HOT ZONE: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 1)

by Steven Konkoly

  Before he left, he’d save the data and send it to a few trusted colleagues at Edgewood and the CDC, with a description of what the ER doctors had reported. He might even send it to a few researcher friends of his, who might have a more immediate capability to investigate the DNA changes identified by the polymerase chain reaction isolation data.

  First, he needed to warn Dr. Owens. Chang dialed the doctor’s mobile number and slid his wheeled stool over to a laptop on a different desk.

  “Gene, I wasn’t expecting a call this quick. Is that good news or bad news?” said Owens.

  “I’m afraid it’s nothing but bad news,” said Chang. “I managed to positively identify the virus as HSV1, which means you’re dealing with HSE—but I’ve found some persistent DNA code changes that I cannot find in any of my archived HSV1 data. This is a heavily studied virus in my field, so I’m confident that this strain has been genetically manipulated.”

  “Like a bioweapon?” said Owens.

  “You did not hear that from me,” said Chang. “Here’s the bottom line. Structurally, this HSV1 variation will cause the encephalitis you’re seeing. No surprise there. What I don’t know is what these DNA modifications mean.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that at all,” said Owens. “What are we potentially talking about?”

  “We could be looking at increased virulence, which wouldn’t surprise me. Quicker replication. Faster targeting of the brain. Specific targeting of the temporal lobe. Resistance to known treatments. Increased contagiousness. I really don’t know, but I suggest you and your staff take some precautions, starting with the prophylactic administration of high-dose antivirals. Acyclovir and vidarabine are good options and should be readily available in the hospital.”

  “Shouldn’t we be giving that to the patients?” said Owens.

  “Every pandemic protocol, state and federal, dictates that critical healthcare personnel are to be vaccinated first. This is the same thing. Set aside at least a two-week, daily-dose supply for you and your staff.”

  “I can’t imagine us being here two more days at this rate,” said Owens.

  “It doesn’t matter. If you evacuate the ER tomorrow, you can leave the stockpile behind. Just get the antivirals in your system immediately.”

  “What about the patients? If I can get my hands on enough acyclovir, can we make a difference?”

  “Think about the standard treatment protocol if you suspect HSE,” said Chang.

  “I’m too tired to think, Gene. Spell it out for me.”

  “Sorry, Jeff. I keep forgetting what you’ve been through,” said Chang. “Basically, you’re looking at intravenous acyclovir for patients caught in the early stages of infection. I can’t imagine you have a lot of that at the hospital.”

  “That’s right. We haven’t started any of the patients on antivirals because we essentially crossed HSE off the list of suspected diseases due to the volume of patients. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. We keep a small supply for that one patient a year that shows up with symptoms. I don’t even know where I’d get pills for the staff.”

  “You need to hit up the hospital pharmacy immediately,” said Chang. “ER staff should have priority.”

  “Easier said than done with a hospital full of sick patients,” said Owens. “Everyone working at the hospital is in direct contact.”

  Chang shook his head. Owens was right. There was no easy answer for this.

  “Jeff, can I be really blunt with you?”

  “Please.”

  “Take care of yourself and your staff,” said Chang. “You’ve earned it. And upgrade your biosafety level, particularly if you’re treating patients that are bleeding, spitting or coughing productively. Full face shields at a minimum. I assume you’re already wearing gloves and N95 respirators.”

  “We are. I’ll see what we can put together to upgrade our posture,” said Owens. “Thanks for doing this, Gene. Can I ask you for one more favor?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve working a shift in the ER,” said Chang.

  Owens cracked a quick laugh.

  “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy,” said Owens. “No. I was hoping you could pass what you found to the CDC. We still haven’t heard word one from any of the state or federal agencies.”

  “The hospital hasn’t been in contact with either?” said Chang.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Owens. “Then again, hospital administration has been conspicuously absent over the past twenty-four hours, and our previous ER head is now one of our patients.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Chang, pausing. “I’m really surprised to hear that you haven’t received any official guidance. My next call will be to the CDC. I’m sending them my analysis of the samples, too.”

