by Joseph Souza
His phone rang, and the sound of it caused him to jump back in his seat in fear. Something bright flashed in his mirror and caught his eye. He looked in the rearview and saw a state trooper following him, the trooper’s lights flashing and its siren blaring. Tag banged on the steering wheel in frustration as he continued to dodge and weave through the heavy traffic heading up to Maine for the weekend. He hit the speaker button and answered the call.
“How are you, Colonel?” the computer-enhanced voice asked.
“Screw you!”
“Tsk, tsk. You should try to be a good boy because I’m your only hope for saving that poor wife and pretty daughter of yours.”
“Sorry for my bad manners, asshole, but I’m currently being pursued by the state police.”
“That’s too bad. I can understand your tendency for a lead foot, though. I suggest you keep driving, Colonel, because I may not be calling back. Besides, with your long list of credentials you should easily be able to talk yourself out of a ticket. And for the sake of your wife and daughter, you had better,” the altered voice said, laughing.
“What kind of organism are we dealing with?”
“Very good, Colonel. Your powers of deduction rival Holmes’.”
“What do you want from me? Are my wife and daughter okay?”
“Whoa! Slow down. So many questions and so little time. Now take a deep breath and listen.”
The state trooper followed on his tail. He cut to the far right lane and swerved around traffic. Then he accelerated laterally to the fast lane and raced ahead. In his rearview mirror he saw the trooper’s vehicle wedged between some slow-moving cars. He knew he wouldn’t escape the trooper, but he had at least bought himself a few more minutes.
“Wow! Those pigs are right behind you. I can hear sirens.”
“Tell me what you want me to do!”
“Okay, here’s the deal. That liger I delivered to your island is caged and pacing back and forth. He’s hungry, Colonel, and dying to get out and roam that gorgeous island.”
“You haven’t released it yet?” Tag said, his hopes rising. “Let’s negotiate a deal and maybe we can work this out. I didn’t catch your name, caller.”
“Call me Lenny the Liger.” The voice laughed. “There’s no negotiating anything now, Colonel. The virus will be released today with or without you. Your wife is exiting the ferry as we speak, carrying a package delivered to her and to be opened this afternoon at the opening ceremony of the Cooke’s Island Art Fest. In fact, I can see her now walking off the terminal with package in hand.”
“How can you see her? I thought you said you were in the reception area back at Gordon Hall?”
“Have you forgotten that Cooke’s Island has webcams stationed all over it, continually filming live footage of all that is going on? Supposed to be part of some scientific experiment to follow and track some rare ocean bird. This will be the greatest reality show in the history of mankind.”
“What about the package?” Tag said, noticing that the speedometer was nearing one hundred. Three state troopers were behind him now.
“She’s going to open that box once she reaches the Art Fest. When she does, she’s going to release our famished cat, and it will bound into the air, liberated from its claustrophobic confines.”
Tag felt nauseous and could barely keep the Jeep on the road. He struggled to keep his composure and not say something that he might regret.
“I know you’re worried, Colonel, but trust me when I tell you it’s too late to save those people already on the island. It’s not, however, too late to save your wife and daughter. Sure, you can try to call the Art Fest, but I doubt they’ll listen to you. And if you do stop it from happening, I’ll just release the virus in a major metropolis for shits and kicks, and kill many more people. Maybe the entire nation. So you decide what you want to do.”
“I’m supposed to decide between saving my family and saving millions of people I don’t even know?”
“Oh no, I’m not that cruel,” Lenny said, laughing. “I’m going to give you a real fighting chance to save your family. Look in the backseat of your Jeep, and you’ll see a small cooler. Inside it, I’ve placed an antibody that will block the virus from being able to synthesize with the target cell. I suggest you take it before you make your way onto that island, and the sooner, the better.”
