by A. M. Geever
“You are my best friend, Miranda. I would never hurt you if I had any other choice. You know that,” Doug said, pulling her to him. “You and Mario… You never could have lied about it. You’re not made that way. Why do you think everyone knew? And he couldn’t have done it, not if he knew you were waiting. We’d have lost our only chance and we could not let that happen.”
Miranda cried because it was true. When Mario confessed that he loved her, she dove in headlong. It had not mattered that he was married to her friend. It never occurred to her to do anything other than grab what happiness she could, for as long as she could, because she did not live in a world that gave second chances. Doug was right. She could never have done it.
“We never thought it would take so long.” Doug rifled through his pockets before holding up the hem of his t-shirt. Miranda took it and blew her nose. “Mario didn’t make contact for over a year. We started to worry maybe he had sold us out.”
Miranda crumpled to the floor. “This is why you told me not to rush into anything with Connor.” Too tired to accuse him, she merely stated a fact.
She heard Doug curse under his breath as he sat down next to her.
“No, Miri, it’s not. I didn’t know things were going to play out like this. You, Connor, and the others were supposed to get out with the vaccines. Mario was going to South America to oversee production there, but that was supposed to happen later, after you’d gone. It’s not like he can stay here. Too many people want him dead. You were just so unhappy yesterday.” Doug stopped, then added softly, “I know you still love him.”
“I don’t,” she said, the denial automatic.
Doug didn’t say anything, but his silence spoke volumes. She scrubbed her face with her functional hand, unable to remember the last time she felt this tired.
“Walter said the Council is after me.”
“You know we’re manufacturing post-bite in Santa Cruz?” Doug asked, pausing only for a second. “Some dumbasses stole a few crates to sell on the black market. There were no customs stamps on it because we weren’t ready to move it yet.”
“You have customs stamps?” Miranda said, surprised. Customs stamps were locked down as tight as the vaccine itself.
“We have very good forgeries,” Doug said with a sly smile. “The Navy intercepted their boat and your name came up because some of them worked at The Farm a few years ago.”
“But I don’t know anything about those people,” she protested.
“The Council doesn’t know that. Mario only found out because without Customs Stamps, the assumption was that it was stolen from the GeneSys facility. If his brother hadn’t called him, the Council would have you and Connor right now.”
“No wonder he was so pissed,” Miranda muttered, remembering how hard she had fought Mario on the Expressway.
“He wasn’t exaggerating,” Doug said. “You fractured two of his ribs.”
She did not even know how to respond to that. Instead she asked, “So what do we do now?”
“We have to figure out a way to get to Santa Cruz. We have to get Henry and Mario and all their research data far away from here.” Doug looked at her funny, like she would not like what he said next. “Mario’s gone to GeneSys to get the preventative vaccine serum.”
“He went to GeneSys?” she cried. “But they might already know he’s involved!”
“There’s no one else who can do it, Miri.”
“Did I really break his ribs?”
“Fractured. Mario’s going to make it back, Miranda.”
Beneath her fury at how Mario had deceived her, an unwelcome pang of regret took hold.
What if I never see him again?
“He’s going to make it back,” Doug said again, as if reading her mind. “He will, Miranda. He’ll be back.”
Miranda wanted to believe him, but Doug did not sound like he was trying to reassure her. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
27
Her hand felt a bit better, thanks to the ice pack and aspirin. Connor had been waiting with both. The cuts on his face had been cleaned up and swabbed with iodine. The big cut on his cheek had three stitches. Miranda sat on the love seat in Walter’s office. Delilah had squirmed her way between Miranda and Connor, crowding them both. Doug and Walter bickered in circles.
“Homing pigeons?” Doug said, incredulous. “You want to send it using pigeons? In this weather? That’s a stretch, Walter, even for you.”
“How do you propose we get the serum there?” Walter challenged. “The Navy has the bay shut down tighter than a drum, by sea is a nonstarter. The drones are unreliable in heavy rain and you can’t just fly off in a helicopter.”
“It’s not going to get there using pigeons, for crying out loud.”
“We take 17,” Miranda said, raising her voice to be heard.
“Seventeen what?” Walter snapped.
“Highway 17,” Miranda clarified. “We take Highway 17 to Santa Cruz.”
Everyone, even the dog, stared at her.
“Do you have a better suggestion?” she asked. “You just said so yourself. We can’t go by sea and we ran out of aviation fuel years ago. It’s the only other way to get there, and it won’t be on anyone’s radar.”
“Because it’s suicide!” Walter sputtered. “Those mountains are full of zombies. There’s a reason no one goes that way!”
“Connor made it here from Santa Barbara on foot,” Miranda said. “We’ll have transportation. It’s only thirty miles.”
“That was a fluke, not proof it can be done!” Walter countered.
Doug’s expression became thoughtful, then he started to nod his head. “The road will be trashed,” he said to Miranda, paying Walter no mind. “We’ll need a Humvee or an APC.”
“Connor started with fourteen people and three made it!” Walter fairly shouted.
