“I know.”
“Then why are we stopping?”
“Because I don’t like bursting into the unknown.” He reached down and wrapped a hand around each of the horizontal crash bars. Finding them secured with a thick chain and government-issue padlock, he added, “Besides, they’re chained.”
“Like I said earlier, Lee. You and I both know what we’re going to find out there.”
Again, in his mind’s eye, Riker was seeing the piles of undulating body bags on the football field he knew lay just beyond those doors at the end of a short walk down yet another tunnel. He was imagining this must be how the prisoners entering the Roman Coliseum felt on one level or another when Tara’s shrill scream snapped him back to reality.
Chapter 26
Victoria walked down the darkened hall toward her office with Underhill hot on her heels and spouting everything he needed her to accomplish in the next thirty minutes. Taking a seat at her desk, she accepted the sheet of paper he’d been waving at her all the way from elevator to office doorway. Quickly determining the tasks he’d already verbalized amounted to about a ten-minute job, she waved Underhill off, powered on the desktop computer, and entered the password to access the main ZP server.
After using the password written on the sheet to access Merkur’s personal Zen email account, she began by pulling up every correspondence he had made to the half-dozen institutions scribbled in Underhill’s hand on the yellow sheet. All of the contacts were acronyms of the individual entities’ titles, CDC—Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia—being the only one instantly recognizable to her.
After retrieving all of the emails to and from the various organizations, she started filtering out individual pages that contained the flagged keywords.
At first glance, the long list of words Underhill had written on the sheet below the acronyms amounted to nothing more than a high school biology spelling quiz. But when Victoria noted the standouts—Romero, Virility, Mortality, Reanimation, Cutaneous, Aerosol, Weaponized—and correlated them with one another, she drew in a deep breath. What the eff are Underhill and Merkur covering up? In the next beat, a dull ache started in her gut as her conscience and curiosity got the better of her—the latter being the stronger pull of the two.
As she stroked the keys, she heard Merkur in her head: If you want to remain the highest-paid person in this company without a doctorate …
Screw you, J.M. Acting on impulse, she scrolled over the header of an email sent by Merkur to a General Lawrence Purnell at Fort Detrick, Maryland. Let the pointer hover over the words Operation Peasant Overlord. Always with the crazy random names, she thought, clicking on the Open tab.
After a quick glance over her shoulder, she scanned the body of the email, noting the particular paragraph that contained calculations pertaining to the amount of an aerated version of a specific ZP bioagent code named Romero Bravo necessary to render a standing enemy army inert. The words low altitude spray dispersal and unmanned aerial vehicles leapt out and were enough to compel her to print a paper copy before backing out of the email.
As the printer churned out the hard copy, she scrolled to another email carrying the header: UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES. The information contained in the body of the second email was almost too much for her to swallow. Something called Romero Alpha had recently been tested on willing participants. The “treatment” as it was referred to in the communication did indeed prolong a soldier’s life after suffering a mortal wound and being treated for it on the battlefield. Some of the “specimens” exhibited augmented strength and stamina but lost cognitive abilities. However, the consequence if they died as a result was horrifying to her. And apparently, if she was to believe the percentage of cases deemed to be a success—it was no wonder they decided to go the Bravo route and weaponize the agent. Use it or lose it was the government’s doctrine in case of a nuclear attack. She only knew that because Merkur had gone on a rant about it a couple of times. Once when the Russians invaded Crimea where he had a vacation home, and again when the little leader in North Korea was threatening the United States with his rubber sabre. Might as well just use them now, he had shouted at the television in his office on both occasions.
Feeling the hairs on her neck stand to attention, she looked over her shoulder.
Nothing there except the always-present specter of Underhill placing one of his clammy hands on her bare skin.
