by Scott Britz
The smirk fell from Niedermann’s face. “I . . . I d-don’t know anything. I never laid a hand on her. I swear.”
“Then let’s ask Charles about it. Come on, get him on your cell phone.” But Cricket didn’t need to ask. All she had to do was remember the night of the banquet—Yolanda’s last, desperate, rambling phone call. So full of jealousy. So insecure. But unmistakably the act of a woman in love.
“Yolanda . . . Charles . . . you can’t mean that,” muttered Niedermann. He seemed bewildered. Then his look hardened and his lip curled with malice. “Guards! Get her out of here,” he shouted. “Take her to lockup.”
As the guards started to move, Cricket took cover behind a lab bench. “Lockup? No—I’ll go back to the BSL-4 lab.”
“Sorry, you broke your word. You abandoned your patient there.”
“Where’s Charles? I demand to speak to Dr. Gifford.”
“Good luck. I’ve been trying to reach him since last night. He’s not answering his cell phone. No one has any idea where he is.” Niedermann impatiently waved the guards forward. “Of course, that leaves me in charge.”
Cricket retreated farther behind the bench. She was breaking out in a cold sweat. “You don’t understand. My daughter . . . she needs me. Just let me go to her.”
Niedermann eyed the guards. “What are you waiting for, cowards? Arrest her!” he shouted.
As the guards grabbed for her, Cricket ducked low and kicked the nearest one in the shin. He stumbled back, opening just enough room for her to squeeze through the ring and toward the open door.
“Stop her! Stop her!” shouted Niedermann.
There were wild shouts. Cricket heard Hank and Freiberg scuffling with the guards behind her, buying her precious seconds. She sprang down the hall toward the closest door—an emergency exit. The jangling alarm sounded as she rammed the release bar.
Then she was outside in the early-morning light, dashing through the wet grass. She made straight for the woods behind Cheville House. She was light and fleet, despite the soggy slip-on shoes she wore. Old memories of rocks and trails and fallen trunks guided her, while behind her the pursuing guards lumbered like buffalo through the underbrush. The sound of their tramping grew fainter and fainter, farther and farther behind.
She had to get back to Emmy. She knew that the forest would cover her as she circled out beyond the track field, then swung back down to the BSL-4 lab on the east side of campus. Let them try to tear me away from her bedside. Even Niedermann wouldn’t dare.
The vision of Emmy lying helpless in the isolator spurred her on. But as she ran, her eye was caught by something else, too—a low, cedar-shingled building standing by itself behind the track field. Her mind was seized with a sobering thought.
It wasn’t enough to try to save one girl. The lives of countless Emmys were at stake.
The Lottery had to be stopped.
Her path ran just behind the little house. The closer she approached, the more it tugged at her with an irresistible attraction. She could still put an end to this insane Lottery—now, before it was too late. Only a few more strides to reach it . . .
The bungalow of Subject Adam.
Four
CRICKET HELD HER CDC ID CARD against the screen door and fought to conceal her shortness of breath. You need to look calm. He needs to think you’re in control. “Adam—may I call you that?”
“Sure,” came a voice from within. “It’s not my real name, but I’m used to it.”
“I’m Dr. Sandra Rensselaer-Wright, a medical officer with the Centers for Disease Control. Please, may I come in?”
The screen door wobbled as Adam opened it. “Rensselaer, did you say?”
Cricket glanced back across the track field before stepping inside. None of her pursuers were in sight. “Yes. Is that name familiar to you?”
“Didn’t a Rensselaer used to run this place?”
“My father. He also did some of the research that made the Methuselah Vector possible.”
“Then he’s a great man in my book.”
“Yes, he was.” Looking into the back room, Cricket saw some boxes, an open suitcase, and a pile of unsorted clothes on the bed. “You’re packing?”
“See that bottle of Hennessy on the kitchen counter?” Adam pointed with his long, spare arm. “That’s for my last night in this place. Tomorrow, bright ’n’ early, Doc G’s flying me to New York City in his personal plane. They’ve got a shitload of TV interviews for me to do. Imagine that. I’m turnin’ into quite the celebrity.”
