Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  “What’re you doing?” Desmond asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Backup plan,” she mumbled. “I told you, we should have been out of here by now. We’re out of time. We need a diversion.”

  Explosions rocked the ship.

  “What was that?” Desmond asked.

  “That was the sound of us getting five more minutes to get off this ship.”

  “How?”

  “Hull breaches,” Avery said. “She’s sinking.” She moved to another hatch. “Shoot anything that moves, Des. Don’t hesitate.”

  “Wait,” Peyton said. “They’re holding my colleague, Hannah Watson.”

  Avery glanced at Desmond, silently saying, Shut her up.

  “Is she still alive?” Peyton asked, looking from one to the other.

  Desmond looked to Avery, who said nothing.

  “Is she?” Peyton stepped closer to the blonde.

  “I don’t know. She’s in the hospital wing.”

  So McClain hadn’t followed through on his threat. They had finished the surgery. If the ship sank, they would leave her. Hannah would die for sure.

  “We have to bring her with us,” Peyton said.

  “No way,” Avery said quickly. “Absolutely not. I’m not even sure if we can get out.”

  Peyton fixed Desmond with a look that said one word: Please.

  He turned to Avery and stared.

  “We’re dead if we do this, Des. I mean it.”

  “Then we’ll die trying. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  Chapter 60

  Desmond’s heart pounded in his chest and in his ears, like the sound of a truck driving over train tracks. He gripped the rifle, trying to make himself ready.

  The night vision goggles bathed the cramped corridor in a green glow. Avery walked a step in front of him, to his right, giving him a clear shot if they encountered resistance.

  Peyton’s hand was tucked inside his waistband; he pulled her behind him through the darkness. She occasionally bumped into him and whispered, “Sorry,” when they came to a stop or changed direction.

  Boots pounded the floors above and below. Muffled voices echoed through the darkness like ghosts chanting, seeming to close in on them.

  “What’s happening?” Desmond asked.

  “Chaos. Insubordination,” Avery said. He knew she had an earpiece in, tuned to the ship’s wireless comms. “Conner’s ordered a search for us. But most everyone is rushing to the lifeboats and tenders.”

  That was a break. Maybe they had a chance.

  Avery crouched by a hatch. She raised her NVGs, so Desmond did the same.

  “Inside,” she said. “Stay along the perimeter. Move fast.”

  The hatch crept open. Light poured out. This section had power. A battery backup? Generator?

  Avery stepped through the hatch and broke right, moving quickly. But Desmond couldn’t help but stop at the sight of the vast room. It was as long as a football field and almost half as wide. The ceiling hung thirty feet above. Rows of cubicles wrapped in sheet plastic covered the floor, with soft yellow lights glowing inside, like Japanese lanterns floating on a concrete sea.

  Each cubicle held a hospital bed, most with a patient lying still. Quiet beeps chirped from within, an out-of-sync symphony of death echoing in the cavernous space. A cart with body bags stood in the central corridor, abandoned.

  Desmond had seen this place before. This was the place that had come to him in a memory. He had thought it was a warehouse then; now he knew the truth.

  The ship was a floating hospital, a laboratory where they conducted experiments. The setup was brilliant. The subjects had utterly no chance of escape. They were probably loaded on and off in cargo containers. Had they gathered vulnerable subjects from around the world? Used them up and discarded them? The idea was horrifying.

  Peyton stood beside him, staring in shock.

  Two barely audible clicks from his right drew Desmond’s attention. Avery was motioning to him, her expression saying, Come on, you idiot. He seemed to be able to read her perfectly, and she him. He wondered how long he had known her. And how he had known her.

  He caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder.

  “Is there a cure on this ship?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “To the outbreak in Africa.”

  Avery seemed annoyed. “No, Des. You don’t remember?”

  He stared, confused.

  “They’re testing something else here. It’s… never mind. We have to hurry.”

  Testing something else. Desmond wondered what that meant.

