Mortal Crimes 2

by Various Authors

  “You call genocide bad luck?” Mike asked.

  “If I can misquote the NRA argument: We created the gun and the bullet, but we have no control over what Nature will do with them together.”

  “What now?”

  “Now our scientists are concentrating on figuring out what went wrong and how to reverse it. We’re not ready to go public with it, but we’ve got a prototype treatment.”

  “Good God, man, the CDC has some of the brightest brains in the country and the best facilities. We can help.”

  “No. If Triple E can’t profit off our animals, we’re going to profit off the treatment. We’ve just concluded a deal with Zia Khan Pharmaceutical and we don’t intend to share our research with the U.S. Government. We have had continuous access to the source and are miles ahead of anything the CDC could come up with. We can be to market in just a few weeks. Zia Khan may well partner with you for the effective distribution channels and reach you can provide, but the profit stays with private enterprise. We can keep those millions from dying. And that’s why you won’t shut us down.”

  “A national crisis—hell, a global crisis—and you’re talking back alley deals?” Mike wasn’t blind to the issues inherent in any government agency, but given a choice between a small company with a handful of researchers doing backyard breeding in the middle of the prairie and a national organization with a vast, organized web of people, labs and funding, Mike was ready to play the odds that bigger did indeed mean better. And, more importantly, faster.

  Where Mike was concerned with the how’s, Donna was more concerned with the what’s. “You mentioned a prototype. You actually have a cure? For the disease, not just the symptoms? I thought once prions started to produce mutant copies of themselves in an animal there wasn’t any way to reverse it.”

  “There isn’t. We still haven’t been able to convince mutant prions to become normal again. But we can make them mutate into something else. A benign variant. What our geneticists have dubbed PrPVf, for “vaccine form.” Inject a few of those prions and they take over and become the new template. It doesn’t correct what damage has already been done, but it stops the disease so no more damage takes place.”

  “It works for all species?”

  Donna didn’t miss the hesitant beat before Walt answered, “So far.”

  “What about trials?” Mike asked, apparently also sensing there was something Walt was still hiding.

  “I’m afraid that’s where you three come in. You’ll stay and help us conduct them. And be compensated for your cooperation.”

  “You can’t hold us here!”

  “I can—and will. But you’ll stay voluntarily because you’ve been exposed—maybe even infected—too. Just like the rest of us. You’ll be first to get the treatment.”

  “You mean we’ll be your guinea pigs!” Sylvia was quite up to speed on where the conversation was at now.

  Mike was already angrily unfolding himself in the cramped space. Outside, one of the mammoths trumpeted in alarm at the shouts and sudden movement, and the herd shied off.

  Walt eased one of the tranq guns into his hands and popped in a dart before Mike could even make it to the ladder. The CEO didn’t point the weapon, but it was clear to his guests the man could, and would, use it.

  “There’s a security detail outside the fence. Once this all blows over in a few days you’re welcome to press charges. For now, you can walk with mammoths—and have a story to tell your grandkids.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  THE GROUP WAS UNCEREMONIOUSLY ushered into the back of a maintenance van and taken to the main campus where they were escorted to a long, low-slung building near the parking garage. A small sign at the door read Research Lab.

  Even if it hadn’t been for the sign outside they would have known the purpose of the building as soon as they stepped inside. The sharp tang of disinfectant mixed with the acrid odor of unidentifiable chemicals wafted through the hall. Every room appeared to have an electronic lock, though many of the doors were propped open, giving the guests tantalizing glimpses into labs where white-coated geneticists and their assistants mainly stared at equipment monitors and took notes on their observations.

  One of the two guards with them flashed a security badge at a door near the end of the hall and the other guard motioned them inside. Racks of boxes and supplies lined the walls of the windowless room. There was a laundry sink and cleaning equipment near the door, a table with a couple of chairs in the center of the relatively cramped space, and a small cot crammed between the far chair and the supply rack. A janitor’s closet cum break room, Mike thought. Definitely not the same caliber room as those with the million-dollar machines humming in them.

