Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  “Desmond, I don’t care—”

  “I know you don’t. I know that you will stay with me wherever our road leads.”

  “I will.”

  “But I won’t let you.”

  “Desmond.”

  “I care too much about you, Peyton. You deserve to be happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  “Not as happy as you will be.”

  She hugged him and cried more than he’d ever seen her cry.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Please stay.”

  “I’ll stay the night.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Stay until Monday. Please?”

  He agreed. They were the most agonizing and joyous three days of his entire life. They made love every night. And twice each day. It was a long goodbye. It was painful—even he felt it. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through.

  When he stepped out on the front porch Monday morning, she hugged him so hard he thought his ribs would collapse.

  He pushed back just enough to look her in the eye.

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t wait for me. Live your life.”

  That set off a new bout of crying.

  An hour later, he was driving south, the Airstream trailer in tow behind him.

  He camped in Yosemite National Park, then Sequoia, and hiked through Death Valley. He read at night. And he thought long and hard about his next move. Each day, the solution became clearer. If he couldn’t save himself, he would save others. That was a goal he could get excited about. That was worth living for. Before, his idea of setting up a nonprofit or focusing on child welfare had been the right idea—but on the wrong scale. He wanted to do something big. He wanted to change the world—to help create a world where no one grew up the way he had.

  He set up shop on Sand Hill Road. Rents there had once been the most expensive in the world. Now the former offices of a dozen recently closed venture capital firms sat empty. They were all decorated lavishly. Desmond negotiated as hard as he had with the pawnbroker for the bike so many years ago. He moved in the following week and began making calls, putting the word out that he had a new investment firm with a new focus. Thanks to the soaring stock market, he had eighty million dollars to spend. Capital was in short supply in the Valley. His inbox filled. The phone rang off the hook. But nothing was quite what he was looking for.

  He named his firm Icarus Capital. In Greek mythology, Icarus was the son of Daedalus, the craftsman who built the Labyrinth. In order to escape the island of Crete, Daedalus created wings of feathers and wax for his son. He warned Icarus: If you fly too high, the sun will melt your wings. If you fly too low, the sea’s dampness will weigh you down. The story rang true to Desmond. The market’s exuberance and implosion were in league with the allegory of Icarus, but so was life. People who flew too high—who lived beyond their means and ability—were bound for failure. As were those who never took a chance.

  Despite his belief that his emotional growth had plateaued indefinitely, Desmond interviewed several psychotherapists. One suggested he talk to a firm that was developing a novel therapy. It was experimental, he said, but worth checking out. The company was called Rapture Therapeutics.

  Desmond was stunned when he heard the name. He still remembered it from SciNet; it was one of the three mysterious companies that had been funded by Citium Holdings and Invisible Sun Securities.

  A week later, he sat in Rapture’s office in San Francisco. The company’s chief scientist held up a pill.

  “This is a fifty-milligram antidepressant. You and I could both take the same fifty-milligram pill, and you might have four times the physiological reaction that I do. What’s the difference? It’s the way your body metabolizes the drug. How it processes it. For doctors, and for patients, that’s a problem.”

  “What’s the solution?”

  “Bypassing medicine altogether. At Rapture, we’ve built an implant that’s placed inside the brain. It monitors brain chemistry and releases chemicals the brain needs—when it needs them. Imagine a world without schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or depression—just to name a few. The market potential is nearly unlimited.”

  “I’m interested. I’ve tried medication, but it hasn’t worked for me. What I’m most interested in is memory alteration.”

  The scientist scrutinized him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m interested in erasing painful memories. Starting over, if you will.”

  A pause.

  “We don’t currently have a technology or procedure to do that, Mr. Hughes.”

  “But you’re working on something.”

  “Nothing we’re ready to discuss at this time.”

  Desmond underwent the implant procedure. He kept his expectations low. Almost immediately, however, he felt results. The depression lifted. He was more excited about work. He looked forward to things. And he feared that it would all go away if the implant failed or if Rapture as a company folded. He became obsessed with the organization. He made calls, requested company filings that weren’t public. He got nowhere.

  Finally, he requested a meeting with the CEO and CFO.

  “I want to invest,” he said.

  The CEO’s voice was flat. “We’re very well funded.”

  “By whom?”

  “Our investors prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “Citium Holdings? Invisible Sun Securities?”

  He could have heard a pin drop in the room. Both executives excused themselves. They were scared.

  Desmond researched Citium and Invisible Sun endlessly. Some of their corporate filings were public by necessity. They owned shares in a dozen companies—and they had donated millions to nonprofits and foundations he had never heard of. The nonprofits were funneling all that money into research at government and private organizations. They were funding projects in genetics and medical science, advanced energy technologies, and supercomputing. What did it mean? And why were they so secretive?