“Are they effin with me?” she said under her breath. For a brief second, remembering that Halloween was just around the corner, she thought that maybe she was on the receiving end of some kind of interoffice prank. While Merkur had been known to surprise staff with outings and such, never, in the five years she had worked for ZP, had he shown any kind of a humorous streak. Which was why she quickly dismissed the notion and continued reading as the Army general from Fort Detrick went on to describe in chilling detail how an early version of Romero Bravo had been used on enemy combatants somewhere in Northern Africa and the unbelievable side effects that came after its use.
To make certain she wasn’t seeing things, she read the next paragraph out loud: “Aerosol transmission one hundred percent lethality. Time lapse between flatline and reanimation varies by host. All hosts will eventually reanimate, becoming ambulatory at once and at varying speeds. Coorelation not yet conclusive. Once aware, host will immediately seek out the flesh of the living.”
This is no kind of a prank. And this is definitely not the usual cover-Merkur’s-ass shred fest.
Victoria reclined in her chair, head back, gaze locked on the dropdown ceiling tiles. She kept that pose for a long five-count as she thought through her options.
“Boom,” she finally said under her breath. Hinging forward, she cracked her knuckles in front of the screen and exhaled sharply.
Opening a new window in which her search history wouldn’t be recorded, she typed “Fiscal years 2014, 2015, 2016 federal whistleblower awards” in the Google Search Box and hit Enter. Right off the bat, she got thousands of hits. Without a second’s thought, she skimmed the first ten headings, eyes widening upon seeing the size of the most recent monetary awards. There was one to the tune of one hundred million levied against the pharma company peddling boner pills. Another whistleblower secured a large percentage of a nearly seventy-million-dollar fine assigned against an overseas group that defrauded the DoD by providing sub-par food service to U.S. soldiers fighting in Afghanistan.
The thick carpet having masked Underhill’s approach, his large frame suddenly filled up the doorway a yard from Victoria’s desk. “Almost done?” he asked, making her jump.
“Yes,” she lied, quickly closing out the open window.
“Good,” he said. “I have another task for you.”
Like going home and sleeping the Makers Mark from my system?
As if Underhill had read her mind, he produced a roll of Tums from a pocket and offered to get her some Extra Strength Tylenol from his office.
Victoria chewed a few Tums but declined the Tylenol.
“Suit yourself,” said Underhill. “When you’re finished shredding the files, I need you to go to 73 and pull the hard drives from all the chemists’ computers. By the time you’re done there, Carson should be in the building.”
“Then I’m free to go home, right?”
Underhill made a face, his brow, nose and upper lip coming together in one fleshy mass. “Not quite,” he said. “I need you to help Carson on the bio floor.”
Victoria sighed. “Not that, Mr. Underhill. Not today. Besides, you know that is not my domain,” she stated forcefully, her anxiety rising at the mere thought of donning one of those yellow, full-body bunny suits while still nursing a hangover of epic proportions.
“Mask only today,” he said, again with the gassy face. “Even if we had the luxury of time to get you suited up, it’d be a waste.”
Do I get hazard pay like Uber Boy? she thought, regarding her boss with narrowed eyes.
; “You’ll be performing the same task on the bio floor computer that you’re doing here.”
“Can’t you just give me their password so I can perform the task remotely?”
Underhill shook his head, then grimaced for the third time in a minute.
Upon reflection, Victoria pegged the expressions as quite theatrical. This is no FDA fuck up, she told herself. Coinciding with that realization, a full-blown anxiety attack hit her solar plexus with the force of a mule kick. Every breath harder to draw than the previous, she merely smiled and nodded, all the while willing Underhill to leave her office.
These are not the droids you’re looking for was the mantra looping in her head as her boss fielded a call and disappeared as quietly as he’d arrived, slim smartphone pressed to his ear.
Once Underhill was gone, Victoria printed out a few more choice emails, folded them hastily, and secreted them in her courier bag. Then, without e-shredding a single damning file, she powered the computer down and rose from her chair.
A lifelong subway rider who didn’t bother with a purse, Victoria instinctively turned back for her bag before leaving to get a pass card.
