The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  More gunfire blasted — not scattered, purposeful.

  Farther down, a pair of guards exited a cabin, rifles smoking — then moved to the next room.

  “You…you’re slaughtering the patients,” Lisa said.

  “We’re winnowing the patient load, that’s all.” Devesh lifted an arm and vaguely motioned ahead. “This is the second breakout. An hour ago, a pair of patients escaped their restraints, biting off their own fingers in order to free themselves. They attacked their doctor, killing him before they could be stopped. In such a deranged state, these patients are strong, hyped on adrenaline, oblivious of pain.”

  Lisa remembered the video footage of Susan Tunis’s husband, raving and attacking. It was starting here now, too.

  Devesh glanced back to her. “From EEG studies, it seems you were right. The pathology appears to be some form of catatonic excitement, accompanied by deep psychotic breaks.”

  More gunfire chattered, causing her to jump.

  Responding to her reaction, he sighed. “This is for everyone’s safety. We’re seeing a rapid decline in condition among patients. Shipwide. With medical supplies already running low, we must be efficient. Once a patient devolves to this level of debilitation, they pose a grave physical threat to all around them and serve no real purpose.”

  Lisa understood the sentiment behind his words. Devesh and the Guild were using the ship’s patients as the equivalent of living culture media for the Judas Strain, harvesting the deadly pathogens and storing them as potential bioweapons. And like any field after it had been thoroughly reaped, Devesh was plowing it over.

  “Why did you bring me out here?” she asked, aghast.

  “To show you this.”

  Devesh stepped to the only cabin door that was still closed. He keyed it and held the door open for her.

  A stronger stench struck her.

  Lisa crossed the dark threshold, unsure what to expect. The hall lights revealed an inside cabin, similar to her own: a small bath, a couch, a television, and a small bed in back.

  Behind her Devesh reached inside and flicked on the lights. The bulbs flickered, then steadied into a low thrum of fluorescents.

  Lisa stumbled back, a hand at her throat.

  A body lay draped across the bed, soaked into the bedding and cushions. His two bare legs were tied to the bedposts, arms to the headboard. But it appeared as if a bomb had gone off in his belly, hollowing out his abdomen. Gore splattered ceiling and walls.

  A hand over her mouth, Lisa went cold, falling reflexively back to the clinical, her only safe haven.

  Where were his internal organs?

  “They were found feeding on him,” Devesh explained. “Patients whose minds had rotted beyond restraint.”

  Lisa shivered once violently. She was suddenly too aware of her bare feet, her near-naked body under the robe.

  “We’ve seen this before,” Devesh continued. “In this state of catatonic excitement, the virus appears to stimulate a ravenous appetite. Insatiable, in fact. We’ve watched one of these victims gorge himself to the point his stomach exploded. And still he continued to eat.”

  Oh God…

  Past the shock, Lisa needed another moment for the significance of his words to strike her. “You watched…where…?”

  “Dr. Cummings, you don’t think we were just studying Susan Tunis. To be thorough, we must also understand every facet of the disease. Even this cannibalism. This insatiable hunger bears a striking similarity to Prader-Willi syndrome. Are you familiar with it?”

  Numb, Lisa shook her head.

  “It’s a hypothalamic dysfunction, triggering an insatiable appetite that can never be quelled. An endless sense of starvation. A rare genetic defect. Many of the afflicted die at a young age of stomach ruptures from gorging.”

  Devesh’s cold clinical assessment helped anchor her back inside her body, but her breathing remained heavy.

  “Autopsy of one of the psychotic’s brains showed toxic damage to the hypothalamus, similar to the pathology in Prader-Willi patients. And coupled with the catatonic excitement and adrenal stimulation. Well…” Devesh waved to the bed.

  Lisa’s stomach churned. As she turned away, she finally noted the victim’s face: the agonized lips, the blank staring eyes, the corona of gray hair.

  Her hand covered her mouth as she recognized the man. It was the John Doe patient, the one suffering from flesh-eating disease. From Susan’s medical history, Lisa even knew the patient’s name now.

  Applegate.