Tag turned back and saw the small red cooler and wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. Grasping it by the handle, he picked it up and put it on the passenger seat next to him. The troopers continued to tail him, their lights flashing and sirens screaming. He pressed the white release button and slid open the cover. Keeping his eye on the road in front of him, he reached inside and pulled out the single test tube filled with vaccine.
“Okay, I have it. I suppose this could be a trap.”
“You’ll have to trust me when I tell you that I really want you to save Monica and Taylor’s lives. Besides, killing you is the last thing I want to do. It would defeat my purpose.”
He removed the stopper, stared at it for a second before downing the liquid. It had a slightly bitter taste but otherwise went down easily.
“It’s done.”
“Smart choice. And good luck with the pigs. I suppose you can figure the rest out on your own.”
“The rest of what?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? You’re going to need to quarantine that island before people start taking this beautiful creature back to the mainland. That means finding a way to halt the ferries once you get there, and not a second too soon. Then you’ll need to barricade those pretty girls of yours inside that house overlooking the ocean. Because once the liger is released, the radio frequency of a single cell phone call will have the potential to activate the second component of this organism. And when that happens, that island party is going to get all wild and crazy.”
“What’s going to happen then?”
“For me to know and for you to find out.” The caller laughed. “Get your girls in a safe place, and make sure that none of the infected leave that island or else you’ll jeopardize the entire country.”
“It really is a hybrid virus, then?”
“This liger is a rare and beautiful creature that loves to swim, Colonel. You should be very proud of what I’ve created. Or at least impressed with the craftsmanship of our trade.” The line went dead.
Chapter 2
“Maine Ferry System,” he barked into the Bluetooth, pressing down on the gas as he approached the New Hampshire toll booth.
The phone dialed until he heard the ringtone. Every toll booth had a line of cars waiting to pay. He steered the Jeep towards the E-Z Pass lane, where cars whizzed past without stopping. Swerving hard to the left, he cut off an eighteen-wheeler and accelerated to the far lane. Then he cut the wheel to the right and navigated the turn through the narrow booth, but not before scraping the side of his Jeep alongside the partition.
A recorded voice came on the line, and he was given a menu to choose from. Instead of listening to all the options, he asked for the operator, and the menu stopped. A few seconds passed, and then a live voice came over the line.
“It’s extremely urgent that I speak with the executive director of the Maine ferries.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Colonel Taggert Winters of the United States Army. I need him to temporarily cease all ferry service to Cooke’s Island before something terrible happens.”
“Please hold, sir.”
Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that he was now being followed by four troopers. Up ahead, he observed another traffic jam forming. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Kenny G. played sax over the phone, exacerbating his bad mood.
“Hurry up and answer the damn phone!” he yelled into the receiver.
He slowed down before arriving at the traffic jam and whipped the wheel as hard as he could, smashing and plowing his way over to the far left-hand lane. The troopers b
ehind him tried to follow but got caught in the logjam with nowhere to turn. Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ started playing over the Bluetooth. He gripped the wheel and gunned the Jeep onto the grassy median strip separating the northbound from southbound lanes, and careened over to 95 south. Fortunately, traffic was light heading southbound, and the cars that managed to see him quickly cut over to the middle lane to avoid being struck. Keeping his eyes glued to the oncoming traffic, he stayed as far to the right on 95 as possible in case he had to swerve away at the last moment.
“This is David Dodd, executive director of the Maine Turnpike,” came the voice. “This had better be a goddamn emergency, or I’m going to be very upset.”
“Colonel Winters, chief of the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Sir, I need you to shut down the ferry system to Cooke’s Island immediately. I believe there’s a potentially infectious disease circulating on the island as we speak,” he said, struggling to control the vehicle through oncoming traffic.
“Colonel, I’m vacationing on the island right now, and I can assure you that life here on Cooke’s could be no finer.”
“Look, sir, I don’t have time to discuss the matter right now. Just do whatever you can to stop the ferry service for a few hours until we can establish the severity of this threat.”
