The King of Plagues jl-3

by Jonathan Maberry

  Woe to the firstborn sons of the House of Bones.

  “It was in the posts after vandals broke into a tomb in Egypt,” Circe said, and explained about the tomb of the lost firstborn son of Amenhotep II, seventh pharaoh of the eighteenth Dynasty of Egypt. She leaned on the word “firstborn.”

  “Cool,” said Hu.

  “Okay, bones and bones,” said Dietrich, “how does that relate to the ‘Inner C’?”

  “Son of a bitch,” breathed Aunt Sallie. “The goddamn Bonesmen.”

  Chapter Sixty-four

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  December 19, 8:41 P.M. EST

  “Bonesmen?” asked Circe. “As in the Skull and Bones?”

  Aunt Sallie gave her an approving nod. “Right, and the Inner C has to be the Inner Circle.”

  “I thought they were a myth,” said Dietrich; then he answered his own comment, “Right, and we’re the DM-fricking-S, so they’re probably real.” He sighed and shook his head. “One of these days we’re going to find out that UFOs, Godzilla, and vampires are real, too. Sometimes I hate this job.”

  Aunt Sallie shared a private smile with Church, and we were welcome to make anything we wanted out of that. It made me wonder if something that Dietrich said hit a nerve. With my luck it would be Godzilla.

  “Have we had any dealings with the Inner Circle?” asked Rudy.

  Aunt Sallie nodded. “Mr. Church and I have been looking into them since before the DMS was founded. We’ve been considering making them a ‘project,’ but they’re sly cocksuckers and gathering evidence on them is a lot like trying to punch through smoke.”

  “We may have to take that look,” said Church quietly.

  Circe said, “If we are to interpret this correctly, the Inner Circle are enemies of the Seven Kings.”

  Church didn’t comment and he gave me a tiny shake of his head, so I kept my mouth shut about what he and I had discussed before the meeting.

  “Looks that way,” Hu said, looking very pleased. “A clash of secret empires. This is sweet.”

  “This can’t end happily,” said Circe. “What are we into here? Is this a three-way fight, or are we getting caught in the cross fire?”

  “Points for using combat slang,” I said.

  “Bite me,” she muttered; then to the group she said, “Actually, a clash makes a lot of sense. It explains the tip-off information. And it makes sense that the Inner Circle would reach out to the DMS.”

  “Does it?” Church murmured.

  “Sure,” agreed Aunt Sallie, “to use us to do the dirty work instead of having to endanger any of their own assets.”

  Dietrich nodded. “Smart.”

  “Isn’t it a little obvious, though?” asked Rudy. “I mean … if these are separate groups and if they are as secret as they’re supposed to be, then how do they know so much about each other? How can the Inner Circle know so much about the terrorist cells working with the Kings that they can feed reliable tips to Mr. Church?”

  “A double agent,” suggested Circe.

  “Or they managed to plant someone inside the Kings,” Auntie ventured.

  “No,” decided Circe. “It’s too pat. If the Inner Circle wanted the Kings torn down, then they could just as easily pass that information along within channels. The Bonesmen are supposed to be wired into every level of government. Going outside their own network is an unnecessary risk.”

  “Right,” agreed Rudy. “A letter with no return address would accomplish the same thing.”

  “Doc’s right,” Dietrich agreed. “It’s either showing off, or it’s clumsy—”

  “Or it’s misdirection,” finished Circe. “Don’t forget the Goddess and her posts. It’s all about misdirection.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but you got to see this,” said Bug. He hit some buttons and suddenly we were looking at Wolf Blitzer. The feed cut in mid-sentence. “—rocked the foundations of power as four scions of powerful American families died under what can only be called ‘suspicious circumstances.’ Sources at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta have not yet declared this to be an outbreak, and so far no one else who was in the company of the four victims has become sick. Even so, each site has been quarantined and—”

  Aunt Sallie snapped her fingers at Bug. “Shit! Pull up a list of known members of the Skull and Bones.”