  Increasingly, Desmond became consumed with unraveling the Citium mystery. But try as he might, he couldn’t connect the dots. Every avenue led to a dead end.

  For the most part, he lived a solitary life. He owned a small house in Menlo Park, rode his bike to work every day, and occasionally had lunch with an old colleague. He watched his investments grow and the seasons change like a time-lapse photograph, his own life in fast forward, slipping away.

  He thought about Peyton almost every day. He had set up a web search alert for her name. He opened the emails instantly whenever something popped up. She graduated from medical school. Began her residency. Was accepted to the CDC’s EIS program. That made him happy. She had kept her promise: to move on with her life.

  Like Desmond, she had lost many of the people she had come to love: her father, brother, and now him. He hoped she wouldn’t suffer his fate. He wanted to see her fall in love, get married, have children. He knew that was what she wanted, deep down, no matter what she said.

  To him, the most terrifying possibility was that her time with him had made her unable to love; that by being with her, he had infected her with the fear of commitment that lay deep inside him.

  On a cool November morning, a man pushed open the glass door to Desmond’s office and strode inside. He was in his sixties or seventies, if Desmond had to guess, with short white hair and a pale face. His eyes were blank, unmoving, as if he were holding still for a medical procedure.

  Desmond hadn’t bothered to hire an assistant—there wasn’t enough work for one.

  He didn’t have anything scheduled for that day.

  “NextGen Capital is across the hall.”

  “I’ve come to see you, Mr. Hughes.”

  “What’s this regarding?”

  “Citium Holdings.”

  The words hung in the air, neither man moving for a moment.

  Desmond held out an arm. “Let’s speak in the conference room, Mister�
�”

  “Pachenko. Yuri Pachenko.”

  He walked past Desmond, seated himself, and declined an offer for water. He took his raincoat off, a light film of water on it. Scars covered his forearms—burn scars, similar to the ones on Desmond’s legs. Desmond immediately averted his eyes when he realized what they were.

  In a slow, level voice, Yuri asked, “What are you trying to create here, Mr. Hughes?” His English was excellent, his accent slightly British.

  “Please, call me Desmond. Ah, if you’re asking about Icarus Capital, we invest in companies with the potential to shape the future. We—”

  Yuri held a hand up, waited for Desmond to stop.

  “You misunderstand me. I’d like to hear what you don’t tell everyone who walks through your door. Tell me your true vision, the one you think might scare people, the one you fear is too grand.”

  Desmond leaned back in the chair. There was something about this man. His serenity, his directness. Desmond instantly felt a level of trust with Yuri. He let the words spill out. He was almost shocked to hear himself saying them.

  “I want to create a world where no child has to watch their family burn. Where no child is raised by someone who doesn’t love them. A world where madmen don’t fly planes into buildings and the economy’s more than a worldwide casino.”

  “And what else?”

  Desmond hesitated, glanced away.

  “That’s the world you want to create. What do you want, Desmond?”

  “I want to create a world where any person can be repaired, no matter how broken their body or mind or heart.”

  A smiled curled the corners of Yuri’s mouth. “You think that’s possible?”

  “I believe we’re witnessing the beginning stages of a technology explosion that will someday make anything possible.”

  “What if I told you that the technology you’re describing is already in development?”

  “Is that what Citium is building?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What sorts of other things?

  “Projects that would interest you. Projects that would give you what you so dearly desire: purpose, the potential to truly change this world. Are you interested, Desmond?”

  “Yes.”

  They spoke for almost two hours. At the end of their meeting, Desmond committed to come to London, where more details would be revealed.

  As he was walking Yuri to the door, he asked, “What’s it called? The device you’re building?”

  “The Looking Glass.”

  Day 11

  5,200,000,000 Infected

  2,000,000 Dead

  Chapter 75

  The Red Cross plane flew through the night, over the Atlantic, toward the Shetland Islands, roughly a hundred miles north of mainland Scotland.

  Over Spain, Avery had made a tough decision: to fly around Great Britain and Ireland. They had been lucky that no planes had intercepted them while crossing Continental Europe; she was less optimistic about flying over the UK. But going around meant burning more fuel, so it was a costly gambit. As the southern tip of Shetland loomed, fifty miles away, the plane’s engines began sputtering. She wiped her palms on her pants, depositing the nervous sweat. She gripped the yoke and disabled the autopilot.

  As she began their descent, she realized fuel wasn’t their only problem. Or their biggest.

  In the passenger compartment, the sound of the sputtering engines woke Peyton. She lay in a sleeping bag on the plane’s floor, facing Desmond.

  He was looking back at her.

  The engines sputtered again. The plane was descending rapidly.

  Desmond realized it too; he stood, gripped the back of a chair, pulled himself toward the cockpit door, and threw it open.

  Peyton followed close behind. In the pilot’s seat, Avery was frantically twisting dials on the instrument panel.