  To put a name to the cannibalism here, to personalize it…

  Lisa hurried out of the room.

  Devesh’s eyes glinted with dark amusement. Lisa realized the bastard had brought her purposefully down here, half naked, unnerved, knowing she’d identify him. It was all some awful bit of sadism.

  “So now you know what we truly face here,” he said. “Imagine events magnified worldwide. That is the threat I’m trying to prevent.”

  Lisa held back a sharp retort. Trying to prevent, my ass.

  “We are facing a pandemic,” Devesh continued as he headed back down the hallway toward the scientific wing. “Before the World Health Organization had responded to Christmas Island, early patients had already been airlifted to Perth in Australia. Prior to that, tourists traveling through Christmas Island had spread to the four corners of the world. London, San Francisco, Berlin, Kuala Lumpur. We don’t know how many, if any, were infected from early exposure, like Dr. Susan Tunis, but it would not take many. Without proper disinfection like we employ here, the virus may already be spreading.”

  Devesh led her back down the hall to the virology lab. “So perhaps now you’ll be a bit more forthcoming and open.”

  As they reentered the lab, questioning glances were cast their way.

  Lisa simply shook her head and sank to her stool.

  Once they were settled, Dr. Eloise Chénier shifted from her seat in front of the computer. “While you were gone,” she said, “I pulled up Dr. Pollum’s files. Here is the protein schematic you ordered. From the virus in the toxic soup.”

  The doctor backed from the screen so all could see the rotating image, spinning like a toy top on the monitor.

  It depicted the icosahedron shell of the virus: twenty triangular sections, forming a sphere, like a soccer ball. Except some of the triangles bulged out with alpha proteins, while others were sunken in by beta proteins. Lisa had wanted it all mapped out to better test her hypothesis.

  Lisa pointed. “Can you stop the rotation?”

  Chénier tapped a button on her mouse and the spinning halted, freezing the image on the screen.

  Lisa stood back up. “Now, on the other monitor, can you bring up the protein map of the virus recovered from Susan Tunis’s cerebral spinal fluid?”

  A moment later, a second soccer ball appeared, spinning. Lisa moved closer, studying it. She manipulated the mouse button herself this time, freezing the image where she wanted it.

  She faced the others.

  Devesh shrugged, using his whole upper body. “So? It looks the same.”

  She stepped back. “Picture the two side by side.”

  Henri stood up, eyes widening. “They’re not the same!”

  She nodded. “They’re mirror images of each other. They may superficially look the same, but they are really exact opposites. Geometric isomerism. Two forms of the same geometric shape, just mirrored one upon the other.”

  “Cis and trans,” Chénier said, using the technical term for the two sides of the same coin.

  Lisa tapped the first screen. “Here is the trans form, or the bad form of the virus. It infects bacteria and turns them into monsters.” She waved to the other screen, depicting the virus found inside Susan’s skull. “Here is the cis form, or the good virus that heals.”

  “Cis and trans,” Miller mumbled. “Good and bad.”

  Lisa elaborated her theory. “As we already know, the trans virus toxified bacteria in order to weaken the blood
-brain barrier, thus allowing it to penetrate that virgin territory of the inner skull. It even brought along some company.”

  “The cyanobacteria,” Miller said. “The glowing bacteria.”

  “And normally the toxins produced by the bacteria corrupted the brain in such a manner that it triggered catatonic excitement with psychosis. But in Susan’s case, something else happened. The virus, when it hit her brain fluid, somehow altered. Changed from its evil trans form over to its beneficial cis form. And once altered, the new virus swept out and began reversing all the damage done by its evil twin, healing the patient and sending her into a deep recuperative stupor, contrary to the manic excitement phase of the other patients.”

  “Even if you’re correct,” Henri said, “which I believe you are, what was so special about Susan’s biochemistry to trigger this change?”

  Lisa shrugged. “I wager over the next days or weeks, we’ll see a handful of other patients make the same transformation. Susan was infected five weeks ago. So it may be too soon to judge. But I think it’s still a very rare event. A random quirk in her genetics. For example, are you familiar with the Eyam phenomenon during the Black Plague?”