  “On it.” The list flashed onto a second screen. Bug scrolled through the names, highlighting them as he went. Harrington, Milhaus … one, two, three, four. “Oh, man … they’re all on the list.”

  “They’re Inner Circle,” Auntie said. “Those four are power players, and two of them for sure are Inner Circle. My guess is that all of them are.”

  “Dios mio,” breathed Rudy. He put his hand on Circe’s arm. “You know what we’re seeing here?”

  We all knew, but Circe put it in words: “The deaths of the firstborn.”

  Rudy actually crossed himself.

  “There’s been a fifth death,” interrupted Bug. “Just came in. Jessica St. Stevens, daughter of—”

  “Congressman Pierce St. Stevens,” said Church. “I know him. Close friend of Dick Cheney. Jess is his only child. She’s estranged from her father. Works for Doctors Without Borders.”

  Auntie gave a derisive snort. “No fucking way she’s tied into her dad’s politics.” She snapped her fingers at Bug. “Make sure you pull the names of anyone suspected of being connected to the Inner Circle. We need to identify their children and get the word out. Now!”

  Bug worked furiously and more names began appearing on the main screens and that was quickly followed by biographical data and then contact information.

  “No time to get this out to the local authorities,” growled Church. “We need to act now.”

  We all grabbed phones and began making calls. The team leaders from the other DMS shops did the same. Within ten minutes we had three hundred people making calls to families, police departments, the Centers for Disease Control, hospitals, the National Institutes of Health, and a dozen federal agencies. It was a nightmare of urgency, and as we worked reports kept coming in. Six victims. Then it jumped to a nine. A dozen. We kept at it. Fifteen victims. Sixteen.

  “Are we too late?” Dietrich asked. “There must be hundreds of Bonesmen. Are all of their firstborn kids being targeted? Or just the children of the Inner Circle?”

  “No way to know,” snapped Church. “Call everyone. Go beyond the Inner Circle.”

  The night ground on. Our calls were met with skepticism and hostility by those people suspected of being in the Inner Circle. None of them denied it. At least none of those who answered the phone in voices that were broken by sobs or screams.

  The ordinary Bonesmen were shocked and angry. Most of them didn’t believe it. Not surprising, but also not helpful. A lot of people hung up on us.

  Some of these people were past presidents. Many of them were generals, corporate CEOs, billionaires. Their combined might could crush even the DMS. And since many of them did not know about the Seven Kings or believe in them, we were the ones bearing the bad news, so a lot of genuine rage was directed at us. Mr. Church got a call from the President, who had gotten over thirty calls from members of Congress and colleagues of such political importance that their calls got through to him without red-tape hindrance.

  Between calls I caught a fragment of Church’s side of that conversation.

  “—yes, Mr. President, I believe that we can call this a terrorist attack. However, I don’t think we should say so to the press. A statement to that effect would be exactly what the Seven Kings need—”

  Just after midnight we got word of the twenty-first victim. The latest victim had been a fourteen-year-old boy at a military academy. He had collapsed and died during a Christmas party.

  God Almighty.

  Twenty-one.

  By two in the morning we had exhausted all of the numbers Bug could find, but there had not been a new case reported. W
e made hundreds of follow-up calls.

  Three A.M. came and went.

  “I think it’s over,” said Rudy. He was bleary-eyed and gray with pain and fatigue. For the last hour he’d been covertly popping Advil like they were M&M’S.

  “Still only twenty-one,” said Bug.

  Circe gave him a bleak and haunted stare. “‘Only’?”

  Church sat back and rubbed his eyes. Even he looked exhausted.

  “Now what?” asked Dietrich.

  “Now we have to monitor this,” said Aunt Sallie. “We need to keep ahead of it in case there’s another wave.”

  “Do we even know the cause of death?” I asked. “Is this a plague? Poisoning? I mean … no one else at each of the murder scenes was reported with symptoms … .”