“Harold can get us vehicles,” Miranda said to Doug.
“Will you listen to yourselves?” Walter implored. “What you’re proposing is madness. No one has ever made it over 17! You might as well shoot yourselves in the head.”
“It’s a little late to start playing it safe, Father Walter,” Miranda said. “If you hadn’t kept me in the dark all this time, maybe I could come up with something else. I don’t hear you coming up with better.”
Miranda’s rebuke transformed Walter’s look of dismay into indignant anger. “I know you’re angry with me—”
“Don’t even go there,” she snapped, surprised at the ferocity of her anger.
Miranda and Walter glared at each other. Connor spoke into the uneasy silence. “Are you sure about this, Miri?”
“No,” she said, tearing herself from Walter’s glare. “But what other option do we have?”
A shiver ran down her spine. Her response to Connor’s question was too similar to Doug’s explanation about why they had deceived her about Mario.
Miranda stood up. She winced as she peeked at her hand, then reapplied the ice pack. “I’m going to call Harold and see what vehicles he can manage on short notice.”
“See what kind of arms and ammo he can get us,” Doug said. Then he smiled at her. “Lingerie is a bonus.”
Miranda sighed and could not help but smile. He was back to giving her the business already.
“I’m going to get Emily and the kids. I told Mario I’d handle it myself,” Doug added.
Connor jumped up. “I’m coming with you.”
“Me too,” Miranda said. “It’ll only take me a minute to make my call.”
“You’re staying here,” Doug said. “Round up a gunner and a medic. And keep that ice on your hand. You’re no use to us gimpy.”
“We can’t really change anything if we don’t have the preventative vaccine,” Walter said. “But half a break on their stranglehold is better than none. And we still have Henry. He’ll figure out the preventative serum eventually. Even if Mario doesn’t make it back, we have to try.”
Walter’s words m
ade Miranda sick to her stomach and furious. If Mario didn’t make it back, it would serve him right, but there was more at stake than his life. Fractured ribs could slow him down just enough… It would be her fault if he was captured. If he was killed, she would never be able to forgive herself, which made her so angry she wanted to murder him. Why should she care after what he had done to her?
But she did care. Whether she liked it or not, Mario had become very important to her again.
28
Mario walked across the darkened GeneSys parking lot, head ducked against the rain. He had pulled around to the back of the building so he could use one of the service entrances. He would not go unnoticed, but there would be fewer people compared to the main entrance. He keyed a generic maintenance security code into the keypad by the door. A determined enough analyst would be able to track it back to him, but by then, he would either be long gone or already captured.
He wiped his forehead and pushed his hair back from his face before approaching the security desk. He tried to take a deep breath, but Doc had wrapped his ribs so tight he felt like he could barely breathe.
“Mr. Santorello,” a friendly voice exclaimed.
A few feet away sat Gus, the first security guard GeneSys had ever hired when the company was still small enough that security had been a one-man operation.
“It’s nice to…” Gus’ voice trailed off as Mario came closer and his bruised face became evident. “Sir, are you alright?”
Mario opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, wincing. His jaw and cheek throbbed. She knows how to throw a punch, he thought.
Aloud he said, “You should see the other guy.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to if he looks worse than you,” Gus said, his blue eyes beginning to glint with mischief as a smile spread across his thin face. None of his colleagues would dare smile in Mario’s presence, let alone tease him, but Gus had known Mario before the ZA. Before the vaccine, before the betrayal. Gus had always treated him, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, as if he believed Mario was not a terrible person.
“I’ll go get some ice for that,” Gus offered, beginning to rise from his chair.
“Don’t bother, Gus,” Mario answered, waving him back into his seat. “If you can think of something to tell the wife, let me know.”
“Better you than me, boss,” Gus said. “If you change your mind and want some ice, just let me know.”
Mario entered the stairwell that led to the Biosafety Level 1 lab in the basement, wincing with every step. He fumbled with the thumb drive in his pocket, nervously anticipating the moment he would execute the computer virus that would cover his tracks—or not.
The door at the bottom of the stairwell opened to reveal a long white corridor illuminated by bright fluorescent lights that reinforced the sterile atmosphere. To the left was the BSL-4 lab, where they worked with the live ZBZ-1 virus. By the time the process got to serum synthesis, the BSL-1 lab to Mario’s right was more than adequate. Even so, he still had to pass through three manned checkpoints of reinforced steel doors and floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass. The gray uniforms of the two-person security details at each station were the only relief from the stark white landscape.
Mario passed through the three checkpoints before arriving at the BSL-1 lab’s only door. As part of his role as a Prince of Darkness, Mario made a point of never speaking to the security personnel unless he was giving an order. Except for Gus, of course. From the way they straightened up, it was obvious the men working the night shift knew who he was.
“Good evening, sir,” one of the guards ventured.
Mario did not answer.