  He followed Avery around the outer row. At the far end of the room, she opened another hatch and burst through into a corridor, which was dimly lit with what Desmond assumed were emergency lights. The entire medical section apparently had its own backup power system. Plate glass windows along one wall revealed operating rooms in disarray. Blood covered the tables and dripped onto the floor. Bloody sutures, clamps, forceps, and scalpels lay strewn about.

  The opposite wall was solid except for a series of doors. Avery moved quickly, opening each one, her rifle held ready. Desmond covered her advance, sweeping his rifle forward and backward, Peyton tucked behind him.

  “Found her,” Avery called.

  Peyton rushed into the room.

  Hannah lay on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, her strawberry-blond hair spilling onto the white pillow. An IV line was connected to her hand, and a clear plastic bag hung beside her. A monitor displayed her vitals.

  Peyton lifted the young woman’s eyelids. “She’s sedated.” She began disconnecting the IV. “I’ll carry her.”

  “You can’t,” Avery said, with force bordering on anger.

  Peyton stopped. “I’m carrying her.”

  “We’re going up seven flights of stairs—in a firefight. You can’t carry that much dead weight.”

  “I’ll—” Desmond began, but Avery flashed him a look.

  “No you won’t. You’ve got to fight. The stairwell will be crawling with people. So will the deck.”

  Desmond knew there was no negotiation this time. And that Avery was right.

  To Peyton, Avery said, “Either wake her up so she can walk out, or leave her here. Your call.”

  Peyton glanced at Desmond. He nodded, silently insisting, Make the call.

  Peyton studied the monitor a moment, then checked the end of the bed and began searching the drawers.

  “What’re you looking for?” Avery asked.

  “A chart. I need to know what they’ve given her. And what dose.”

  “The charts are electronic,” Avery said. She gripped Peyton by the shoulders. “Look, if you’re going to wake her up, you’ve got to do it right now. Okay?”

  Peyton exhaled heavily. Her hands and eyes were steady, betraying no hint that she was nervous, but Desmond could sense her fear. It was as though he knew her well—could read the emotions she kept hidden, the feelings strangers couldn’t see. Desmond wished he could take the weight off Peyton’s shoulders, but he could only watch. Her next actions could save Hannah or end her life. If she brought Hannah out of sedation too quickly, it could be deadly.

  Peyton pulled out drawers, read labels on vials, and tossed them back one by one until she found what she needed. She loaded up a syringe and stuck it into the IV. Slowly, she depressed the plunger, watching Hannah. She kept one hand on the young woman’s wrist, monitoring her pulse.

  Beyond the door, boots echoed in the corridor.

  Avery froze.

  Desmond turned.

  Hannah stirred, sucked in a breath, and let out a low moan.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Avery moved to the corner of the room, behind the door, and motioned for Desmond to join her. Peyton ducked down behind the bed.

  Desmond heard men’s voices in the corridor, speaking German. Something about gathering the samples.

  Hannah’s eyes opened. They went wide at the sight of Desmond and Avery, dr
essed like her captors, guns at the ready.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but Peyton sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and covered the younger physician’s mouth with her hand. Peyton held her other index finger to her own lips.

  The beeping of the pulse monitor was the only sound in the room. As the beeps got faster, Desmond felt his hands start to sweat.

  The footsteps outside resumed. They were moving away—except for a single set, which moved toward them.

  Avery motioned for Hannah to get off the bed. Peyton reached up, disconnected the IV, and pulled Hannah down beside her.

  Avery let her rifle slide out of her hands so that it hung by the shoulder strap. What’s she doing? Desmond wondered.

  At that moment, the leads connected to the monitor slipped off Hannah. The beeping machine changed to a droning flat line just as the door creaked wider and a semi-automatic rifle peeked through.

  Avery drew a fixed-blade black combat knife from a sheath on her leg. It was about eight inches long with a rubber handle. As soon as the man’s face cleared the door, she sprang up and stabbed the blade into the man’s neck.