  Chénier raised her hand as if in a schoolroom. “I am.”

  Lisa nodded. Of course, an infectious disease expert would know the story.

  Chénier explained, “Eyam was a small village in England. Back in the sixteen hundreds, the Black Plague struck the village. But after a year, most of Eyam still lived. Modern genetic studies revealed why. A rare mutation was present in the villagers. In a gene called Delta 32. It was a benign defect that was passed from one family member to another, and in such an isolated township, inbred as they were, a good portion of the town had acquired the mutation. Then the plague struck. And this strange little mutation, just hanging about, saved them. Made them immune.”

  Devesh spoke up. “Are you suggesting our patient carries the Delta 32 equivalent against the Judas Strain? Some random protein that enzymatically switched the virus in her from trans to cis.”

  “Or maybe it’s not that random,” Lisa mumbled. She’d been struggling with this question ever since her discovery of the altered virus. “Only a very small percentage of our DNA is actually functional. Only three percent, in fact. The other ninety-seven percent is considered genetic junk. It doesn’t code for anything. But some of that junk DNA bears a remarkable resemblance to viral code. The current belief is that such coding might serve a protective role, to help us survive future disease.”

  As Lisa continued, she pictured the body of Susan’s friend, attacked and eaten. “Like cannibalism, for example.”

  Her strange statement drew everyone’s eyes from the monitors.

  Lisa elaborated. “Genetic markers found worldwide show that most humans carry a specific set of genes against diseases that can only be acquired by eating human flesh. These findings suggest that our ancient ancestors might have all been cannibals. Maybe Susan has a similar genetic marker to protect her brain against the attack by the Judas Strain virus. Something left over from our long-lost genetic history. Something buried in our collective past.”

  “Intriguing as usual, Dr. Cummings.” Devesh rocked back and forth on his toes, plainly excited. “But whether the transformation was random chance or was triggered by some viral genetic marker from our past…it doesn’t truly matter. Now that we know about this new virus, we can use this knowledge to produce a cure!”

  Chénier looked less sure. “Possibly,” she stressed. “It will take more study. Luckily we have a boatload of sick patients upon which to test potential treatment regimens. But first, we’ll need more of that cis virus.” She glanced significantly over to Devesh.

  “No worries,” he said. “With Rakao and his men already hunting the island, we’ll soon have Susan Tunis and the others back. But with that matter settled—”

  Devesh turned to Lisa. “It’s now time to discuss your punishment.”

  As if on cue, a figure stepped forward, carrying a doctor’s satchel in her hands.

  Her long black hair had been retied into a braid.

  Surina.

  3:14 A.M.

  Monk climbed the steep switchback, following the naked rear end of one of the cannibals. Another dozen tribesmen scaled the crooked trail in the rock ahead of him. Behind Monk, more followed, another forty strong.

  His cannibal army.

  Rain poured out of the dark skies. But at least the winds had mostly died down, snapping with only occasional gusts across the jagged peaks. Monk had purposefully timed this ascent, waiting for the eye of the storm to crest over the island. It had been an agonizing delay, but his patience had opened a small window of opportunity.

  He continued on. Though the path they climbed was sheltered, cut deep into the rock, the downpour made the rocks slippery, treacherous, requiring crawling at times on hands and knees.

  Monk glanced behind him.

  Ryder and Jessie had his back. Strung out behind them, a line of tribesmen followed, dressed in feathers, shells, bark, bird claws, and bones.

  Lots of bones.

  The improvised strike team bore short spears, sapling bows, and sharpened clubs. But half of them also carried rifles and a smattering of old assault weapons — Russian AK-47s, United States M16s — along with bandoliers strapped with extra magazines and cartridges. It seemed the cannibals had been trading for more than just two-legged meat with the pirates that shared their cove.

  From this height, Monk had a wide view of the dark lake. The cruise ship glowed like a sodden wedding cake in the middle. It was the goal of the cannibal strike team.

  It seemed whatever Rangda, the witch queen, wanted, the mesmerized cannibals would make sure she got.