He punched in his access code. His hands felt clammy. His heart threatened to thump its way out of his chest as the door shut behind him. He had to use his own access codes because biometric scans were part of the security protocols. Nothing short of an appropriate hostage, or a clever computer virus, could assist him in covering his tracks.
If that damn boat had been intercepted twenty-four hours later, I’d be doing this at the same time as the system upgrade, Mario thought. He was over ninety percent sure that running the program during the upgrade would go undetected; now his chances were fifty-fifty. He retrieved four square, red insulated vial carriers that looked like padded lunch boxes with long straps from a supply cabinet and headed for the freezer.
Mario stuck the thumb drive into the computer workstation next to the freezer door. He realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled, waited a moment for his rib to not hurt so much, and clicked the “Execute” button. He keyed in his access code, placed his palm on the hand scanner, and leaned into the retina scanner. A discreet beep indicated that the door had unlocked. Misty condensation swirled and enveloped him as the warmer air of the lab collided with the frigid air of the freezer.
The refrigerated room was a sleek version of a meat locker. Mario went directly to the first serum cabinet where he again entered codes and submitted to scans before swinging the doors open. On every shelf sat row upon row of squat vials stored in pressure sensitive holders that automatically triggered the inventory system when removed. Removing a vial without a request from an authorized user sent the entire building into lockdown. The program he had loaded onto the freezer workstation would assign his request to someone else with access to the BSL-1 lab and change the palm and retina scan logs to match. That was the idea, anyway. Right now, every code and scan correctly indicated that Mario Santorello was in the lab removing the serum. The only upside about that was his access and authorization codes were still working, which meant the Council had not connected the dots yet.
I should deal with the guards to give us more time. The program can’t take care of them. Mario tried to ignore the leaden feeling that settled on his chest. Those men probably had wives, children—
It can’t be helped. Don’t think about it.
Mario grasped vial after vial with fingers made clumsy from the cold even though they only needed one vial to synthesize a vaccine that could then be replicated. The rush of warm air that greeted him as he left the freezer came as a welcome relief. Mario checked the computer workstation again. The program was still running. He could not stick around to see if it would work.
Slowly, he raised the carrier straps over his head. It hurt. She’ll be the death of me… Of all the days to fracture my goddamned ribs. As he walked across the room, the carriers bumped against his back. That hurt too.
He paused at the door that opened to the corridor and almost took a deep breath before he remembered that was a bad idea. He squeezed his eyes shut.
St. Jude, please, if you’ve never heard me before, hear me now. Help me get out of here. Help me get the serum to Walter. I know I don’t deserve your help, but I’m not asking for myself.
He opened the door.
Pass the guards, walk fifteen feet, get through the next door.
Simple, but Mario felt like he was in one of those dreams where he ran and ran, but the hallway only got longer.
The first door clicked shut behind him.
Pass the guards, walk fifteen feet, get through the next door.
The guards were looking at him. Had they ever done that before? He had no idea; he had never paid attention. Their scrutiny made him certain they were toying with him before they pounced.
The second door clicked shut.
Pass the guards, walk fifteen feet, get through the next door.
Mario grasped the handle of the last door when red lights began to flash. Sirens wailed. He heard the snick of the automatic lockdown deadbolts and the scrape of chairs pushed back hastily. He turned around. Through the glass walls, he saw the other security teams checking consoles and making phone calls. His heart plummeted into his bowels.
I’m fucked.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, sir,” the guard at the computer console answered. He ceased tapping on keys to look at Mario, then bit his lip and ran a h
and over his buzz-cut hair.
Just being in the same room with me freaks them out.
It wasn’t much, but he would take any advantage he could get. Perhaps the Patron Saint of Lost Causes had not forsaken him.
“We don’t have much information, sir.” Buzz Cut continued, “Just a lockdown order. I’m sure we’ll have it cleared up in a minute.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Mario said. “Open the door.”
The second guard, who was talking on the phone, ended his conversation mid-word. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I have a pressing—” Mario began, then scowled. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. Open the door.”
“You know we can’t do that, sir,” the second guard said. He set the phone receiver down but did not hang it up. “We have to wait for the lockdown order to be lifted.”
Mario looked at the man, eyes flint-hard. He walked to the desk and hung up the phone receiver.
“I’m not interested in what you can’t do. Use your override codes and open the door.”
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Buzz Cut watched Mario and his colleague warily.
“I’m sorry—” the man started to say again, but Mario cut him off.
“If you don’t open that door right now, I will have the residency permits of your family revoked.”
Mario’s fury was genuine. If he didn’t get out that door he was doomed. This minute delay could derail years of planning. If they failed now, they would never get another chance. All the anguish and pain he had caused, the oceans of blood on his hands, would be for nothing.
Both guards blanched. Their terror at the idea of living outside the safety of the City’s walls was palpable.
Buzz Cut’s hand shook as he bent over the security keypad in the center of the desk. “I’m keying in my override code now, sir.”
Buzz Cut’s partner looked at him in disbelief. “You can’t do that!”
“Just enter your code,” Buzz Cut snapped. “He’s the boss.”