  He gurgled as she guided him to the floor, his eyes wide in disbelief. Avery had severed his windpipe and spine in one lethal, extremely precise blow.

  Desmond stood in awe of her skill and poise. With barely a sound, she pulled the man clear of the door and readied her rifle.

  The other footsteps continued moving away, their echo growing fainter by the second.

  Avery withdrew the blade from the man’s neck with a sickening sucking sound, wiped it on his chest, and re-sheathed it. Still crouched, she moved deeper into the room and whispered to Peyton and Hannah.

  “Let’s move.” To Desmond she said, “I’ll lead. They follow, you bring up the rear. Keep them moving.”

  Avery was through the door a second later. Peyton wrapped Hannah’s good arm over her shoulder and pulled her up. Both women stared, mouths open at the sight of the dead man, but kept moving.

  Desmond stood guard while they raced down the corridor, following Avery to the stairwell, which was lit with emergency lights similar to those in the medical section.

  Avery stopped on the landing, listening.

  Voices echoed above and below, bouncing off the metal walls. Desmond didn’t know if he was hearing twenty or a hundred voices, only that there were too many for them to slip past, and certainly too many for them to fight.

  Avery set down her backpack, drew out a gas mask, and handed it to Desmond.

  “Put this on. Stay here, then follow my lead.”

  She raced up the stairs. But no gas came. No shots were fired. He heard Avery’s voice ring out, echoing through the stairwell with strength and authority.

  “Corporal. I have the prisoners in my custody. I need your help securing them.”

  Chapter 61

  Peyton’s expression said what Desmond feared: She’s betrayed us. He had harbored that fear ever since Avery had freed him from the cell. Whom did she work for? What was her agenda? Why had she freed them?

  More discussion above. Avery was arguing with another man now.

  “These are McClain’s orders. It’s your funeral, gentlemen. Just stay out of the way.”

  More arguing, then Avery leaned over the rail and yelled down, “Johnson, bring ’em up.”

  She walked down a few stairs. “Johnson, get your ass up here with those women. We’re ready.”

  Desmond finally understood her plan—her very brilliant plan. The look on Peyton’s face told him that she did, too.

  Still wearing the gas mask, he motioned for the two physicians to go ahead.

  In the patient room, Desmond had been quite worried about whether Hannah could make the trek up the stairs. He was now relieved to see her keeping pace with Peyton. Her legs seemed to get steadier with each step, the sedation wearing off perhaps.

  At the landing above, two young soldiers wearing uniforms similar to Avery’s and Desmond’s stood waiting.

  “Where’s Hughes?” one asked.

  “Hughes is dead,” Avery said flatly.

  Their eyes went wide.

  “Get going, or we will be too.”

  The two men took off up the stairs.

  Avery went after them, then the two women, and once more Desmond brought up the rear.

  One of the two soldiers was waiting for them at the next landing, pushing other soldiers and two civilians back to make a hole for them to pass.

  “Stay back—McClain’s orders,” he barked.

  The moment they cleared the landing, he took off up the stairs again, running past them.

  The second guard was standing on the next landing, running similar interference.

  It was working. They were going to make it out.

  The next flight of stairs passed without event. And the next. The crowds were growing thicker though. The stairwell was clogged with people, civilians mostly, trying to get to the upper deck.

  Avery was increasing her pace. Desmond had to urge Peyton and Hannah on. They trudged up the stairs, gripping the metal rails tightly, both women panting now. The bandage on Hannah’s shoulder oozed blood. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried but failed to pull in a deep breath that Desmond knew must have been agonizing.

  As they approached the next landing, a tall man entering the stairwell yelled, “Avery! Stop where you are.”

  She pointed at him and shouted back. “Traitor! Mutineer!”

  The uniformed guards around him looked confused for a moment. The man raised his gun, but Avery was quicker. Her shot caught him center mass, right in the chest, propelling him back into the crowd, which scattered. People shouted and ran out into the corridor or up the stairs—except for four soldiers, who must have been with the fallen man.