“Are you kidding me? There’ll be riots along the Portland docks if people aren’t allowed to travel over to the island for Cooke’s annual Art Fest. Besides, I don’t even know who you are or if you’re real or merely a prankster.”
“Trust me, David, your ass will be in a major sling if this organism makes it over to the mainland! And I’ll be the one to do it. My wife and daughter are on that island right now.”
Dodd paused for a few seconds. “Okay, I’ll temporarily shut it down, Colonel, or whoever you are. You have one hour to prove to me that this threat is real. I’ll also need for you to provide me some information so I can verify your identity.”
“That’s not a problem. For the time being, I need you to keep this information between us so we don’t cause citizens to panic.” Tag gave the director his work number and password so that security back at the institute could cooperate with him and verify his identity.
Up ahead, the troopers had completely blocked off the interstate. A line of blue cars were parked end to end, and behind them he could see the troopers aiming their rifles at his speeding Jeep. He had no choice now but to surrender. He slowed the vehicle until it came to a stop. Two fully equipped troopers approached his jeep with their rifles raised and ordered him out of the vehicle. He carefully opened the door of his Jeep and raised his arms, immediately registering the look of surprise on their faces when they saw his army uniform and brass signifying his rank as a colonel. Placing his hands behind his head, he fell to his knees, feeling like a prisoner of war in his own country.
The armed troopers rushed over and pushed him down to the warm pavement. His cheek hit the road, getting scraped during the scuffle. Once his hands were shackled behind his back, they stood him up and forced him back up against the Jeep. Standing in front of him was the patrol unit’s commanding officer.
“Colonel Winters, it seems you’re in a world of trouble,” the lieutenant said, hands on his hips. His nameplate said Duncan. “Have a little too much to drink this afternoon?”
“Listen to me, Lieutenant Duncan,” he said, staring directly into the man’s eyes. “I’m the director of the army’s Infectious Disease Institute, and I have reason to believe that a biological agent has been unleashed on Cooke’s Island off the coast of Maine. It’s the only reason I tried to evade your officers. I had the terrorist on the line and couldn’t chance hanging up on him.”
“Okay, Colonel, let’s see some ID. Then we can talk about this once we get back to the police station.”
“No police station!” he said, shaking his head. “My wife and daughter are vacationing on Cooke’s Island as we speak. If you don’t believe me, call the executive director of the ferry system. I requested that he stop all ferry service between Portland and the island. After that you can call the institute I work for and verify who I am. They’ll confirm my identification as head of the USAMRIID.”
A look of concern registered on the trooper’s face. He stared at him for a second before clutching his elbow and escorting him back to the trooper vehicle.
“Move those cars, and get traffic moving again,” Duncan ordered his officers.
He opened the back door and stuffed Tag in the seat. Then he went about making the requisite calls. Once he appeared satisfied with the results, he turned back and stared at him through the cage.
“Everything checks out, Colonel. So where do we go from here?”
“How about I get my Jeep back and you give me a police escort into Portland. And I’m talking ASAP, Lieutenant, in case this terrorist calls me back.”
“Sure thing, Colonel. Let’s get you moving along.”
The trooper took off his wrist restraints and escorted him back to his dented and scraped Jeep.
“How bad of a threat is it?” Lieutenant Duncan asked.
“I don’t know all the details yet, but from what the caller has told me, it sounds like the real deal.” He climbed into his Jeep, turned the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life despite all the punishment it had been through.
“I want you to drive back over that median strip. There’ll be a trooper positioned in front of your vehicle until you arrive at the ferry terminal in Portland. Stay right behind him. Understood, Colonel?”
“Understood. And there’s one other thing, Lieutenant. It’s imperative that you not tell anyone about this threat or else there’ll be a shit-storm around these parts the likes of which you’ve never before seen.”
“I’m hearing you loud and clear, Colonel.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant Duncan. My wife and daughter are on that island, and they have no idea the potential danger they’re facing. I’ve had a house on Cooke’s for fifteen years now and never dreamed something like this could happen there.”
