the gap. His arm was through, then his torso. He wiggled, gaining inches each second, and then he was free, in the corridor, standing next to the card table.

  A closed hatch lay at the end of the corridor, and its wheel was turning. Someone’s coming through.

  Desmond bounded toward it.

  The hatch opened. A handgun emerged, then a skinny white arm.

  Desmond grabbed the wrist, snatched the gun away, and twisted the person’s arm behind their back as he pushed through the hatch, the gun held out before him, sweeping the room, ready to fire.

  The assailant was a woman with blond hair. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt a hint of recognition. He focused, took in the scene. A long table with four flat screens and keyboards, computer towers below. Two uniformed soldiers on the ground, not moving. No blood.

  The woman’s elbow connected with his injured ribs, sending a wave of blinding pain through him. He lost his grip on her. A knee slammed into his forearm, and he dropped the gun. She spun him around and kicked him hard in the chest. The impact with the wall knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he slid down the wall, fighting not to pass out.

  She grabbed the gun, tucked it into a shoulder holster, and squatted down, her green, intense eyes level with his.

  “Hey, genius, I’m the one rescuing you. You want to fight me, or you want to get out of here?”

  Desmond glanced at the guards. They were out cold, but alive. Small darts protruded from their necks.

  “What’s it going to be, Des? I’m leaving, with or without you.”

  He remembered her name then—Avery. The woman who had allowed him to hear her conversation with the programmers. Can I trust her? What choice do I have?

  “How?” he said, between shallow breaths.

  Avery grabbed a semi-automatic rifle and a backpack from the corner of the room. From the backpack, she drew out a pile of clothes and night vision goggles.

  “Put the uniform on. Hang on to the NVGs. Power goes out in twenty seconds. There’s a helo seven decks above us. I figure we’ve got about three minutes to get there. If we’re not there by then, we’ll have to shoot our way out.”

  Desmond felt cornered, like the day Dale Epply had come to Orville’s house. He had fought for his life that day, and he had killed for the first time.

  He made his decision: he would fight his way out if he had to. He was going to stop these people, even if it killed him.

  He took the clothes and began slipping them on.

  Movement on one of the flat screens caught Desmond’s eye. They showed four cells just like his. Three empty. One occupied. A woman, roughly his age, with dark hair. Her skin was the color and smoothness of porcelain.

  “Peyton Shaw,” he whispered.

  So they had captured her too. Her phone number had been the only clue he had left himself in Berlin. She had been investigating the outbreak in Kenya—the outbreak Conner had started, that the man swore Desmond had helped start. Somehow, she was connected to what was happening. She might even be the key to stopping it.

  Desmond pointed to the screen. “We’re taking her with us.”

  “No. No way.”

  “Listen to me, Avery. She’s coming with us.”

  Avery exhaled.

  “She’s coming with us.”

  The blonde shook her head in frustration, but to Desmond’s relief, she moved to the long table and typed on one of the computer keyboards. On the screen, the glass wall of Peyton’s cell began sliding open. But it had slid only about seven inches when the power went out.

  Chapter 59

  Peyton stared in disbelief as the glass wall started opening. Were they moving her? Or coming to kill her? That was it—they had gotten her CDC password when they drugged her. Now they don’t need me anymore.

  Fear rose inside her. But just as quickly, rage met it. The two emotions fought a battle as she watched the glass partition slide.

  Rage won. If she was going to die here, she was going to die on her feet, kicking and screaming and punching. She wouldn’t let it be easy for them.

  The lights snapped out, plunging the cell into darkness and utter quiet, like a sensory deprivation tank. Peyton froze. A second of panic sparked. Is this their plan, to kill me in the dark? I need to move.

  Peyton put her hands out, found the glass wall, and shuffled over to the side where it had begun opening. It hadn’t moved far before the power went out. She slid her left arm and leg through, but her body caught at her chest. She placed her palm against the outer glass and pushed, trying to squeeze through. The exertion only made her breathe harder. Her chest heaved, expanding. Pain radiated from where the thick glass divider met her bones. It was no use. She’d never make it through.

