by Nick Thacker
Julie laughed, then clicked the button on her key fob. A beep sounded from down the row, and Ben stopped short. Ahead of them lay a monstrous Ford pickup. A lifted F-450, extended cab Lariat, from what he could see. It was dark gray and loomed over the minuscule cars around it.
Julie threw him the keys. “You drive,” she said. She reached for the back door on the driver’s side and opened it, grabbing a laptop case and bag. “I’ve got some work to do. You, uh, think you can handle her?”
Ben grinned as he opened the door to the driver’s seat and stepped in. He tried not to seem impressed. He turned on the engine and waited for Julie to enter on her side. Once seated, he threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the spot.
“Anyway, Livingston’s making us do these reports.” She opened the laptop. “He’s got this idea that if we write everything down and email it to him, he’ll be able to ‘crack the case,’ or figure out whatever it is we’re supposed to figure out. It’s pretty annoying, to say the least.
“Then, just now, he called to tell me he wants an in-person report every forty-eight hours. Can you believe that? He said if we can’t make it face-to-face, we have to call in. I’m already up to here with processing, reports, and government forms, not to mention actually doing my job. And he thinks if I’m too busy to actually get to the office I have enough time to give him a play-by-play update over the phone?”
Ben listened as she vented, guiding the truck out of the parking lot and down the curved path leading from the staff facility. As he turned onto the main park road, he turned to Julie. “Where exactly are we going?”
She looked back at him. “Oh, uh, I guess I should ask you first.” Ben waited. “You have plans? I could use your help back at the office.”
Ben couldn’t hide his surprise. “The office? You mean, back in Billings? That’s, what, an hour and a half drive?”
She shrugged. “Just over two, actually. I didn’t think you had anything going on, what with the park needing to be closed for a while. I’ve got more questions to ask you, but I can’t wait until after I get back — Livingston will want to know as soon as possible.”
He was silent for a few minutes as they drove toward the park’s eastern boundary. “I need to swing by my place for a bit to pick up some clothes. And I don’t want to get involved, Julie. I’m serious — I’m here to help you out for a few days, tops. Just because I don’t have anything else going on doesn’t mean I want to play chauffeur for you forever.”
“I promise. Just to the office, and then I’ll buy you a plane ticket home — I can get my report prepared and sent on the way, and if anything comes up I can just ask.”
“Deal, but hold the plane ticket. I’ll rent a car.”
Julie frowned, but didn’t question him. They drove on in silence for another twenty minutes, finally coming to a gas station on their left. “One other thing,” Ben said. Julie jumped, then looked over.
“What’s that?”
“You get to pay for gas.”
11
David Livingston sat in his executive leather office chair and cracked his knuckles — an old habit. He ran his hands through his thick, oiled black hair and shifted in his seat. His computer dinged once — the sound of an incoming email — but he ignored it.
Clicking away from the news site, he read through the dossier on Juliette Alexandra Richardson, native of Montana. Other than a brief stint in California during and after college, she’d lived in Montana her entire life. He’d had the data center send a copy up to his office, where he scanned it and shredded the paper — a wasted tree and no doubt a waste of productive time. After five years at the CDC, he still had no idea why it was so difficult to just email everything through a secure connection. The data lead, Randall Brown, had tried explaining it to him several times, but it never took.
He reached the end of the dossier, not finding anything unusual or out of place. He shouldn’t have been surprised — this was the third time he’d read it. It was similar to what his own looked like five years ago. Clean, simple, and without a black mark.
He had reached this point in his career through determination, hard work, and then bad luck. At first, he’d applied to the CDC as an investigator, hoping to land a job that allowed him to travel, study, and research the kinds of terrifying things the rest of world paid them to keep hidden. He’d started out following a team of scientists and biologists into the Andes, but couldn’t get his name in the paper that was eventually written. After graduating and finishing his internship, he was passed over three times before landing a desk job at the Atlanta campus — CDC headquarters. He toiled there for four years, e-signing his boss’s expense reports and preparing meeting agendas.
Then his boss died. A man of sixty-one, a sudden heart attack left the department without a manager. Rather than replace him, Livingston found his and his coworkers’ jobs outsourced and the department all but shut down. Floating around, he landed a brief position as a “research specialist,” effectively a news and media junkie who speculated on which outbreaks and natural disasters would lead to the next Mad Cow Disease or Bird Flu.
During his tenure, there were none.
Finally, his luck turned — or so he thought. What appeared to be an opportunity to lead a brand new, recently brainstormed section of the CDC became the mind-numbing middle management job in which he currently served. They’d been relegated to the backwaters of the CDC — southern Montana — and asked to “provide guidance on environmental and biological threats to the nation.” To Livingston, it was the worst place in the entire world.
In other words, he and his team were glorified storm chasers.
Julie, on the other hand, had come through his doors as a young CDC employee three years ago, still wet behind the ears with the usual “change the world” mentality. He wouldn’t have picked her himself, but she had come highly recommended by people above his own pay grade.
