Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Too late, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, but the man was already on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Another soldier joined him, and in seconds they had bound William’s hands.

  They raised him roughly to his feet, then walked him out of the server room, through the halls, and onto the elevator. It reminded William of that night in Rio, when the thugs had hauled him out of the taxi and marched him through the favela. He had saved Yuri and Lin’s lives that night; they had been captives of a madman, kept confined in a dirty back room of a shanty house. Now he was the captive.

  They exited the elevator on the fourth floor and marched him to a room with a piece of equipment that reminded William of an MRI machine, except far larger.

  It’s true. They’ve done it, he thought.

  A voice William knew well came over the speaker. “Scan him and bring him to me. Quickly.”

  The soldiers forced William onto an exam table, unbound his hands, and strapped his arms and legs in. A woman wearing blue-green scrubs walked in and injected something into his shoulder. The soldiers stood back while he lost consciousness.

  When William opened his eyes, he lay on a couch, his hands once again bound.

  Through blurred vision that slowly cleared, he took in the room around him. It was a corner office, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides that looked out on the island landscape. He stood, uneasily, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  A man rose from behind the desk, walked over, and grasped his upper arm.

  “Here, old friend. Have a seat. Relax. Everything will be fine very soon.”

  The man deposited William in a chair in front of the desk. Sitting up helped.

  When the man’s face finally came into focus. William was unsure if he was saved or truly trapped.

  Yuri stood across from him.

  Chapter 120

  The hurt Peyton felt in that moment nearly overwhelmed her. It was like the pain that night in London, when her mother had taken Andrew, Madison, and her away and told them that their father was dead. It was like the dark chapter of her life she had shared with Desmond. She had felt the same then: alone, confused.

  But this was worse. Seeing her mother here—apparently in charge—involved in the slaughter of millions, complicit in releasing a pathogen upon a defenseless world, perpetrating an event Peyton had dedicated her life to stopping… It was the ultimate betrayal.

  Peyton tried but failed to keep the emotion out of her voice.

  “Mom, how could you do this?”

  Lin Shaw glanced away from Peyton. “There’s more going on here than you understand.”

  “Then explain it. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  “We don’t have time—”

  “Explain to me how killing millions of helpless people serves a purpose.”

  “Peyton.”

  “And what’s the cure? I know it’s not a vaccine and it’s not an antiviral—not like anything in use today.”

  Lin Shaw exhaled but remained silent.

  “What is it, Mom? What does the cure really do? I know you’re not growing a virus or biological material down there. It’s not a chemical agent. Tell me, please. What are you all planning?”

  Lin stepped closer to Peyton. “I’ll explain, but right now, we need to go.”

  “No. I’m not going anywhere with you. Not until you tell me why you’re doing this.”

  “I’m not doing this. There are two factions within the Citium. We’re at war.”

  The words shocked Peyton—and infused her with hope. She desperately wanted to believe that her mother was innocent. “Prove it.”

  “Peyton—”

  “She’s telling the truth.”

  All eyes turned to the man who stood in the doorway. He wore a white coat; his hair was short, tinged gray at the temples. To Peyton’s shock and joy, her brother Andrew stood there, alive and well. Peyton wanted to cry at the sight of him, to rush to him and hug him. But the words he said next crushed her, shattered her heart.

  “She didn’t do it, Peyton. I did.”

  Chapter 121

  Time seemed to stand still. With Avery tucked safely behind him, Desmond studied Conner’s badly burned face. A gust of wind caught the tall man’s long blond hair, pulling it back like a curtain, revealing more of the mottled flesh. Desmond now knew how Conner had gotten the hideous injuries.

  At the remains of Desmond’s childhood home, he had recalled the full memory of that day in 1983 when his home had burned.

  That morning when he awoke, he had rushed into the kitchen, where his mother sat in a chair, holding Desmond’s infant brother: Conner. The baby was smiling—in fact, Conner always seemed to be smiling or laughing. Their father had often remarked that the boy cried a great deal less than Desmond, and because of that, they might be getting another sibling. Desmond had hoped so. He was as taken with his younger brother as his parents were. But that morning, he had paid the infant no attention at all. He had stuffed his face full of eggs and toast spread with Vegemite and beaten a path out the door.

  Later that day, when the flames were devouring the home, he had screamed Conner’s name before running into the blaze. The desire to get his mother and his baby brother out of the home drove him on as the fire burned his legs and the smoke strangled him until he could go no farther. He had failed both of them that day, and that failure had haunted Desmond his entire life.

  In April of 2003, he had gone to Australia to visit his family’s grave, to lay a wreath there on the twentieth anniversary of the bushfires. He had expected to see a grave marker for Conner, but there wasn’t one. That sparked Desmond’s curiosity—and hope. He spent weeks in Adelaide, tracking down old records. He hired the best private investigator in the country, and the second best. The cost was exorbitant. He paid for endless travel, record requests, and attorney fees for court proceedings when records were withheld. Finally, he learned the truth: their mother had saved Conner in an act of breathtaking bravery and sacrifice. She had cleared the wood and ashes out of the fireplace, then set Conner inside it. She had rolled the refrigerator close, then tipped it over to cover the fireplace’s opening.