Chapter 27
The grunting and staccato slaps of bare feet echoing down the dark hall behind them had caused Tara to spin on her heel. The subsequent bang as the man-shaped silhouette hit the wall at the bend prompted her to bring the iPhones’ lights to bear. The twin beams revealed a gaunt, blood-slickened face, making her heart skip a beat. The wild guttural snarl overriding the slaps of its bare feet on the tile floor was the final straw for a woman who thought herself mostly unflappable.
As Tara’s piercing scream plateaued and began to roll the length of the tunnel, Riker turned to see the man-sized form carom off the wall, take a few stilted steps, and crash vertically to the floor.
“Light,” he bellowed, turning his attention back to the lock at the end of the length of chain still clutched in his hand.
Tara brought one of the lights to bear but kept the other on the shirtless, prostrate man.
“Hurry,” she hissed.
“I’m trying,” he shot. “Give me the keys.”
The jangling of the keys echoed off the cement walls as she blindly handed them over her shoulder. Seeing the figure rise from the floor in a series of herky jerky movements, she whispered, “I think it’s one of them.”
“I’ve a feeling you’re on to something,” said Riker. Working by the dim light, he jammed key after key into the lock, all the while ignoring his sister’s elevated breathing.
“Hurry,” she pleaded.
The steadily rising sound of flesh slapping tile momentarily dragged Riker’s attention back down the long hall. And though illuminated by the lone beam of light coming from the iPhone, it was clear to him Tara was right: The grunting and snarling form almost upon them was no longer human.
Turning back and selecting another key, Riker said, “Hold the light steady.”
“I’m doing my best,” replied Tara, voice wavering, the last of her already compromised facade crumbling as the thing approaching broke into a full-on sprint.
Riker cursed as yet another key failed to open the lock.
The slaps were now echoing loudly at their end of the hall.
“Where is it now?”
“Halfway, maybe,” reported Tara. “Sure would be nice to have that gun right about now.”
“Can’t change the past,” said Riker as he ripped what seemed like the hundredth dud key from the lock and quickly jammed in the next on the ring. “We can only affect the future.”
That key wasn’t the one. So he tried the next and got the same result.
Voice gone child-like, Tara said, “You’ve got ten seconds, tops.”
Head down and concentrating hard, Riker began a silent countdown from ten.
At nine he fingered the last two keys on the ring, selecting the shinier of the two. You’re the one, he thought as he slammed it home and was crushed instantly with disappointment when it failed.
By seven he had inserted the last key in the lock and had his hopes dashed one final time.
At five he dropped the worthless ring full of keys on the floor and spit a couple of choice expletives.
By four the combined stress from the creature stalking them, Tara’s incessant needling, and the failure of every single key on the ring to open the lock was producing a hydrogen-bomb-about-to-blow pressure behind Riker’s eyes. Breathing also became a chore and it seemed as if his neck and face were suddenly ablaze. His countdown was disrupted at three when the mental dam developed over numerous sessions of court-ordered anger management classes let flow a year’s worth of pent-up rage.
Letting out a primal scream, Riker took hold of the left-side crash bar two-handed and dropped into a deep crouch.
Caught off guard, Tara fell to her knees, holding the electronic devices in front of her as if they possessed some kind of magical power to ward off the thing bearing down on them.
Spittle flew from Riker’s mouth as he rocketed out of the crouch.
The muscles in his neck were corded and stood out against his skin. His head snapped back as he went straight-legged. There was a rattle of chains and a gunshot-like crack when the stanchions holding the push bar in place sheared cleanly from the door.
Gripping one end of the bar two-handed, Riker dipped his shoulder, braced the hollow length of steel against the door, and brought the other around and up so that it was directly in line with the charging man’s chest.
Riker felt the urn pressing through the slung nylon bag as he braced for impact and the light from Tara’s devices swung away.