“Adam, I need to talk to you about the Methuselah Vector. We have reason to believe it may have a serious side effect.”
“I haven’t noticed anything.”
“You wouldn’t. Ever since you were given the Vector, you’ve been isolated here in this bungalow, protected from exposure to infections. The problem is that, once you step into the outside world, even a minor illness could potentially interact with the Methuselah Vector DNA inside you and create something new—what we call a supervirus. That would be deadly both to you and to everyone around you.”
Adam looked as if she had slapped him. “What? I don’t feel sick at all.”
“You’re not. Not yet. But it’s vital that you not go to New York.”
“I have interviews . . .”
“I understand. But I’m going to have to ask you to move right now to an isolation area in the BSL-4 lab. We’ll do everything we can to make you comfortable there.”
“What about the Lottery?”
“It can’t go on.”
“Has Doc G called it off?”
“I’m calling it off.”
Adam took a step back and looked at her warily. “Who the hell are you?”
“I work for the government. I’m a public health officer, and I have the power—”
“I want to talk to Doc G.”
Adam reached for a cell phone on the kitchen table, but Cricket grabbed it first. “Listen, Adam, people are dying on this campus. There’s been a viral outbreak. We’ve got to stop an epidemic from getting started. Containment is the only hope we have.”
“Look, lady, I’ve done my time in this chicken coop for three months now. That’s all it was ever supposed to be. That’s all I agreed to.”
“Please, listen to me—”
“Three months, and not sick a bit.”
His stubbornness was maddening. “I don’t have to ask. I can forcibly quarantine you if you won’t cooperate.”
“Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that.” Adam bounded across the room and hit a red button on the wall between the bathroom and the bedroom.
“What did you just do?”
“It’s an alarm. In case I got to feelin’ poorly.”
Cricket looked out the window. The track field was still clear. “Look, I know you think all is well, but if you leave this campus, you’re signing your own death warrant. Your own, and God knows how many others’ with you.” She looked outside again. Nothing. “There’s still time. Please come with me now. I’ll have your things brought over to the lab.”
“I ain’t stirrin’ a foot until I hear from Doc G.”
Cricket felt like screaming at his pigheadedness. “Listen, Adam. Dr. Gifford . . . he’s not . . . he’s, uh . . . he’s not the person you want to listen to. He’s sick himself.”
There were voices outside, surrounding the bungalow. Then footsteps on the porch. Without a knock, the door flew open and four uniformed guards rushed in. Wiser than at Cheville House, they charged Cricket en masse, knocking her to her knees and quickly cuffing her hands behind her. As she bucked against them, she saw Niedermann gloating overhead.
“Aha, Dr. Rensselaer-Wright! Caught you like a chicken in a barnyard.” With Adam, who looked on with a bewildered and rather frightened expression, Niedermann used a more dignified tone. “Yo
u did the right thing to set off the alarm, Adam. We’ve been searching all over campus for this woman.”
Cricket strained to get to her feet and lunge at Niedermann, but with the equivalent of four linebackers on her shoulders she couldn’t budge. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed.
Niedermann twisted his lips as if to retort, but suddenly jerked his eyes toward the front door. Slow, heavy footsteps approached, amplified drumlike by the planking of the porch. Every head turned.
Gifford stood in the open doorway, his silhouette nearly blotting out the light of the morning sun. He was jacketless and tieless, his white dress shirt and trousers rumpled, his hair in wild disarray. His face had the pallor of a corpse.
The room fell silent. Even Cricket gave up her struggle.
Adam was the first to speak. “Dr. G, she’s telling me some kooky story about the Methuselah Vector.”
Gifford’s voice was eerily quiet. “Nothing to it.”
“No? You’re sure?”
Cricket tried again to rise to her feet. “Don’t believe him, Adam,” she cried. “Look at his face. Does he look well to you?”
“She says she’s shutting down the Lottery,” said Adam.