  “Can I offer you some blunt advice in return?” said Owens.

  “Of course.”

  “Be careful who you talk to, and watch your back. I may be falling asleep on my feet right now, but I can read between the lines. Someone planted this mess here,” said Owens.

  He didn’t know how to respond. Owens had connected the dots, which wasn’t a difficult task, and he’d made a point that Chang hadn’t considered.

  “Thank you, Jeff,” said Chang. “In light of your advice, I think I’ll route my findings through a different source. Stay in touch, and good luck.”

  “Same to you, Gene,” said Owens. “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yep?”

  “Get out of the city. Patients are deteriorating rapidly. Most of them are in restraints at this point. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like out there in another day.”

  “I’m heading out very shortly,” said Chang. “Stay safe.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Chang disconnected the call and stared at his laptop screen for a moment, debating his next move. He’d take a slightly different approach to spreading the news, given the implications of what he’d uncovered. Something wasn’t right with the government’s response, especially at the federal level. Billions of dollars had been spent on Project Bioshield over the past few years, with much of it going to domestic detection and strategic stockpiles. He found it difficult to believe that the CDC or the state hadn’t initiated emergency outbreak protocols, which would have concentrated significant diagnostic and treatment resources at the hospital level.

  The more he thought about it, the less eager he was to widely disseminate the data until he knew more. The fewer links back to him, the better. Chang sent the DNA snapshot file by secure email to two Edgewood colleagues he trusted implicitly before hiding it in several locations on his computers. He’d make a few hard copies to stash inside the lab in case something far more nefarious was involved, and he needed to retrieve it. He thought about smuggling a thumb-drive copy out, but information security was tight at the lab—even for someone at his level. Leaving the source data here was the best option for now. It was one of the most secure buildings.

  Glancing at his watch, he made it his goal to be on the road in thirty minutes. It might take him a little longer, since he hadn’t figured out exactly how he would smuggle NT-HSE893 out of the lab. He didn’t need a lot. NT-HSE893 was an experimental, once-monthly booster drug taken to prevent HSV1 and HSV2 infection, or so NevoTech hoped. His research into possible bioweapons vaccines and preventatives had unlocked the door to selling a single drug to every human on the planet, and he had access to a small quantity for use in his research—which might come in handy in the upcoming days.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma Harper pushed a full grocery cart through the bakery department at Natural Foods, grabbing a loaf of sliced sourdough bread from a display next to the olive bar. Ahead of her, two shoppers milled around the prepared food section, both of them preoccupied with the salad bar. The store was noticeably empty for a Friday, especially the noon hour, when the place usually swarmed with young professionals squeezing their weekend grocery run into a lunch break.

  She wasn’
t complaining. Still a little groggy from yesterday’s travel, she’d procrastinated most of the morning, tending to one excuse after another—until she had no choice. Jack was ahead of schedule, already halfway back from his parents’ house. Navigating her way past the prepared-foods section, she turned her cart toward the checkout lanes and stopped dead in her tracks. One lane was open, with nobody standing in it. She’d obviously missed that on the way in. How could they only have one lane open a few minutes before noon on a Friday?

  A quick glance at her watch confirmed she hadn’t messed up the time. Admittedly, she hadn’t been here on a Friday in several months, so maybe she was seeing the result of the recent organic food explosion around Indianapolis. All of the supermarket chains offered a massive selection of “natural” and organic products these days, drawing customers away from Natural Foods.

  Or maybe she missed something on the local news this morning? The strip mall parking lot had been far less crowded than usual. Had the traffic been lighter? She couldn’t remember, which probably meant there was nothing to notice.