  A sound: metal creaking, then the loud boom of a hatch opening. Two white lights beamed into the corridor, moving back and forth like dueling lighthouses searching the darkness. The lights stopped moving, fixing on her.

  Fear drove her then. She wiggled back into her cell. But there was nowhere to hide. Even the bathroom was too open. She would die in seconds, she was sure of it.

  Two guards ran the length of the corridor. Bright LED lights shone from their helmets. She held a hand up, blotting out the beams so she could see the attackers. The first guard was a white woman with straight blond hair that spilled out of the helmet. Her face was slender, striking, her eyes intense. Night vision goggles sat atop the helmet. The second guard—

  Peyton stopped cold at the man’s face. Desmond Hughes. Seeing him in person brought on a conflicting mix of emotions that paralyzed her.

  He moved to the opening.

  “Peyton, my name is Desmond Hughes. I called to warn you.”

  He stared at her, not a hint of recognition on his face. What’s going on here? Why’s he acting like he doesn’t know me? He had acted the same during the call before she learned of the outbreak—an outbreak he seemed to be connected to, according to Lucas Turner. His name had been scrawled on the barn wall in the cell. And now he was dressed as a guard, pretending he didn’t know her. Why? Was it all part of some plan? Her instincts urged her to go along with him, to behave as though she didn’t know him. She sensed that revealing any information to her captors would be bad for her.

  “I remember. What do you want?”

  “We’re getting out of here. Thought you might want to come.”

  Peyton nodded toward the opening. “I tried. I won’t fit.”

  The blonde leaned her head back, throwing the beam from her helmet at the ceiling. “We don’t have time for this, Des.”

  He turned his head, bathing her in white light. She squinted, stared back at him a moment, then glanced away, signaling defeat.

  Desmond moved the beam of light out of her eyes. “Can we shoot it, Avery?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head.

  He held his hand out to Peyton. “Then I’ll pull you through.”

  Peyton hesitated. No way this was going to work. But Desmond waved her forward, confidence in his face.

  What do I have to lose?

  She moved to the opening, and Desmond gripped her arm, one hand on her bicep, the other on her forearm. “We have to go fast. It’s the only way.” More quietly, he added, “It’s going to hurt.”

  She stared at him, trying to look brave. “I know. Let’s get it over with.”

  He planted his foot on the glass and leaned back, pulling.

&n
bsp; Peyton closed her eyes as the pain took over. Pain in her chest as the glass raked past her ribs. Pain at her armpit as Desmond pulled until she was sure he was ripping her arm off.

  And then she tumbled free and fell on top of Desmond. Her face connected with his, but he moved quickly, deflected the blow, and caught her before she hit the floor.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Every breath through her bruised chest brought pain.

  Avery led them away from the cell. “We need to hurry.”

  Footsteps sounded from beyond the hatch at the end of the corridor. Avery and Desmond quickly reached up to flip their night vision goggles down and switch off their helmet lights, leaving Peyton in darkness.

  “Stay here,” Desmond whispered, his voice close to her.

  On instinct, Peyton crouched, making herself a smaller target, and moved to the wall. With each passing second, her eyes adjusted. Through the slightly open hatch, she could see beams of light crisscrossing the room beyond. Her chest ached as her heart beat faster, knowing these people were searching for her, would likely shoot her on sight.

  Desmond and Avery rushed through the hatch. Five soft pops followed—silenced rifle reports. Avery’s voice, barely over a whisper, called into the dark corridor: “We’re clear. Come on.”

  Petyon moved forward and paused at the entryway. Desmond and Avery had switched on their helmet lights again. Beams from three more helmets pointed at the ceiling, wall, and floor, depending on how the fallen soldiers had landed. Blood flowed from head and chest wounds, slowly covering the floor, a blob with tendrils reaching toward her.

  The gunshots reminded her of Hannah, of the blood that had flowed from her wound in the back of the SUV in Kenya.

  Avery was crouched over a backpack in the corner. Her face was bathed in shadows, but Peyton could make it out. She saw no remorse there, just cold concentration. She saw a woman who had taken lives before, and who wasn’t bothered by it.

  Avery reached inside the backpack, drew out a cell phone, and began tapping its screen.