  In her headset, she said, “Scatsta ATC, do you copy?”

  Through the plane’s windshield, Peyton saw a wall of white. The cloud broke, and she got her first glimpse of the ground: dark green rolling hills, poking through a blanket of thick fog.

  The night sky was streaked in shades of bright green and blue. She’d never seen anything like it. It took her breath away. She knew what she was seeing: the Aurora Borealis. It seemed to be pointing their way, fighting a losing battle with the fog.

  A wind shear hit the plane. Peyton lost her balance and fell into Desmond, who steadied himself with one hand and caught her with the other. Instead of releasing her, he kept his arm around her, gripping her shoulder, pressing her body to his.

  “How’s it going, Avery?”

  “Peachy.” She didn’t look back. She worked the yoke, trying to keep the plane level. “We’re out of fuel. No visibility. Gale force winds. Air traffic control isn’t responding.”

  The plane rocked again in the force of the wind.

  “Oh, and I should also mention: this is by far the largest plane I’ve ever flown. Just saying.”

  Desmond took his arm away from Peyton, leaning forward to make eye contact with Avery. “Look, you can do this. We’re not expecting a miracle, okay? Just slow it down and get us on the ground.”

  Avery said nothing, only nodded.

  “How can we help?”

  The sarcasm was absent from Avery’s tone when she replied. “Just strap yourself in tight. Make sure there’re no loose items. And put your helmet and body armor on.”

  In the passenger compartment, Desmond helped strap Avery’s body armor onto Peyton. She inhaled sharply when he tightened the strap; her chest was still badly bruised from her escape from the Kentaro Maru.

  “Too tight?” he asked.

  She gritted her teeth. “It’s fine.”

  They put helmets on and buckled themselves into seats along the aisle, away from the plane’s sides. As the wind tossed the aircraft, Peyton stared at the aurora. Streaks of light green crossed the sky in curving forms, as if an artist had painted the black sky with phosphorescent paint.

  They were dropping quickly now. The wind picked up with each passing second. Peyton put her hands on the seat in front of her and braced herself.

  Outside the windows, the aurora disappeared, replaced by fog.

  The tires barked as they caught pavement. The plane shuddered and barreled down the runway, then bounced and shook when it slipped off the pavement. Seconds later, it came to a halt.

  Desmond unbuckled himself, sprang up, and opened the cockpit door. Avery was standing. He grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Good flying, A.”

  Peyton thought he was going to embrace Avery, but he held her at arm’s length, staring at her.

  Avery smiled.

  “If anything had been on the runway, we’d be dead,” she said.

  “But it wasn’t. You did great.”

  Avery looked exhausted. Peyton realized she hadn’t seen the woman sleep since their escape. She looked like she might collapse right then and there.

  Instead, she marched into the passenger compartment and stopped in front of Peyton.

  “I need my body armor.”

  Peyton didn’t like the woman’s brusqueness, but with a nod she stripped the black garment off—a little self-consciously, as if she were on display. Avery donned it, grabbed her rifle and night vision goggles, and turned to Desmond.

  “We need to secure the tower and refuel. If we get jammed up here, I want to be ready to bug out.”

  When Desmond and Avery were gone, Peyton finally relaxed. The plan called for her to wait in the plane for now—which was fine by her.

  She felt the fever she had barely noticed before. Her mind’s eye flashed to the people at Mandera Hospital, suffering, dying. Without a cure, that would likely be her fate. She had traveled to Mandera almost a week ago. If she assumed she’d been infected for five to seven days…

  She pushed the thought out of her mind. She had to focus.

  She set about organizing their supplies and strained to
hear any sound of gunfire or struggle. The fog was still thick on the runway and around the plane.

  After what seemed like hours, she heard someone jogging on the paved runway. The sound stopped when the person or persons hit the grass near the plane. Instinctively, Peyton moved to the cockpit, ready to close the door and seal herself off if necessary.

  Boots pounded the staircase, and Desmond appeared in the doorway.

  “Miss me?”

  Peyton exhaled.

  “You scared me to death.”

  Outside, she heard the roar of a truck engine.

  “What’d you find?”

  “The airport is deserted. There’s a fuel truck. We’re going to fill up, get the plane back on the runway, and get ready in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

  When they had the plane fueled and back on the runway, the three of them sat in the passenger compartment.

  To Desmond, Avery said, “Any memories?”

  “Nothing.”

  Peyton was amazed at how easily he lied. It scared her a little. Avery’s reaction gave no hint as to whether she believed him.

  They discussed what to do next, finally agreeing that Avery needed to sleep and that Desmond and Peyton would take one of the airport vehicles to the GPS coordinates. They would radio back if they needed help. Avery didn’t like it, but she reluctantly consented. Not only did she need the sleep, but splitting up had one advantage: if something did go wrong at the site, she could come looking for them and potentially rescue them.