“He’s got it!” someone shouted. “He’s been infected! Everyone out! We need to seal this room off.” More feet stampeded to get out of the room. In moments, only Mosby and Officer Perkins were left to face him.
Danny struggled to his knees. He would be damned if he was going to die lying face down on the floor in a puddle of his own vomit in front of these two fools. If he was going to die, then by God he was going to go out facing them like a man. He banished sudden thoughts of his family, of his wife, from his mind and focused on the enemy.
Mosby looked pale as a ghost. He pointed at Danny. “What did you send?”
“The truth,” said Danny. He smiled, feeling the stickiness in the corners of his mouth. From the confused look on Mosby’s face and anger clouding Officer Perkins’ face, Danny figured he must look an absolute fright. “I found out that you two murdered Thomas Sang, and that the flu got here despite your best intentions. And I just sent that information to the editors of every major newspaper in this country, and all my contacts with the major networks.” He stared at the two men in turn. Sucking in a ragged, painful breath, he continued. “You two murdered an innocent man. And you’re going to pay for it.”
“We did no such thing,” said Officer Perkins. He held a rag up to his face. “He committed suicide, that’s what the official report says, and that’s what every officer at the scene will say.”
Mosby nodded self-importantly. “Not only that,” he said. “We have proof he was a spy now.” Mosby wiped his face again. Then he laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “Billy—don’t tell me you think—” he glanced again at Perkins, who still had the rag in front of his mouth. “Really, Billy? It’s a little late for that…”
Mosby turned back to Danny. He sat on the bed and ran a hand through his short, dark hair. He took a quick glance out the door. Satisfied that there was no one else in earshot, he said: “I’m with the CIA…Counter-terrorism. We’ve been tracking the man you know as Sang now for weeks. He crossed the Canadian border three weeks ago—before the attack on California began.”
Danny felt the room spin. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked at the computer. “But…”
“Sang told us a very different story when we…persuaded him,” grumbled Officer Perkins.
“Are you—?” asked Danny. He coughed again, this time trying to cover it completely.
Officer Perkins shook his head. “Nah, I’m just a cop. But I’m the only one in town who knows about Cliff.”
Mosby sighed again. “We almost had the bastard twice before he made it here to Brikston. He suspected he had brought some kind of device for spreading the flu into town. Sneaky bastard was using his traveling tech bit as a cover.” He pulled a little black pouch out of his pocket. As he unzipped the little pouch, he spoke: “We thought it was in the car—I had that mechanic…you remember Mr. Moore? I told him to tear Sang’s car apart while waiting for the missing part.” He opened the pouch revealing four syringes. He removed one, pulled the cap and tapped the vial. “We were going to bring him in for questioning when he ran. Everything was still a ‘go’ until you you showed up asking questions,” he said, pointing the needle at Danny. “Got Judge Klein nervous and fucked it all up, didn’t you?”
Danny wheezed, fire burning in his chest. This couldn’t be real. He was hallucinating—that had to be it. He looked at his trembling hands with their blue-tinted fingertips. The cyanosis—it had to be making him see things, hear things. It made sense, his brain was now being starved of oxygen. The damn flu was slowly strangling him from the inside.
Mosby jabbed the needle in his own arm and winced as he pressed the plunger home. “He hid it in his body, you know.”
Danny blinked. “What—what are you talking about? Hid what?”
“The delivery device—the thing filled with the virus. Know how we found it?” asked Officer Perkins, now well away from Danny. “He blew himself up in the hospital. Yeah—blew up.” He shook his head. “What a God-awful mess.”
“The NKors implanted an explosive device in his body—which was chock-full of the flu that they’re using as a weapon against us, by the way,” Mosby added.
Danny shook his head—a painful mistake he regretted almost instantly. His hands gripped his chair in an attempt to keep himself upright. “But his family, his wife… I saw the pictures…”
Mosby waved the empty needle in the air. “Cover story, man. And you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.” Mosby dropped the needle and the little pouch and zipped it back up again. He laughed. “Hell, Sang doesn’t even sound like a Filipino name. It’s Korean!” He stared at Danny in disbelief. “You caused a costly delay by bringing him to that motel. You allowed the virus to replicate in his body to the point that—“
“But he wasn’t sick!” wheezed Danny. Another violent series of coughs racked his body. He felt an odd, tickling sensation in his burning chest. “Not like me…” he whispered.
Mosby sighed and put the pouch away. “Whatever. Look, we just discovered the NKors are dosing their troops in California with a drug cocktail that keeps them… healthy…at least healthy enough to carry out their mission. In Sang’s case, it was to—”
“Show that nowhere in America is safe…” said Danny. He slumped forward. “And I helped him do it… Oh my God…”
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” said Mosby, replacing the pouch in his pocket. “It would’ve gotten here somehow—it always does. But,” he said with a shrug, “if your article gets any traction, it could help convince the NKors that they failed and give the public something else to focus on…so that’s something, I guess.”
“How’d you get an Internet connection, anyway?” asked Officer Perkins.
Danny pointed at Sang’s phone. “Thomas’ phone. I found it in the motel room after you left. It gets a signal somehow.”
Mosby got up and ripped the USB cord from the phone. The cracked screen lit up. “This is some kind of sat phone. The boys at Tech will want to play with this.” He thumbed through a few screens and harrumphed. “This is the picture of his family he showed you? I’ve seen this picture before,” Mosby said. He held the phone so Danny could look.
“Yeah,” Danny coughed. “His wife…”
“Nope. This is from a travel brochure—from the Philippines, if you can believe it.” He snorted in derision. “Sang just assumed Americans think all Asians look alike.”