  “We know the cause of death,” said Circe, her dark eyes filled with strange light. “It’ll be mycotoxicoses.”

  Church leaned forward. “And how exactly would you know that?”

  Interlude Forty-two

  The State Correctional Institute at Graterford

  Graterford, Pennsylvania

  December 19, 8:42 P.M. EST

  Nicodemus lay on his cot, fingers laced behind his head, ankles crossed, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The warden had ordered everything removed from his cell. He had no books, no writing paper or pencils, no TV. All that had been left for him was a single sheet, a thin blanket of rough wool, a pillow, and a roll of toilet paper.

  It was enough for him.

  Nicodemus did not need to be entertained. He did not need to read, not even the Bible. There was no one that he wanted to talk to, no diversion that he required. He had everything that he needed.

  It was all there inside his head. In his thoughts. As clear as if he heard it outside his cell. As clear as if they were there beside his cot. It did not matter that no one else could hear them. The video recorders trained on his cell would not tape any of the sounds that he heard. That was as it should be. The sounds were for him to hear.

  He lay for hour after delicious hour, smiling a small and secret smile to himself. Listening to the screams of the dying.

  Chapter Sixty-five

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  December 19, 8:52 P.M. EST

  “The tomb,” explained Circe.

  Every eye was on her. She looked scared, but she held her ground.

  “Spill it, girl,” said Aunt Sallie.

  “Experts have been trying to scientifically explain the Ten Plagues for years,” Circe said. “If there were a series of catastrophes during the time of Moses in Egypt, then there would likely be panic and unrest. During such times raids on food stores would be possible, even likely. After a time of pestilence it’s very likely that some of the food stores were contaminated by any number of bacteria or fungi. Any bread made from moldy wheat would carry diseases. The sudden deaths of so many Egyptians could very well have the result of a raid on contaminated foodstuffs. The persons most likely to conduct a successful raid would be the older and more capable members of that society. If not precisely firstborn, then at least symbolically the ‘first among them.’ It’s not all that much of a stretch to see how that could have evolved into a more dramatic story of the firstborn dying as a result of a plague sent by God. After all, it was the last straw that led to the liberation of the Israelites.”

  “You’re talking about mycotoxins,” murmured Rudy, nodding agreement.

  Hu looked jazzed by all this. “Right! Mycotoxins can present in a food chain as a result of fungal infection of crops. Human infection can come through direct ingestion of infected products—bread, livestock, whatever—and even cooking and freezing won’t destroy them. Nice call, Circe.”

  “What are—?” Dietrich began, but Hu cut him off.

  “It’s a toxic chemical produced by fungi. The toxins enter the bloodstream and lymphatic system, damage macrophage systems, and some other evil shit. Back in 2004, over a hundred people died after eating maize contaminated with aflatoxin, a species of mycotoxin. There have been other cases, too. Mostly in third-world countries.”

  “The biblical connection is mostly guesswork,” Circe admitted. “The Jewish story about Passover begins at the end of the Ten Plagues. Passover celebrates the first meal to mark the escape of the Israelites from bondage and from the plagues. The Passover meal consists of symbolic newborn lamb, fresh herbs, and horseradish—and all of these are safe from mycotoxin exposure. The same goes for unleavened bread, which is, by definition, free of any yeasty mycotoxin contamination.”

  “Makes sense even to me,” said Dietrich. “But how’s all that relate to a ransacked tomb?”

  “Remember the Curse of King Tut?” she asked. “Lord Carnovan, the Englishman who financed Howard Carter’s expedition to find the tomb of King Tutankhamen, died of a mysterious illness after entering the tomb. It’s very likely that he became ill after exposure to a fungus that had been dormant in the tomb for thousands of years and reactivated by fresh air. Recent studies of newly opened ancient Egyptian tombs that had not been exposed to modern contaminants found pathogenic bacteria of the staphylococcus and pseudomonas genera, and the molds Aspergillus niger and Aspergillus flavus.”