  And Rangda wanted that cruise ship.

  Her wishes and orders were translated by the young Jessie. He spoke Malay, and as it was the official trading language of the pirates, most of the cannibals understood it, too. They were much in awe of the young nurse, that he should understand the language of their queen and was able to pass on Rangda’s desires. She even bestowed a kiss on her interpreter’s cheek, blessing the young nurse.

  No one dared disobey him.

  But while Jessie had been integral in organizing the assault, the plan here was all Monk’s.

  He turned his back on the cruise ship. With the waters surely watched, they’d never manage an assault by boat. And swimming was certainly not an option. Even from this height, Monk noted the occasional flashes streaking through the lagoon far below. The storm had the denizens stirred up and hunting the shallows.

  So it had left only one choice.

  Monk climbed higher, all the way to the roof of the world. They had finally reached the giant steel support posts and massive cabling that anchored this section of the island’s net.

  Monk stared out across the net’s underside.

  Rain poured from it, soaking through all the camouflaging vegetation woven into the web’s upper side. Someone had to be maintaining that illusion. And Monk guessed it wasn’t just the pirates.

  Proving this, one of the cannibals scurried up the nearest cable, his bare feet frogging his lithe form up the span. He vanished through the netting. A rope ladder cascaded back down.

  Others began scaling up.

  Monk turned to Jessie. “You can still go back down, join Susan at the beach. We can pick you both up there.”

  Jessie swept rain-soaked hair out of his eyes. “I’m going. Otherwise, who’s going to translate for you?” Before Monk could argue, the nurse grabbed the ladder and scurried up.

  Ryder followed next, clapping Monk on the shoulder as he passed. Once the billionaire had shoved through the net overhead, Monk grabbed the lower rung, staring back at the spread of his dark army. Feathered, armed to the teeth, ready to do the bidding of their queen.

  Monk felt a momentary misgiving at abusing their superstitions in this regard. Many of them would die. But if Lisa was right, the whole world was threatened. He had n
o choice but to use the resources at hand.

  They had to reach Ryder’s boat. Get Susan out of here — and hopefully rescue Lisa. Monk refused to believe his partner was not still alive.

  Monk pulled himself up the ladder.

  He climbed through the whipping tangle of camouflage. Even in the eye of the storm, the gusting winds sought to kite him from his perch. He beached himself out onto a narrow ribbon of planking, bolted atop the net. It was a crude utility bridge. The span offered a means to crisscross the net, to maintain it, to refresh its camouflage as needed.

  Already the forefront of his army headed across the bridge, on its belly, clinging to the bridge’s slats.

  With rain sweeping down in stinging sheets, Monk scooted after them. Occasional winds thrummed through the net, jumping and rolling it under him. Like riding Aladdin’s flying carpet.

  Monk craned around. Overhead the cloud cover had thinned enough to reveal a few stars, but all around dark clouds churned in a continual whirl. The eye of the storm was smaller than Monk had hoped. To all sides, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

  Monk hurried onward. He and his army had to be off the net when the storm’s eye swept away from the island. He recalled earlier lightning strikes, the cascades of electricity ripping across the metal skeleton.

  It would be death to be up here then.

  Slowly, they inched toward their goal.

  As he followed, Monk stared below, between the slats. At least, Susan was out of harm’s way.

  4:02 A.M.

  Her face greased with ash to hide her glow, Susan sat on a boulder, buried in the jungle, not far from the lagoon. She had spent the past hour trekking back down to the beach, to await Monk there.

  But she was not alone.

  A dozen tribesmen, her royal escort, stood guard in the jungle, buried in the forest. Only a woman, whose name was Tikal, kept her immediate company, knelt beside the rock, her forehead pressed to mud. She had not moved since they had stopped.

  Susan had attempted to engage her, but the woman only shivered.

  So Susan waited, seated on her rock. She wore a cloak of dried pigskin, draped with feathers, shells, and polished stone beads. Her head was crowned by a circlet of rib bones, tied to her forehead by bark fiber. All the bones splayed outward, like some macabre flower. She was given a polished staff, topped by an impaled human skull.