  ”Mr. Thurman asks that you wait here,” the first guard said. Her voice was polite, almost apologetic, as though she were following orders she’d rather not be carrying out.

  “Wait for what?” Donna asked.

  “I’m afraid he didn’t share that with me.”

  “For how long?” Sylvia wrinkled her nose at the uninviting room.

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “And if we decide not to take good old Walt up on his hospitality?” Mike asked, taking a step back toward the door.

  The second guard, a large man with close-cropped hair who might have once been military, smoothly blocked Mike’s way. “Then I’m afraid we’d have to insist. And I assure you, sir, you do not want us to insist.”

  For a moment Mike considered rushing the guards. But the closest he’d ever come to combat training was racking up points in vid games. It wouldn’t even be a contest. The thought was a hard smack in his manhood, but Mike had no delusions about his level of competence. They’d find another way out.

  “I need the keys to your vehicles, please.” The female guard held out her hand.

  “Why? So you can go drown them in a lake somewhere? Make sure no one finds us?”

  The guard simply kept holding out her hand until Mike and Donna relinquished their encrypted key cards into it.

  Sylvia patted her pocketless capris. “Mine are back in my room.”

  The guard nodded and gestured them away from the doorway.

  Mike retreated into the room with Donna and Sylvia, and the female guard, with an expression of sympathy, closed the door. The sharp click of the lock told the occupants they would only be getting out at the pleasure of Walt Thurman. That, or they would need to figure out how to jimmy the reader beside the door to force the lock open.

  Mike scowled his frustration, looking for something to hit.

  Sylvia slumped into one of the chairs at the table. “What now?”

  “Now we figure out how to get out of this room and get the authorities here to confiscate the research,” Mike said. “Let the CDC see if they’ve really found a cure.”

  “What about Zia Khan?” Donna asked, sitting at the table. “What’s the harm in letting them buy the research and do the testing?” The hand she rested on the table started drumming the wood. With an annoyed slap, she clamped her other hand over it to stop the tremor.

  “Because Zia Khan is a Pakistani company,” Mike said. “And they’re in bed with the Shen Nung Biopharm.” Donna and Sylvia gave him blank looks. “Shen Nung is based in China, and they’re the ones likely funding the whole thing. So you can damn well bet they aren’t going to have our interests at heart. Hell, cause a big enough scare worldwide and Zia Khan can make a killing selling any drug it comes up with just to the Middle East and China. Cut the U.S. right out.”

  Donna caught on fast. “Shit. They won’t even need a bomb. Just sit back and let VTSE wipe us off the face of the earth.”

  “They wouldn’t really do that,” Sylvia said. “Would they?”

  “Who?” Mike shot back. “Triple E selling to scum like Zia Khan? Or the Chinese and Pakistanis letting nature do its dirty work for them? In any case, somebody’s got to get in and sort this mess out. Which means if there’s any chance Triple E does have a cure,
the CDC or CIA or somebody in this country in authority has got to know about it before all the records go offshore.”

  “And if we don’t tell them, who will?”

  “Exactly.” Mike started pacing the small space between the table and the door. “Anyone have any ideas for getting out of here?”

  Sylvia picked a bit of lint off her capris, trying to keep her focus anywhere but on the terror niggling at the edges of her brain. “You know those vids the news stations were running a few months ago of captured soldiers in Iran and Turkmenistan? Those men and women were armed, trained and prepared, but they couldn’t escape. Do you really think we can?”

  “But their captors planned for them. We’re just, like, collateral damage. No one planned for us to be here. And it’s a frigging company, not a country. Surely not everyone here would just turn a blind eye to kidnapping.”

  “Maybe. If anyone else knew we were here.”

  Mike frowned. “And if anyone else could get into the room. That electronic lock looks programmable. They’ve probably shut off access to everyone but those loyal to the cause. Whatever cause that is.”