Danny watched Mosby holding the phone. “There was a number…” he wheezed. “A number on the screen when I found it…” He coughed and nearly gagged on the mucus in his throat. He suddenly felt very cold. “I dialed it, but only heard a click…”
Mosby looked at Officer Perkins. “When was that?”
“What time did you dial that number?” demanded Perkins.
Danny watched as Mosby tapped the cracked screen on Thomas’ phone a few times. He frowned. “The last call was placed right when the explosive device detonated inside Sang’s abdomen.” He looked up at Officer Perkins and tapped the back of the phone. “This was the trigger, Billy. This is what set it off.”
“Jesus,” muttered Perkins.
Both men turned their angry gazes on Danny.
He moaned and closed his eyes. I don’t believe it. This can’t be the truth. They’re lying…they’ve got to be lying. I sat right next to him—I brought him medicine…I talked with him…
“Congratulations Mr. Roberts. You helped an NKor agent kill two doctors, a nurse, and possibly infect half the town—which will lead to who knows how many more deaths…” Mosby stood up and brushed himself off ceremoniously.
Danny coughed and clutched his burning chest. He looked at Mosby through squinted eyes. “What… What was in that needle?”
Mosby smiled. “Something the medical division back at Langley cooked up—like a boost to the immune system, I guess. Keeps me a little more protected than the average Joe, you could say.”
“Like a vaccine?” said Officer Perkins. He moved a little closer to Mosby.
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Mosby backed up. “No, man, it’s different—it’s tailored to the individual—”
“Let me have one.”
“What? No… Hey—let go, man—I’m in charge here, remember? Besides, they can track—”
“C’mon, Cliff, hand it over.”
“Dammit, Billy, back off!”
Danny fell from his chair, feeling his lungs begin to fill with fluid.
I’m dying. This must be what Keisha felt like at the end... Oh God… He landed on his side gasping like a fish out of water as Mosby and Officer Perkins argued.
He tried to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He had tried to help an innocent man, but instead inadvertently aided an enemy spy—who would probably end up responsible for any number of deaths in Brikston in the coming days… Yet here he was, dying, while two men on the same side tried to kill each other over medicine that was only good for one of them.
As his thoughts began to fade, Danny smiled through a mouthful of pink-tinted froth. He was going to see his little girl again.
Hang on, Keisha. Daddy’’ll be home soon…
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Author’s Note
THE INSPIRATION FOR False Prey struck me when I was doing research for Apache Dawn—back when I had planned to write a standalone novel, not a multi-part saga. I stumbled across an anecdote about a traveling salesman who killed himself in Mobile, Alabama, in a book by John M. Barry called The Great Influenza .
In 1918 at the height of the Spanish Flu Pandemic, a traveling salesman, Hibbard M. Thomas, Jr., had aroused a significant amount of suspicion in the small Alabama towns he was visiting. Subsequently, the police followed him for a few days and he was eventually arrested in Andalusia, Alabama on charges of intentionally spreading the Spanish Flu (and being a German agent). He was quickly released and drove to Mobile, Alabama where he got a hotel room and promptly killed himself—presumably over the stigma that had been attached to his name.
He was found with his throat slit and his right wrist opened by a knife.
The first question that came to my mind, was what if (there’s that question again!) Mr. Thomas wasn’t a victim of suicide—what if the locals killed him and did so in a manner that made it look like a suicide? After all, fear of the German menace and the Spanish Flu was practically its own pandemic at the time. Wouldn’t they need the assistance of the local police/judiciary to cover up their crime?
There was an article on the sad death of Mr. Thomas in the Philadelphia Public Ledger on 19 October, 1918. You can read it here:
http://files.usgwarchives.net/pa/philadelphia/newspapers/thomas-hm.txt
Sometimes fear can drive people to target a false prey, indeed.
Marcus Richardson
20 November, 2014
Acknowledgments
I WOULD LIKE TO thank the usual suspects, my family, my friends, and most importantly, my wonderful wife. Your continued support and encouragement was the fuel that kept my engine of creativity humming along at the red line.
I would also like to thank my Beta Readers. You know who you are. Without your valuable insights and encouragement, I could not have finished this story. Well…I could, but it wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable to read!
Thanks also to Eduardo Recife of www.misprintedtype.com, the creator of the Dirty Ego© font used in the creation of the cover.
Some of the stock images used in the cover are from www.pixabay.com, with thanks.
THANK YOU.
About the Author
MARCUS GRADUATED FROM THE University of Delaware and later earned his J.D. at the age of 26. Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a highly over-qualified stock boy, cashier, department manager at a home furnishings store, assistant manager with a national arts and crafts chain, an acting store manager with the same chain, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider-killer extraordinaire, stay-at-home-dad, and writer.
He currently lives with his wife and children behind the cheddar curtain (he’s a Bears fan living in Wisconsin)—and he couldn’t be happier you’re taking the time to read this.
Discover more about Marcus on the FAQ page of his website.
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[Books by Marcus Richardson]
THE FUTURE HISTORY OF AMERICA
Book I: Alea Jacta Est
Book II: Sic Semper Tyrannis
Book III: Dux Bellorum
THE WILDFIRE SAGA
Book I: Apache Dawn
Book II: The Shift
Book III: Firestorm
Other books in the WILDFIRE series:
False Prey (Novella)
The Wildfire Bundle (Books I-III)
False Prey: A Wildfire Novella (Wildfire Saga) Page 10