Plus, her looks certainly didn’t hurt her chances.
Livingston pushed back from the desk and stood up, stretching his back and popping his neck. He pressed a button on the small intercom next to his computer and waited a moment.
“Please grab Stephens and tell him to come up here.”
The intercom crackled and a woman’s voice responded. “Yes, Mr. Livingston.”
Livingston knew it was an act of arrogance, but he didn’t care. Their office space was so small that the only closed-door office rooms inside were his own and Julie Richardson’s, which was, of course, currently unoccupied. The administrative secretary, technically charged to serve the entire staff of seven, had been given the nameplate “Executive Administrator” by Livingston, in order to help specify to everyone in the room who exactly she — and everyone else — really worked for.
A knock on Livingston’s door caused him to look up. He waited a few seconds, sat back down, then cleared his throat. “Come on in, Stephens.”
Benjamin Stephens opened the door and appeared on the threshold. He looked annoyed, but entered anyway. “What can I do for you, Livingston?”
Livingston bristled a bit — he wasn’t a fan of people calling him by just his last name — but he let it slide. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“David, the secretary’s desk is literally right next to mine, not four feet from your door. If I didn’t hear you over her intercom, I would’ve still heard you asking for me through the door.”
Livingston ignored the response and motioned for Stephens to sit.
“I need you to do me a favor, Stephens,” he said. “Richardson’s out on assignment, and she was near Yellowstone Park.” He paused. “You’re aware of what happened at Yellowstone Park?”
Stephens nodded.
“Good. Well, anyway, she’s out there traipsing around, trying to figure out how the regional environment will be affected by the radiation.”
“I thought she was trying to study some fishing traps and the impact they’re having on insects downriver?”
&nb
sp; “She is — or she was. This is a little side project she came up with when she heard about the explosion. You know how she can be.”
Stephens nodded again.
“I want you to check in with her, like normal. You’re her second-in-command on this team, and I need you to step up. She’s not the kind of person to get excited about reporting back to base, but I know you understand why we do that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get in touch with her and stay in touch with her. Stick to the traditional channels — send everything through SecuNet. Clear?”
Stephens hesitated.
“What is it?”
“Well, no, sir, I mean that’s great, but I don’t understand how that’s different than how I usually run things.”
“It’s not, Stephens. I’m just reminding you, since your boss seems to think she can invent the rules. I don’t want you forgetting how we do things around here, okay? You get Julie on speed-dial, and you keep me updated on what she’s doing.”
“Right.”
“Randy from Data is ready to go, and he’ll get you set up on SecuNet if he already hasn’t. All phone calls, emails, hell — even telegraphs, I don’t care — go through Data.”
Stephens stood as Livingston was finishing. “Got it, sir.”
Livingston watched his employee carefully, trying to read the younger man’s expression. He knew that Stephens knew Randall Brown was on vacation, but he wanted to see how Stephens would react.
It was one of many types of “power games” Livingston enjoyed to play with his underlings — watching them suffer as they tried to figure out how best to respond.
In Stephens’ case, Livingston was usually disappointed: Stephens had a fantastic poker face.
“Great.” Livingston looked back down at his computer and pretended to be checking email. He waited until Stephens left the office, then he stood and walked to a small cabinet on the wall at the back of the room.
Opening the cabinet door, he pulled out a decanter and poured himself a Scotch. He’d made sure to specify in the employee manual that drinking was not allowed in the office, but he also believed that it was his executive right to be able to indulge in some of the finer things in life. He would have lit a cigar as well if it wouldn’t smoke them all out of the small space.
12
They’d been driving for the better part of three hours, and Julie was now fast asleep in the seat beside him. He glanced over at his passenger.
Julie’s hair was tousled, now poking up from the back where her tight brown ponytail had come in contact with the seat’s headrest. Her blouse and slacks were wrinkled, as she’d kicked her right knee up and against the window, trying to curl up into a position that was more conducive to sleep. Her body was pressed into a much smaller space than Ben would’ve imagined, but it was evident from her bare feet and light snoring that she was comfortable enough to get some sleep.
He shook his head and changed the radio dial to country music, turning it up enough to hear an old George Strait song pipe through the speakers.
Apparently it was too much. Julie stirred, then wiped her mouth. She opened her eyes and blinked, then seemed to suffer a moment of surprise. “Oh, my God. I, uh, I guess I fell asleep.” She sat up straight, moving her leg back down and straightening her blouse, then reached up to her hair. “Oh, man, what a mess. I guess I was more tired than I thought. Sorry.”
Ben smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You can probably use the rest. And besides,” he started, then stopped himself.
“What?”
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just, uh, don’t worry about it. Get some sleep.”
“No, I think I’m good.” She noticed the music. “Country? Good choice for this road.”
Ben thought for a moment. “Hey, back at the staff building. That guy they brought in? What do you think it was?”
Julie didn’t answer at first, collecting her thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about it too. I didn’t see it, obviously, but the way they described it — at least what I could hear — it sounded like a rash. Maybe viral.”