  The initial search party who found Desmond saw only their mother’s burned remains. She had stayed in the house, clearing as much of the flammable material as she could away from the fireplace.

  But a second group of relief workers searching the area for survivors found Conner badly burned, dehydrated, and malnourished. He was at death’s door. They flew him to Adelaide, where he spent months in a pediatric intensive care unit, then the burn unit.

  Desmond cried when he read the doctor’s notes. They had expected the infant to die, but at each turn, he had defied the odds. By the time Conner was well enough to leave, Desmond had long since gone to Oklahoma to live with Orville. The doctors called the boy’s uncle, but Orville refused to take Conner. Desmond had no doubt that part of the report was true: the roughneck had been in no shape to take Desmond, even at age five; he couldn’t have cared for an infant.

  Conner was remanded to the foster system. Desmond couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Conner growing up, so badly injured—physically and mentally. He imagined the would-be parents touring the facility, gazing upon the young boys and girls they might take home, averting their eyes when they came to Conner.

  Desmond was surprised to learn that the boy had been placed with adoptive parents in 1995 at the age of twelve. The records stopped there. Both McClain parents were deceased by 2003. Conner had dropped out of school at age seventeen and was unmarried and lived alone.

  There was only one thing left for Desmond to do.

  On an overcast day in June of 2003, he parked outside Conner’s apartment building and waited, rehearsing what he would say. That morning, he saw his brother for the first time in twenty years. The sight broke his heart. Not with joy, but with sorrow. Conner McClain had long, grungy hair and wore baggy, dirty clothes. Track marks ran down his right arm. He lit a
cigarette and set off on foot for his back-breaking job on the docks.

  Sitting in the rental car, watching his younger brother, Desmond’s life changed. From that point forward, he dedicated himself to helping Conner turn his life around. He bought a company in Australia and directed the HR department to hire Conner. He subtly found out the young man’s strengths and weaknesses, and insisted Conner’s supervisor challenge him. He watched him grow over the course of a few years. Conner moved out of the run-down apartment and left drugs behind, but he could never chase away the demons inside of him. He was the shell of the person he wanted to be. Desmond knew that feeling all too well; more than anyone else, he understood exactly how his younger brother felt.

  The night when he revealed to Conner who he truly was—that they were brothers—the two of them hugged and promised to never keep another secret from each other. Desmond told him the full truth then, about the Citium, and the Looking Glass, a device that would change the world and allow both of them to be healed, to start over, to literally rewrite the past if they wanted. He saw what he had hoped to see since the moment Conner had walked out of that run-down apartment: true transformation. Hope. Faith. Belief that a happy life was possible for him.

  Peyton had been right: Desmond did need someone to save. Helping Conner gave purpose to his life. The Looking Glass took on a whole new meaning for him. It became their project, their obsession. The two brothers, along with Yuri, became the trinity guiding the project, each with their own component: Desmond oversaw the creation of Rendition, Yuri created Rapture, and Conner completed Rook.

  And then everything changed. Desmond learned the truth about what Yuri intended to do. He learned about the pandemic, and he was horrified.

  But Conner wasn’t; he insisted that it was the only way. He was willing to do anything for the Looking Glass; Desmond wasn’t.

  In the conference room on the Kentaro Maru, they fought over it, said things they both regretted. A bridge officer opened the door and informed them that an American expedition had found the Beagle, the Citium research submarine that had conducted advanced research in the early years of the Looking Glass. It was a tomb at the bottom of the ocean that held secrets they wanted to keep buried—secrets that might compromise everything they were doing.

  Conner ordered a strike on the American ship. Desmond pleaded for him not to, but it was no use. Conner and Yuri were going forward with the pandemic, and there was nothing Desmond could say to convince them not to. So he created a plan to stop them.

  Desmond contacted Garin Meyer, an investigative journalist in Berlin who had unknowingly stumbled upon the Citium conspiracy. Desmond tried and failed to expose the Citium before the pandemic began, but Conner and Yuri acted too quickly.

  Yet Desmond had also created a backup plan: hiding Rendition and erasing his own memories. In doing so, he prevented Conner and Yuri from completing the Looking Glass and ensured they couldn’t kill him. He hid clues to himself in the hotel room in Berlin and in the Labyrinth Reality app. His backup plan had led him to Peyton; to William; and now here, to the Isle. Behind him, Avery held the tablet with the list of sites with the cure. If they could transmit the data to Rubicon, the information could save countless lives.

  Desmond saw the same thing on Conner’s face that he had seen there a week ago, in the holding cell on the Kentaro Maru: hurt. Desmond understood now. His betrayal had wounded Conner in a way the man had never thought possible.

  Desmond expected Conner to threaten him, but he didn’t. His tone was soft, pleading.

  “Please, Des. End this. We’ll forget about it.”

  “You know we can’t.”

  “We’ve won, brother. The world is ours. The Looking Glass will be completed within days. We’ve done it. The hard part’s over. Please, Desmond. Please.”