Gifford shook his head. “She can’t do that.”
“Is she from the government like she says?”
“Relax . . .”
Adam was anything but relaxed. “Doc! She’s talkin’ about locking me in quarantine.”
Gifford peered into the bedroom. “Why don’t you finish your packing, Adam? Let me talk to Dr. Rensselaer-Wright for a moment.”
Adam went into the bedroom and closed the door. Gifford strode to the center of the cabin and peered into Cricket’s face. He was calm—unnaturally so. It made her think of a bent twig about to snap.
“Where the hell have you been, Charles?” asked Niedermann. “She dug up Hannibal and was about to cut him up.”
“I know. I’ve just seen him, Jack.”
Gifford turned back toward the doorway. He seemed lost in thought. With his hands in his pockets, he gazed out onto the track field, where, not seventy-two hours before, he and Subject Adam had made history.
“Help her to her feet,” he commanded.
Two guards lifted Cricket by her underarms.
“You’ve got to cancel the Lottery, Charles,” pleaded Cricket. “At least postpone it for a few days. Give me time—”
Gifford wheeled around. His pale face was expressionless, like a Noh mask. Only his bloodshot eyes burned with intensity.
“Will you stop at nothing to destroy me?” he screamed.
“It’s n-n-not about you, Charles,” Cricket stammered.
Gifford paced back and forth, with footsteps so ponderous that they threatened to split the pine planks. “How did we become enemies, Cricket? I gave you complete trust. I offered you the institute, for God’s sake. Is this about money? Take it! Take everything! The patents, the royalties, the shares in Eden Pharm . . . I withhold nothing from you. If you think it’s yours by right, take it. I ask . . . I ask . . . I ask . . . only one thing of you—your loyalty. But not to me. You’re correct. It’s not about me. It’s about the future of mankind. It’s about victory over death itself.”
Cricket was in tears. “Please, Charles—you’re infected, and you need help. You are the source of the Nemesis virus. Somehow, inside one of your cells, the Methuselah Vector accidentally recombined with herpes.”
“Then why am I not sick? Or dead?”
“The Methuselah Vector boosts your immune system. It gives you superhuman vitality. Maybe you can fight off Nemesis in a way that others can’t. But it wouldn’t be quite true to say you’re not sick, would it?”
Gifford sneered, “I’ve never felt better.”
“Have you looked in a mirror? You’re pale as a clamshell—your skin, your lips, your tongue. Your eyes are bloodshot. And what’s that splotch on the back of your hand?”
Gifford looked at his hand and reflexively covered an irregular purple discoloration near his wrist. “It’s a bruise, damn you. A simple bruise. I got it . . . while I was out in the woods.”
“It’s not a normal bruise and you know it. It’s an ecchymosis. You’re bleeding into your skin. I saw it in Yolanda and Emmy and Mr. Thieu. You need to be in quarantine.”
“My mental powers are greater than they’ve ever been. I can think ten thoughts at once. My physical condition is nothing short of astounding.” Stopping in the doorway, he took hold of the screen door with both hands, jamming his fingers into the crack between it and the doorframe. “Can a sick man do this?”
With a loud snap he ripped the door from its hinges. Hefting it like a piece of cardboard, he stepped forward and flung it, end over end, into the air. It landed with a crack at the edge of the track field, over a hundred feet away.
In the cabin it was so quiet Cricket could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He’s not just sick. He’s dangerous.
“So,” said Gifford, his voice distant, “we are irreconcilable.”
“What about Emmy, Charles?” she begged. “We need Hannibal’s blood. We might be able to make an antiserum.”
“I’m sorry, Cricket. I don’t trust you anymore.” Gifford’s face was as lifeless as marble. Turning back toward the sunlight, he said, “She’s all yours, Jack.”
Niedermann snapped his fingers, summoning the guards to action. The two holding Cricket by her underarms dragged her, twisting and kicking, over the threshold.
“Please, Charles!” Cricket shouted. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re sick! I can help you. Let me . . . Let me help.”