“Viral? You don’t think it was just poison ivy or something?”
“Are you kidding? The way they were talking about it? Those guys were mostly all park rangers, right? They would know what a simple poison ivy rash looked like. It was spreading, too. They said it was on his hands and arms, but then a few seconds later said they thought they saw it on his neck, too.”
“Have you heard of anything like that?” Ben asked.
“Well I guess — if it’s just a rash, it could be anything. Candidiasis, rheumatic fever, mononucleosis, even chickenpox.”
“Chickenpox? Really?” Ben looked skeptical.
“Sure — the varicella-roster virus. When you don’t get it as a child, it can be dangerous as an adult, especially if you’re immune-deficient. But without getting a look at it, it’s impossible to say. I’m sure there’s a medical team there now, taking a look. Or he’s been moved, depending on how critical it is.”
Ben waited a moment before asking his next question. “But you don’t think it’s just anything, do you? You don’t think this is just some run-of-the-mill rash, right?”
Julie looked over at him and paused for a long moment. “No, I don’t. This is something else — something bigger. First the explosion, then this? And with how quickly it’s spreading?”
They drove on in silence for another fifteen minutes, both thinking about the day’s events. Close to one hundred people had died from the explosion, and countless others were now being evacuated from the park grounds. Ben thought of the morning he spent in the campsite, peering down the sights of his rifle. He thought of Mo the grizzly bear and of Carlos Rivera. Finally, he thought through everything that had happened at the staff facility, culminating in his leaving with Julie on a wild goose chase across the country.
Then he thought of something else.
“You think we can get a sample of it?” Ben asked.
Julie frowned. “Of the rash, or whatever it is? Why?”
“I might know someone who can help. I mean, I know you’ve probably got a whole lab up there and everything, but if this boss of yours gets involved…”
“No, you’re right. Livingston’s only going to slow things down. I’ll need to send him something anyway, so I’ll see if I can get a sample from the park sent over, and I’ll send part of it to the lab and the rest to your contact, if you trust him.”
“Her. And I do,” Ben said. “She’s not working under any sort of traditional structure, so it should be pretty quick. Maybe it’ll give you a head start.”
“Of course. Who is this person?” she asked.
“Like I said,” Ben responded, “just someone who might be able to help.”
13
The computer in front of her chirped, signaling a new email. Amid stacks of books, unfiled papers, and other detritus from weeks of research, the desktop computer was almost hidden from view. Dr. Diana Torres shuffled some of the papers around and found the computer mouse, shaking the screen awake from its screensaver, the never-ending flowing ribbons of color that had come preinstalled on the computer when she first started working here.
Dr. Torres’ job had only recently become official after months of contracting for the research firm. She enjoyed the work, mainly because she didn’t have to put up with any bureaucracy or any of the usual corporate nonsense that had driven her from her previous jobs. The research firm had been established over forty years ago and had constantly been in a stage of growth. Still, Dr. Torres had been a “key hire,” and was expected to take the firm to new levels in biological molecular research.
She navigated across the desktop and clicked on her email program — the only application that was constantly running on the machine. Never much of a computer person, Dr. Torres often called in her research assistant to finalize and prepare her reports electronically. He chided her for the irony of it — a woman whose career was spent creating computer m
odels of molecules and microscopic organisms was afraid of computers. She never let it bother her; it was all in good fun. And regardless of her methods, unorthodox or not, the research firm knew she was one of the best in the business at what she did.
Dr. Torres double-clicked the email — no subject line — and began reading the body of the text. The email was short and to the point; just a request for help on a particular project. She brushed aside an old Wendy’s burger wrapper and a half-empty Diet Coke that was lying in front of her keyboard. She rolled her chair closer to the desk and clicked on the “reply” button. As her fingers hit the keys to type a standardized answer to the request, she caught a glimpse of the sender’s email address.
She blinked, doing a double-take, and read the email address again. She lifted her hands from the keyboard to think through her response. Dr. Torres reached over to the Diet Coke and brought it to her lips. She took a long, slow sip of the completely flat soda and read the email one more time.
> I need your help on this one. Sending sample soon. Came from Yellowstone explosion. Please rush, will call soon.
> Ben
Ben? she thought. She hadn’t heard from him in over ten years, but she knew he’d become a park ranger and had little to no access to the outside world most of the time. Still, she was stunned.
She removed her cell phone — a flip phone relic that she had used for years — from her pocket and began browsing through the contacts. Coming to his name, she hesitated over the dial button. She’d never actually used this number. She stared down at the phone for another few seconds and then slammed it shut.
Not now, she thought. Not yet.
Thoughts raced through her mind. Where was he? What was he doing? Why did he need her help, of all people?
She sat in the chair for another few minutes, silent and thinking. She didn’t move until her assistant came in.
“Dr. Torres?” The young man’s voice snapped her back to attention. She turned, trying to wipe the surprised expression from her eyes. She failed.