  His little brother needed him. In some ways, the fire that had almost claimed Conner’s life had never stopped hurting him. But now his pain could end. The Looking Glass could save him. And Desmond alone held the key to the final piece: Rendition. With it, he held the power to heal his brother.

  Soldiers peeked around the door frame behind Conner and trained rifles on Desmond and Avery, the red dots moving over their bodies like crawling insects.

  Avery leaned forward, hiding her head behind Desmond.

  Her voice was a very nervous whisper. “What are you thinking here, Des?”

  Chapter 122

  William watched Yuri pace across the office. The small Russian man dismissed the guards but left William’s hands bound.

  William knew he had to buy time. It was his only chance of escape, and the team’s only chance to complete their mission. If he could stall long enough, maybe Desmond and Avery could get out of the building and upload the list to the US government servers. Or maybe Peyton and Charlotte could find something they could use.

  And if he was really lucky, the Marines would arrive to save them all.

  In the years William had known Yuri, the smaller man had always been stoic, his face made of stone. William had wondered if that was a result of his growing up in Stalingrad during World War II, where life was a living hell. Day and night, the Nazis had pounded the city to rubble and slaughtered its people, including Yuri’s parents and two brothers.

  But now, in the fourth-floor corner office, William saw a softer, more reflective expression on his old friend’s face. He hoped he could use that.

  “There’s still time to stop this, Yuri.”

  “There isn’t. We both know it.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it? The purge.”

  Yuri sat on the end of the desk. “Yes.”

  “They were our friends, Yuri. And you slaughtered them.”

  “You didn’t know them the way I did. You protected them, but you weren’t one of them—you weren’t a scientist. You never saw some of the things they were working on. Or what they were really like. Obsessive. Vindictive. Ruthless. I knew a long time ago—long before anyone else—that there could be only one Looking Glass device. The other cells wouldn’t have stopped. We would have created a completely new type of warfare. A techno-war. Looking Glass projects competing, consuming resources, pitting nations against each other. It would have ripped the world apart. I saved us. I don’t regret that.”

  “Do you regret sending those men to my home to kill me?”

  Yuri looked away.

  “Why didn’t you finish the job? You found me years later—when I was close to finding you and stopping you.”

  As he said the words, William realized the truth—why Yuri couldn’t do it back then. The man had killed every one of his friends—except for William. He was his last true friend. Perhaps Yuri had realized that after the purge.

  “I owed you. You saved my life in Rio. I pay my debts.”

  “Yet you took my son’s life.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  A relief beyond words swept over William. It was true—the theory he had harbored for so many years: his only son was alive. His suspicions had grown when he found the old picture in Kazakhstan—it could have belonged to Lin or Andrew, William didn’t know which. But what had happened during the last twenty-five years?

  He took his best guess.

  “Andrew has been your prisoner?”

  “For a time.”

  “And then?”

  “My partner.”

  William shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “You would have been proud of him. He resisted far longer than we expected. His re-education took years. But we broke him, showed him the truth. He found in the Looking Glass what we all see: a way to fix our broken world. And himself. The bargain we presented was simple: one last pandemic to end them all. An end to disease. And for himself, a world where he has two arms, where he is just like everyone else, a world where no other boy will have to sit on the sidelines while the others play ball, where no person is born with a disability.”

  Rage built within William. “You brainwashed him. Chose him�
��to get me out of the way.”

  Yuri seemed unconcerned by William’s anger. “And to complete my own work. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  William strained against the plastic zip ties, causing them to cut into his wrists. A trickle of blood rolled down his hand. He desperately wanted to rush the monster who stood before him, but he maintained his composure. Yuri had one commodity he desperately needed: information.

  He considered what Yuri had done: enlisting Andrew, Desmond, and Conner to complete the Looking Glass. They were all broken in a way, all completely dedicated to the cause. They were all perfect examples of the type of person who could be radicalized, made to do terrible things in the name of a brighter future. In a way, they were mirrors of Yuri, William, and Lin. They had all grown up in a desperate and broken world, had come to the Citium seeking a balm for their pain, as well as for the pain of the world.

  William wondered if the cycle would ever be broken.

  Another question had always bothered him, and Yuri was the only person who could answer it.

  “The night of the purge. Lin was tipped off. She left while I was in the air en route to London. She was on a flight to France when I landed. It was you, wasn’t it? You told her to get out.”

  Yuri raised his eyebrows. He was impressed. “Yes.”

  “You couldn’t kill her either.”

  “I needed her to complete my work.”

  “And she went along?”

  “To a point. Taking Andrew as a hostage helped.”

  “She didn’t know, did she? About the pandemic.”

  Yuri’s reaction told him it was true.

  William pressed on, hoping for more answers. “And Hughes didn’t either. That’s why he went off the reservation when he found out. Why he contacted me.”

  “A minor setback.”

  “You underestimated his morality. That’s how he’s different from you.”

  “We’re a team for a reason. He lacks the fortitude to do what must be done. I do not. I did those things in Stalingrad. And during the purge. And now.”