Gifford stepped aside and let them pass. Toward the east, Cricket saw the flat, gray roof of the BSL-4 lab. The guards were carrying her the other way, in the direction of the Security Cottage on the west edge of campus. Away from Emmy. Cricket’s legs went weak as the realization hit her. She felt a crushing tightness in her chest. It felt like being led to her own execution.
Except that she wasn’t the one who was going to die.
Five
NIEDERMANN GRIPPED HIS STOMACH AND TOOK a slow, deep breath as he waited for the ulcer pain to subside. This is killing me. All I need now is to have this thing flare up. Wig Waggoner’s slow, shuffling steps seemed interminable as he came down the hall with the plastic ice bucket cradled against his chest.
“Mind our agreement,” Niedermann said. “You can take those things you absolutely need to keep working on that cold-virus decoy project. Nothing else.”
“I need the whole lab,” complained Waggoner in his customary nasal monotone. “Have you seen Mankiewicz’s lab? They spoon out their reagents with spatulas, trying to save money by not pouring directly from the bottles. The same spatula going into every bottle. They might as well use their fingers. It contaminates everything.”
They went inside. Niedermann crossed his arms and looked on while Waggoner scooped up his notebooks and jabbed a few tubes and bottles into the crushed ice of his bucket. “You have to tell me what all this stuff is that you’re taking,” he told Waggoner. “I’m not a scientist.”
Like a robot, Waggoner began reciting an inventory of everything he had managed to jam into the foot-wide ice bucket. It was all Greek and Latin, but none of it sounded like contraband. Niedermann didn’t really care. Waggoner was such a blindered creature that he seemed incapable of subterfuge.
Incapable of suspicion, too. “You’ve got some stuff in here that Dr. Rensselaer-Wright gave you, don’t you?” Niedermann asked nonchalantly. “Blood samples from Yolanda Carlson? Things like that?”
Waggoner looked indignant. “Not in this ice bucket, no,” he mumbled.
“I mean here in the lab.”
“Oh, sure. In the freezer.”
“Let me see. I need to make sure you’re not taking any of it with you.”
Waggoner bought that. Setting the bucket down, the batty genius shuffled toward the back of the lab and unlocked the tall, stand-up stainless-steel freezer. The inner compartment doors inside the main one were all heavily frosted over. The second one from the top squeaked as Waggoner pried it open. Through some wisps of cold fog Niedermann could see stacks of white boxes with scrawled labels. In front of them was a yellow box covered with decals displaying the black shamrock that was the international symbol for “biohazard.” In a much clearer handwriting than Waggoner’s, Niedermann made out Yolanda Carlson’s name.
“That box is empty, actually,” said Waggoner, without explaining why it was still in the freezer. “After I ran the PCR tests and the electrophoresis, I took all of the blood that was left—seven and a half cc’s—and precipitated the pure virus by density-gradient ultracentrifugation. You see that tube?” He pointed to a small plastic rack containing a single red test tube, no more than an inch long. “That’s it now. Preserved in glycerol to keep the virus from drying out if you expose it to air. I was going to take it down to Hamstra’s lab, where they have an electron microscope, and take a picture of the virus enlarged a hundred thousand times.”
Niedermann instinctively reached to get a better look.
“Don’t touch it!” Waggoner shouted. “Didn’t I warn you not to touch anything in this lab?”
“I was just going to—”
“Look from back there. That virus is virulent and extremely concentrated. By my calculations, there are 3.7 trillion particles in that vial, every one of them infectious. If a thousandth of a drop came into contact with a cut in your skin or the mucous membranes of your eyes or mouth, you’d be a walking corpse.”
“It could kill me?”
“What a dumb thing to ask. It only takes a single virus to impregnate one of your cells. An hour or two later—boom! Ten thousand baby viruses in your blood. Another hour, and each of those would have another ten thousand grandbabies. The process can be described by a straightforward log curve, N equals N0 timese10,000t, where t is time elapsed, in hours. It’s mathematics. You’re dead when N reaches a couple hundred trillion or so.”