  “Yeah,” said Hu, “but the concentrations were weak. They’d only be dangerous to persons with weakened immune systems.”

  “Oh, hell, Doc,” I said, “don’t forget who we’re dealing with. You trying to tell me that Sebastian Gault couldn’t amp up and weaponize one of these toxins?”

  Hu sat back and gave me a rueful smile. “Shit … I could do that.”

  Rudy said, “So, if Amenhotep II was the pharaoh from the time of Exodus, then his son could have been a victim of the mycotoxin infection. If that’s the case, and if we go on the premise that it was Gault and the Kings who raided the tomb, then are we concluding that they found a more potent strain of mycotoxin?”

  We thought about that. Circe chewed her lip and Hu drummed his fingers on the table.

  I said, “I may not be a scientist … but I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “Why not?” asked Church.

  “Because it’s way too convenient. The tomb was opened what—a month or so ago? That’s awfully tight timing for science, isn’t it? No … Gault’s smart, but we know that the Goddess is big into misdirection. We also know that the Kings dig symbolism. The tires used to create the Plague of Darkness weren’t exactly biblical. Nor are the ‘Locust’ bombers. Wouldn’t it work just as well for them to break into the tomb to establish the mythology and then hit the firstborn of the Inner Circle with something Gault already cooked up?”

  They looked at me for a while, then at each other, and one by one they began nodding. Even Hu.

  Aunt Sallie grunted her approval, though she clearly found it difficult to believe that Captain Shortbus had thought it up.

  The main screen over the conference table showed a collage of twenty-one faces. Young men and women, a few kids. All of them dead now, victims of a modern version of an ancient plague.

  I noticed a small red light flashing on Circe’s laptop. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Goddess!” she said, toggling over to a Twitter screen. “I have it programmed to signal me if there’s a new Goddess post and—oh my God!”

  “What?” demanded Church.

  “The Goddess … she posted something … .”

  Circe hit a button to send the message to the main screen. We sat there, shocked to silence. The message read:

  The Ten Plagues have been visited on the wicked.

  Witness the fall of the House of Bones.

  And then the kicker.

  It is complete.

  “Dios mio,” whispered Rudy.

  “Yeah. The Seven Kings beat us,” I said. “We lost.”

  Part Five

  Grief’s Best Music

  The miserable have no other medicine

  But only hope.

  —WILLIAM SHAK
ESPEARE, MEASURE FOR MEASURE

  Chapter Sixty-six

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  December 19, 11:59 P.M. EST

  We wrestled and wrangled it and talked it to death, but nothing we said could change the fact that the Seven Kings had set out to murder the firstborn of the Inner Circle and they had accomplished exactly that.

  They’d won. Was it a battle? Or had we just lost the war?

  We were all so tired, so heartsick and angry, that we were losing perspective. And the great shadowy mass that was the Seven Kings was still moving through our lives. I looked into my own heart and wondered for the hundredth time if this was what I was and who I was: a foot soldier in a war without beginning or end.

  Our meeting broke up and we shambled out. Burning with impotent anger, defeated, unable to look at one another.

  Circe helped Rudy into the wheelchair and this time he didn’t complain. He looked small and used up, and as he sat there he hung his head. Pain had aged him and the loss of so many innocent lives seemed to have sapped away his life force. I walked with him and Circe out into the hall.

  “I … can’t believe it,” Circe said in a voice that sounded more like that of a scared little girl than that of a doctor and an expert in global terrorism.

  Rudy said nothing. He simply shook his head and refused to look up.

  “This isn’t over,” I said. “We still have some puzzle pieces that don’t fit.”

  She gave a single harsh laugh. “What’s the point?”

  “Look, Doc, we were starting to make headway when this thing blind-sided us. Let’s all get some sleep,” I suggested. “Maybe in the morning we can make some kind of plan.”

  “A plan to do what?” demanded Circe. “We’ve already lost.”