  Either way it didn’t matter. No line at Natural Foods was a blessing—no matter what the reason. Her very pragmatic outlook changed the second she parked her cart in the entrance to the checkout aisle. The young woman standing at the register looked gravely ill. Her face was pale, almost grayish. Above her red-rimmed eyes, beads of perspiration formed a thin line across her forehead. The vacant look on her face was the worst. The woman stared past her with dead eyes for several seconds, only coming to partial life when Emma placed the loaf of bread on the conveyor.

  “Sorry,” the woman muttered, reaching out for the plastic-wrapped loaf.

  Emma mentally cringed when the woman’s hand touched the loaf. Shit. She really didn’t want this woman handling her groceries. She read the woman’s name tag.

  “Britt?” said Emma. “Are you all right?”

  Britt took way too long to respond, slowly shaking her head. “I felt a little off when I got here this morning, but I think it got worse.”

  “I think so, too. You really look like you should lie down,” said Emma, wanting to add—at home.

  “Most of my shift didn’t show up,” mumbled Britt, slowly turning the bread over to examine it. “Is this French peasant bread?”

  “Sourdough,” said Emma.

  The woman squinted at the register screen, seemingly unable to proceed. Emma knew this was futile. She would be way better off walking out of here and hitting a different store. She’d be late with lunch, but at least their groceries wouldn’t be covered with whatever flu bug had left Britt looking like a Walking Dead extra. How could her manager leave her at the register in this condition? Wait. Did she say most of the shift wasn’t here?

  “Is there a manager in the store?” said Emma.

  Britt nodded her head. “The office behind the customer service desk.”

  “Thanks,” said Emma. “Why don’t you take a break for a minute? I’m going to see if I can get someone to help you.”

  At the very least—someone to replace you. The woman leaned against the back of the cashier enclosure and forced a smile. As Emma walked through the aisle, toward the customer service alcove, Britt put both of her hands to her temples and squeezed her head, emitting a low groan. Something was off here. She paused at the end of the aisle and glanced between the exit and the customer service desk, wavering between the two. Against her better judgment, Emma decided to do the right thing and see if she could get the cashier some help.

  The door to the office behind the customer service area was open, but no signs of life materialized when Emma exaggerated a cough at the counter.

  “Hello?” she said, directing her voice toward the door.

  Nothing. She moved left to get a better view of the inside of the office, noticing someone behind a computer monitor.

  “Excuse me?” she said in a louder voice.

  “I heard you the first time!” screamed the woman behind the monitor.

  “Never mind,” said Emma before turning around and starting for the exit.

  Definitely something off here. Maybe the home office just announced layoffs and that the store was closing. That would explain the hostility and why most of the shift didn’t show up. A chair squealed along the floor in the office, followed by the sound of someone banging against something solid. Emma looked over her shoulder in time to see a woman rush through the door. She picked up the pace, focused on the automatic sliding door ahead.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  Emma ignored the ensuing verbal tirade until she heard the counter’s half door slam shut. She was afraid to look back.

  “I’m talking to you!” barked the woman.

  The voice sounded a lot closer, spurring Emma into action. She took off for the exit in a dead sprint, hoping she got to the door far enough ahead of this crazy person for the door to slide open and release her into the parking lot. Emma hit the door moments later, placing her open palms flat on the glass panel, which hadn’t started to slide. By the time the door’s sensor reacted, it was too late. Crazy bitch was right on her heels.

  Emma darted to the left, through the express lane, the woman almost snagging her purse with an outreached hand. She made a quick decision on the other side of the lane, opting to run in the direction of the people she had seen near the salad bar instead of the previously empty produce area. Safety in numbers, she hoped. Her only other choice was to stand her ground, but this didn’t hold any appeal for her at the moment. The woman had clearly blown a fuse, choosing to take it out on her.

  Not wanting to scare the small group of customers, she didn’t yell for help as she approached. Emma let the crazy woman advertise the situation instead. A stout, bearded guy behind the deli counter hurried down the long refrigerated display case and burst through an opening near the bakery, headed in Emma’s direction. Instead of planting herself among the startled shoppers, who were slowly backing up in response to the manager’s ceaseless obscenity-strewn outburst, she continued past them, headed for the one employee that seemed to have their shit together today.