Mom literally had Riker’s back when the man hit the bar at full speed. The urn grated on his spine and there was a sharp report of what had to be the attacker’s ribs snapping. Then came a crunch as what Riker guessed was the man’s sternum breaking in two. In the next instant the attacker’s feet were leaving the floor as Riker hauled up on the bar. A wet squelch came next and the body shuddered as the bar found a path of least resistance through muscle and organs. At the very least the man’s lungs were punctured, though there had been no rush of expelled air to confirm Riker’s theory. And strangely, through it all, the man did not cry out. Not at the initial impact, nor when he came to rest against Riker’s fists, fully impaled on the steel handle.
“Get us out of here,” cried Tara. She had scooted on her butt to the nearby wall and was pointing one of the devices at the man and one at Riker.
The man’s face was a foot away and aglow in the soft light when Riker learned two things. First, the man was still alive. Second, the clicking noise that started up when the slapping of feet and snarls ceased was coming from the teeth snapping the airspace dangerously close to his neck.
No way this guy should be alive, let alone squirming like this, thought Riker. The idea that the bar had glanced off of bone and missed everything vital—beating heart included—was a far-fetched possibility. Trying to remember what side the heart was situated in one’s chest with cold fingers raking his face and neck wasn’t working for Riker. So he pushed the thoughts of the man’s mortality from his mind and jerked the bar to his right with all the strength he could muster. As he watched the man slip off the bar and go spinning away into the dark, he spied on his back a pair of gaping bullet wounds.
Dumbfounded by the revelation, Riker turned and pulled Tara to her feet.
A series of hollow pops sounded around the corner at the far end of the long hall. Then shouts and a long burst of automatic rifle fire.
“Let’s go,” said Tara as she brought the beams to bear on Riker, illuminating the bloody bar in his hand.
There was a scrabbling sound in the dark to their fore. Then the clicking was back. It was all too soon joined by a moan that caromed around the hall, causing gooseflesh to break out on Riker’s ribs. How are you still alive? he thought. As the unchecked rage began to ebb to but a dull throb in his head, a wave of fear rushed in to replace it. At that moment
, as he hiked the bag with his mom in it higher up on his shoulder, he wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from a man who by all accounts should be dead.
Bloody bar in hand, Riker shouldered open the door and hustled Tara outside ahead of him.
Chapter 28
Manhattan
After taking a shortcut through a couple of darkened executive floor offices to avoid running into Merkur or Underhill, Victoria found herself inside the main elevator and wrestling with a career ending decision. Press 73 and keep your job, or 72 and roll the dice on what you might find there.
The ride to 72 lasted a handful of seconds. When the elevator doors parted, Victoria was hammered by what seemed like a million watts of overhead fluorescent. As soon as her eyes adjusted, she saw that things were not right here. It was quiet—more so than usual—and what looked like a bloody handprint stood out starkly on a dividing wall far away to her fore.
While the executive floor on 74 with its bird’s eye maple paneling and high-end art gracing every wall and flat surface smacked of a Vegas Presidential suite, the bio floor was sterile and odorless and bright—extremely bright. With its white walls, floors, and ceiling, the space seemed more like a set from a sci-fi movie than a fully operational Level-4 lab.
The bio lab took up the entire seventy-second floor and was made up of three separate glassed-in areas. The true Bio Level-4 containment facility—all twelve hundred square feet of it—was a glass cube tucked out of sight on the far southeast corner. Beyond the glassed-in corridor Victoria was standing in was the “pit,” which contained numerous chest-high stainless-steel work stations. To her left, partially blocking the already heavily tinted windows, was an entire wall of head-high shelves housing plastic storage containers filled with all manner of medical supplies. The floor space on the far side of the pit was set up like an office cube farm, but instead of computers at every station, inert centrifuges, expensive-looking microscopes, and exotic scientific monitoring equipment could be seen. This was where the hand-shaped red streak graced one of the low walls.
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise Page 13