  Sylvia looked up. “That female guard seemed like she might be sympathetic. Maybe she just needs time for her conscience to catch up.”

  “Can we reprogram the lock?” Donna asked. “Or just take the damn thing out?”

  Mike peered at the mechanism. “It’s just a satellite. Its programming is being fed into it remotely, so I don’t think we can influence it at all from here. And if we rip it down and disconnect it, I think the door will just stay locked with no way to open it. Then no one could get to us until they could repair it—assuming they would even try to repair it.”

  “Who in their right mind would put a lock inside a supply room?” Sylvia asked. Aren’t they afraid of people taking advantage of it? I mean, you always hear about people getting it on in supply closets, don’t you?”

  “Maybe the lock was never programmed in the past to actually lock. It would be smart to put a lock in, though, when you’re doing the initial wiring. Just in case the room was ever used to hold anything they wanted to limit access to, like certain drugs or chemicals.”

  “Or us,” Sylvia noted glumly.

  “Or us.” Mike gave up his examination of the black box by the door and returned to pacing.

  Nearly an hour later, long after Sylvia had run out of things to distract herself with, the lock snicked and the door opened. The three of them were immediately on their feet as a tall, thin man in a white lab coat entered the room followed by the two security guards they’d already met.

  “How do you do,” the tall man said. “I am Grigor Volkov.” He paused, but Mike knew he wasn’t waiting for them to introduce themselves. Instead, the man was studying them, each in turn. When his attention landed on Donna, his eyes sparked. “You are infected, no?” he asked her.

  Instinctively, Donna covered the trembling hand that gave her away. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I am the geneticist who developed the new protein Mr. Thurman told you about.”

  “He also mentioned it hadn’t been tested.”

  “On people, no. But it’s been very promising in mice and the handful of wolves and cats we’ve tested.”

  “What does that mean? Promising?”

  “You are the vet, are you not?” Dr. Volkov asked. Donna nodded. “It means so far the new protein has incited the VTSE variant to refold into what we presume is a benign form. Symptoms have halted and the animals appear normal.”

  “So far?” Mike asked.

  “We have not conducted any long-term studies. We all remember the regrettable incident with thalidomide in the 1960s. Not only would we like to know what effect the new protein will have on subsequent generations, prion diseases are notoriously long-lived. Unfortunately, as Mr. Thurman continues to point out, we do not have the luxury of extended trials. We must judge the efficacy of this protein on a limited pool and for a limited time.

  “As you may have guessed, Mr. Thurman has volunteered you to be a part of our study. Assuming an option, Dr.—?” he raised an eyebrow toward Donna.

  ”Bailey.”

  “— Dr. Bailey likely has a month, perhaps two at the outside, to live, without my interference.”

  “And with it?”

  Dr. Volkov shrugged. “That is what we must find out. Will the introduction of the new variant be immediately rejected and produce no results whatsoever? Will it mutate not just the disease-causing prions but also more necessary proteins into something else? Because even if that something else is not a direct cause of disease, taking away a specific protein from the delicate balance in our bodies may well lead to a separate debilitating condition. Or will the new protein replicate so rapidly that it strangles out all of the good prions and death will occur not in a month or two but in a matter of days?”

  “So it’s a crap shoot?” Mike jumped to his feet and the security detail shifted into full alert.

  Dr. Volkov spread his hands. “It is a necessary gamble. Someone has to be the first. Consider the first person to be injected with penicillin.”

  “Didn’t he die?” Donna said.