  “This crazy woman is chasing me!” she yelled.

  “I got this,” he said, barreling past her.

  The man stopped several feet in front of the supposed manager, squaring off in case she didn’t stop.

  “Andrea! What are you doing?” he said.

  The woman slowed, but continued to advance. “Get out of my fucking way!”

  “Stop!” he said, pointing at her face. “Or I’ll make sure you stop.”

  The woman came within an arm’s length of the guy and halted, immediately putting both hands on her knees to take deep gulps of air. She looked up at him, her eyes immediately shifting to Emma, who hid behind a circular display of cookies. It was a maniacal look, prompting the deli guy to take a few steps back.

  “What’s going on, Andrea?” he said.

  Her expression shifted instantly. The wild lunacy had been replaced by someone that looked frightened—and sick. Now that Emma had a moment to look at the woman, she saw the same symptoms exhibited by the cashier. Red eyes. Sweating. Exhausted looking.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know,” whispered Andrea, who glanced at Emma with a look of humiliation. “Sorry. I have no idea…”

  The man turned to Emma. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just wanted to let her know that the cashier looks—like she does. Very sick.”

  “There’s been a lot of that going around,” he said, keeping a close eye on Andrea. “Summer flu or something. Are you checked out up front?”

  “No. I don’t think the cashier can handle it. She looked like she was about to fall over.”

  Andrea pushed off her knees and stood uneasily. “We’ll comp your groceries. It’s the least I can do. I’m really sorry.”

  “I can pay,” said Emma.

  The woman’s face changed again, but she didn’t look quite as menacing as before.r />
  “I didn’t imply you couldn’t pay,” she said, partly growling.

  “Andrea!” yelled the man standing between them.

  “What?” she said, her voice and expression normal again. “What?”

  The guy turned to Emma. “Take the free groceries. I’ll walk you up and make sure everything is okay.”

  “Thank you,” said Emma, holding back from saying more in front of Andrea.

  The woman was on some kind of mental breakdown hair trigger that she didn’t want to pull.

  A few minutes later, with her groceries jammed randomly into thick brown paper bags, she emerged from the store shaken—but with a cart full of free groceries. Easily a two-, three-hundred-dollar score, given they had been out of town for close to two weeks. Worth being chased by a crazy woman? Barely, but definitely not an experience she wanted to repeat. Ever. If that guy hadn’t intervened, who knew what would have happened.

  Emma loaded the car and sat behind the wheel, the bizarre episode finally catching up to her. All she wanted to do was get out of here. Her hands trembled, the keys on her key chain lightly jingling as she pulled them from her purse. What the hell had happened back there? The most disturbing part of the entire situation came after the guy had calmed the crazed woman down. Her facial expressions cycled between rage and calm, like she had a split personality. She’d never seen anything like it.

  She started the car and drove through the mostly vacant parking lot, trying to push the woman’s face out of her mind. The immediate prospect of Mexican food helped the transition. Fresh guacamole and chips from her favorite hole-in-a-wall restaurant eased all pain. A few minutes later, when she turned her car into the rundown strip mall front that housed La Cantina Roja, she cursed out loud. A black on white, red-bordered CLOSED sign hung in the window next to the door.

  “Has to be a mistake,” she muttered before guiding her car into the parking space right in front of the restaurant’s door.

  Peering through the reflected sky on the storefront windows confirmed what she suspected. No lights. No signs of an open restaurant. Bizarre. Maybe there was something to this summer flu bug idea. The Subway was open in the corner of the little mall, its yellow and white interior busy with a few customers, but nowhere near the crowd that usually jammed the preparation counter around lunchtime. No way she was eating Subway after dreaming about Mexican food. She had everything she needed to make burritos at home, anyway.