“Better be on your way, Colonel,” he said, rapping the hood with his knuckles. “Drive safe.”
Tag crossed the median strip and slid in behind the waiting trooper. In a matter of seconds they were cruising due north on Route 95 at over one hundred miles an hour, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
The temptation to call his wife’s cell phone tugged at him, despite the fact that this mysterious caller named Lenny had warned him about the dangers of using a cell phone. Tag wondered what this meant. Did the RF waves emitted from the phone create a synergistic effect with the virus? Without fully knowing the true extent of the hybrid virus’s capabilities, he had no idea what kind of organism he was dealing with.
He racked his mind trying to come up with a plausible theory for radio frequency and viral causation. Some studies had shown that even moderate radio frequency, such as the kind that emanated from cell phones, had the potential to heat up compromised cells located near the basal ganglia of the brain. The mere thought of that notion, as farfetched as it sounded, scared the shit out of him. The combination of a lethal airborne virus such as smallpox engineered with one of the more debilitating brain viruses was a frightening concept, but he didn’t think such a hybrid was even remotely possible. Then again, RF wave propagation was not his area of expertise. He’d seen many deadly viruses, both natural and engineered by man, but he’d never come across a virus that combined both high infection and mortality rates. He thought Stephen King’s book Cell had been purely fiction.
Crossing over the Piscataqua Bridge into Maine, he made a mental note of the supplies he kept at the house. He’d quietly, and without his wife’s knowledge, begun to stockpile food and a small cache of weapons in the event something catastrophic happened on the mainland and they needed somewhere to hide out. Now it had been reversed. It had been an ongoing project, an insurance policy against disaster, and although he had a sufficient number of
weapons, food and biosuits, he’d not yet had the time to properly secure the house and make it completely impenetrable. He’d been hoping to complete the retrofitting once he was fully retired later this summer, but now it appeared too little too late. Had Monica known about his hidden stash, she would have complained mightily and called him a paranoid schizo. Yet in the event of an emergency she’d no doubt appreciate his diligent planning and forethought, especially when it came to protecting their children.
They arrived at the exit leading into Portland. Although he was tired, the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him wired and alert. They climbed onto I-295 and took the first exit leading to the waterfront. Tag could see a wedge of Cooke’s Island from high up on the bridge crossing over the Fore River and into Portland. By the time he made it onto the quaint thoroughfare that was Commercial Street, he could already make out the large crowd of people gathered at the end of the pier.
Tourists flocked along the street and wandered in and out of the shops facing Casco Bay. It was a perfect summer afternoon, warm and dry, and the businesses were hopping. Tourists strolled up and down Commercial Street, popping in and out of the bars, shops and cafes. He pulled the Jeep up near the front gate of the ferry terminal and parked it on the street before making his way toward the water. A lone camera crew stood around the terminal, looking for answers to why the ferries had stopped service to Cooke’s Island. With the Art Fest in full gear, it created quite a storm, and people seemed agitated and upset. About a dozen uniformed cops patrolled the area, trying to keep the large, unruly crowd from getting out of control. Tag, still in his dress greens, approached one of the young cops on duty and asked the whereabouts of Portland’s highest ranking police officer. She pointed Tag down toward the terminal and explained that the police chief was conferring with the mayor at Gate 1.
He sprinted down the short road leading down to where the vessels pulled into the dock. He knew it well, having taken the ferry to Cooke’s Island hundreds of times in the past. He could see the island rising majestically out of the ocean, shimmering in the distance like a prized jewel, located roughly four miles from the mainland. It looked resplendent and inviting on this hot summer day, and in normal times he looked forward to getting over there and unwinding with a cold beer. Not today. He made his way over to the two men now deep in discussion. As soon as they saw him approaching, the imprint of his decorated green army uniform caught their attention.