  Dr. Volkov’s expression softened. “We all die. In the end, all test subjects die. That is the nature of living.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of test tubes and needles. “First, I need a benchmark, so I’m going to draw a little blood from each of you before I inject the test protein. If you’ll permit me…”

  The security guards stepped forward with Dr. Volkov as he reached for Donna’s arm. When he touched her, Mike’s blood pressure shot up. He willed himself calm. Now wasn’t the time to do anything foolish. Drawing blood out wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

  When Dr. Volkov next put the rubber tie around his upper arm, Mike stared pure hate the geneticist’s way. The doctor avoided looking directly at him, concentrating instead on sliding in the needle and filling his tubes. Watching him, watching the way he moved, Mike began to realize that this Volkov might be nothing more than a mere instrument. Part of Thurman’s power play. That the good doctor’s rhetoric was as much about validating his actions to himself. The man went competently about his work, but there was a slump to his shoulders and a defeated look in his eyes. Mike didn’t hate him any less, but he did see a chink. An opportunity. They needed an ally with the necessary access and this Dr. Volkov could be just the ticket.

  “You don’t really want to do this, do you?” Mike asked.

  Dr. Volkov released the rubber tie and looked squarely into Mike’s eyes. “No, I don’t. Make no mistake, though, that I will. Would you rather it be a small baby or a young mother? Or perhaps a jail full of convicts would suit your moral standards better? You choose. If not you, who? Hundreds are dying today. Tomorrow it will be thousands. I can do nothing to save them. I might not be able to save your vet. I might yet kill all of you, but you will be only three weighed against the thousands, the millions that your response could potentially save. I am truly sorry.”

  From his other pocket, Dr. Volkov pulled out three syringes. “Please let me have your other arm.” The two security guards crowded a step closer.

  Mike fought the urge to fight or flee. Neither would do him any good in the face of brute force, tasers and the .38’s strapped to the guards’ hips. He placated himself by telling himself in its way he was helping humanity. That someone somewhere might profit from all this. Even if he wound up dead. Gritting his teeth, he held out his arm.

  Dr. Volkov acknowledged Mike’s sacrifice with respect and competence. He worked smoothly, finding and stabilizing a vein, then sliding the needle in with a minimum of fuss and depressing the plunger.

  The fluid in the syringe was rather innocuous-looking to Mike’s eyes. Clear and pale yellow, though the color could have been due to the halogen lights overhead. He watched the barrel of the syringe empty of fluid, feeling the slightest sting where the serum entered his vein. Muscles tense, he waited for a reaction—any reacti
on—but aside from the sting he felt nothing except the geneticist’s critical eye on him.

  After a few moments when it was clear Mike wasn’t going to go into anaphylactic shock or start seizuring, Dr. Volkov gave a small nod and moved to Donna.

  The vet eyed the syringe with apprehension. Mike wasn’t infected that she knew of; would it be different for her? The logical part of her brain knew it was unlikely there would be an immediate reaction unless her body was allergic to the protein being used. It certainly wouldn’t be human protein; more likely something refined from one of the animals in the compound. Maybe even something from one of the megabeasts. An Ice Age cure for an Ice Age disease seemed most appropriate, though it could as easily be refined prion bits from a wolf or grizzly.

  She inhaled deeply as Dr. Volkov injected her. After a few moments when nothing happened, she breathed out again. Just as it took any vaccine time to confer immunity by tickling the proper receptors in antibodies, it looked like it would take time for these PrPVf prions to tickle the VTSE-causing prions in her body and pressure them into refolding into a—hopefully—more benign pattern.

  Of course, that was the unknown: how her body would react when they began refolding themselves. If adversely, she could know in as little as a day or not know for years. The uncertainty clawed her brain like a cornered animal. She couldn’t decide if it was fear or anger she felt most.

  No, watching Dr. Volkov approach Sylvia, Donna realized it was anger that had the upper hand—at least in the near term. Later, the fear would kick in, hard and strong. She let the anger gather for now, praying for an opportunity to unleash it.

  For Sylvia, though, it was all fear. She didn’t understand what was causing the disease, what she was being injected with or what was going to happen inside her once the serum entered her bloodstream. That Mike and Donna, who apparently understood these things much better than her, were afraid and unwilling to get the injection only validated her fear. She trembled as Dr. Volkov held off her vein, regretting ever responding to the invitation to the megahunt so clearly meant for her husband.