  They raised their rifles, ready to fire on Avery. But the corporal she had enlisted stood in front of her, his own rifle raised at the four soldiers.

  “Weapons down, right now,” the corporal said.

  “She’s lying to you,” one of the other soldiers said. “She’s breaking them out.”

  The corporal hesitated, glanced back at Avery. It was a lethal mistake. One of the men shot him in his chest. He staggered back, went over the rail, and spun as he fell to the landing below.

  Avery’s rifle erupted.

  Two soldiers dropped, then a third. The last man retreated out of the stairwell.

  Avery moved even faster now, pumping her legs.

  As she passed the bodies of the four fallen soldiers, she yelled up the stairs, “Cover us, Sergeant!”

  The sergeant peered over the railing from above. He looked hesitant, but nodded.

  The four of them barreled up the stairs, which were now empty. They were exposed.

  He quickened his pace.

  Avery reached the landing first. Sunlight poured through the open hatch. Freedom lay beyond the hatch. Or death, Desmond thought. They all hugged the wall, careful not to give anyone outside a shot at them.

  “Good work, Sergeant,” Avery said. “Take up position one flight down and cover our backs.”

  The man departed without a word. When he was out of sight, Avery unslung the backpack and drew out a round mirror with a long handle. She extended it into the hatchway just far enough to survey the scene outside.

  Whatever she saw, she didn’t like.

  She pulled the mirror back and drew three grenades and two oblong objects from her pack.

  “The helo’s sitting on a pad at ten o’clock. It’s well guarded. They’re loading the tender and lifeboats on the other side of the ship.” She paused, then looked at Desmond. “This is going to get messy. I’m going to need your help.”

  Desmond knew what she was asking of him. When he spoke, his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “I understand.”

  She tossed two of the grenades out, then the two oblong objects. Explosions vibrated through the deck and sent a wave of heat through the cracked hatch.

  “Let’s
go,” Avery said, rushing out into the cloud of smoke. Peyton and Hannah followed close behind her, and Desmond brought up the rear.

  A firefight erupted instantly. Desmond could hear Avery firing, but he could see only her back, not her targets. The wind was whipping the smoke around, like a twister on the prairie, unsure which way to go.

  A bullet whizzed past Desmond’s head. He tried to follow the sound but failed. It was chaos around him. Through breaks in the smoke, he saw throngs of people screaming, running to the tender and lifeboats, most wearing life vests.

  The wind swept the smoke aside for a moment, like a curtain being drawn, and Desmond saw the helicopter dead ahead. Avery had pulled away from Hannah and Peyton, who were moving as fast as they could. The last two guards beside the chopper fell as Avery fired. She climbed into the cockpit, and a few seconds later Peyton hopped in and helped Hannah up.

  Desmond spun around, his back to the helicopter, covering them while the engines started. After what felt like an eternity, the rotors spun to life, their wind whipping at his back, dispersing the smoke, revealing carnage: wounded and dead soldiers.

  Desmond swallowed, knowing what might come next. The rifle’s stock rested against his shoulder, his finger around the trigger.

  He desperately wanted Avery to yell for him to get on.

  A figure burst through the hatchway from the stairwell. Desmond had a half second to scan him. Black body armor. Rifle held at the ready. The man was blinded momentarily by the sunlight.

  Desmond squeezed the trigger.

  His first shot went wide. His second caught the man in the shoulder. His third killed him.

  Desmond waited, wondering, expecting a feeling that never came. He felt only cold focus as he held the weapon.

  Over the roar of the rotors, he heard Avery’s call for him.

  The moment his foot hit the helicopter’s rail, it lifted off.

  Peyton extended a hand, pulled him in. From the open door, he watched the sinking, smoking cargo ship as they flew away.

  Quickly, he took stock of Peyton. She was okay. He couldn’t say the same for the younger woman. The exertion and increase in blood pressure had been disastrous for Hannah. Her wound oozed dark blood. Sweat drenched her. She was pale. Too pale.