The Gemini Virus

by Mara, Wil

  Then Beck was in his car.

  * * *

  “When are the first serum samples supposed to be delivered?” he asked, moving swiftly down the hospital corridor. Ben was having trouble keeping up. The fact that they were both wearing PPE suits didn’t help.

  “I don’t know, they won’t tell me.”

  “They won’t tell you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What does that mean, Ben?”

  “They said they would, but only about an hour before they were due to arrive. They don’t want word getting out, because they’re afraid people will mob the place.”

  “But this facility has to be at the top of the distribution priority list. We’re right in the heart of the damn outbreak.”

  “Yes, we know that much. But they’re being paranoid. They’ve got guards around the hospital in the Catskills and the facility in Nutley where they’re manufacturing it. Armed guards, for God’s sake.”

  “Well … okay, whatever.”

  He mumbled something else as they turned a corner, but Gillette didn’t hear it. When they reached the observation window outside Porter’s room, Beck came to an abrupt stop.

  She lay motionless, her head tilted slightly to one side, eyes closed. Her arms were at her sides on the white sheet, covered to the wrists by a cotton shirt. She looked peaceful enough. But the large, red-rimmed blisters had begun erupting all over her hands and face. Her left eye, in particular, was being surrounded by a nest of them.

  Gillette looked to Beck, who was staring through the glass. His eyebrows were raised in an expression that underscored his anxiety. He doesn’t know what to do, Gillette thought. He feels completely helpless … again.

  “She’s in Stage Two,” Beck said hoarsely. It wasn’t really a question.

  “For a few hours now.”

  “And the serum works only up to a point in this stage, right?”

  “That’s correct. It’s nearly one hundred percent effective during the incubation period, and more than ninety percent during Stage One. But it’s unpredictable in Stage Two. Based on the stats we’ve gathered so far, the rule of thumb is ‘the earlier, the better,’ obviously.”

  “So we really don’t have time to wait for this stuff to show up.”

  Ben looked at him plaintively. “No, not really.”

  “Does she know about it? Does she know there’s a treatment?”

  “No. I’ve been ordered by the administrators not to tell any of the patients. Like I said, I don’t know when we’ll be getting our supply. If everyone knows it’s out there, it’ll be pandemonium.”

  “They’re going to find out sooner or later.”

  “I know, and they know that. But they want to hold off the mayhem for as long as possible.”

  “Uh-huh,” Beck said without a trace of sincerity.

  He went inside, Gillette trailing. The emotional pressure became greater with each step closer to Porter’s bedside. He tried to force his mind to be more clinical, to think in scientific terms, but it was no use. He drifted into a feeling of unreality, of being detached and outside himself. His stomach tightened into a granite knot, and a light chill crawled along his skin. He had never been able to fully unplug himself from these situations. On the other side of the world, watching babies die right in front of him as their parents became disabled by grief, he could not help but feel some measure of empathy. But even then he was able to function. He felt no such ability now. His legs were unsteady, and it took the supreme effort of his life to keep from collapsing.

  “She came in early this morning,” Gillette said quietly. “She called me after she tried to call you. She went to her hotel room after the incident at the lab. She didn’t want to come straight here, because she was afraid she’d catch it if she didn’t already have it. So she went to her room to wait and see.”

  He paused for Beck to say something at this point, but he didn’t.

  “When she starting exhibiting symptoms, I had her come right in. Then I arranged for this room, and we started treating her immediately. She’s been kept comfortable.”

  “Okay,” Beck said almost inaudibly.

  He stepped alongside her and very gently lifted the edge of her sleeve. The blisters were becoming fluid-laden; soon they would begin to burst on their own. Then the crusting … then the loss of perception and rationality … then the meltdown of internal organs …

  Dammit.

  He noticed the iPod for the first time. It was a Nano, long and thin. She’d wanted one with greater capacity but didn’t have the money. He was going to give her the biggest one Apple had for her birthday, which was just over two months away. It lay on the bed above her shoulder, the threadlike cables running in wavy lines to her ears. There was a second, heavier cable, Beck noticed, leading away from the bottom of the unit. He followed it visually and saw that it went into one of the electrical outlets. It was the charger, to keep the battery from running down. Beck turned the Nano over gently to make sure it was firmly connected and getting the juice it needed. In doing so, he caught sight of the album she’d put on—an iTunes Essentials compilation called ’70s Memories. The song playing at that moment was “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass.

  His eyes reddened and his hands began to shake. He tried to set the iPod down again, but it slipped away. Porter stirred, her right eye fluttering. The other was sealed shut.

  “No, no,” he said softly. “Cara, stay asleep—”

  The left eye finally broke open, and she surveyed her surroundings. The confusion was plain in her face, a product of both sleep and medication. When she saw Beck, she managed a tiny smile. “Hey,” she said with an airy raspiness. “I heard you figured out the mystery.” She reached up slowly and removed the earbuds one at a time. “I guess I really can call you Holmes now.”

  Beck forced a smile of his own. “I guess so.”

  She went to say something else, then stopped. Her smile faded, and her eyes began darting around the room. They were absorbing more details, Beck realized, and a chilling thought struck him. She forgot where she is and why she’s here.

  When the impossible truth of it finally seeped in, she looked back to him. The smile vanished, and the beautiful young face clouded with fear. She held out her hand, and her lower lip began trembling.

  “Oh my God,” she said unevenly. Beck leaned down and held her, the material in his PPE suit crinkling like a paper bag. “Oh my God…”

  She cried long and hard. Gillette moved to the other side of the bed, pulled over a chair, and set his hand on her shoulder.

  “I screwed up,” she said finally. “I’m so sorry. I screwed up royally.”

  “No, you didn’t. You didn’t screw anything up.”

  “I should’ve known better. I never should’ve done something like that.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s perfectly okay.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  When she paused to catch her breath, Beck pulled back and said, “There’s a serum, Cara.”

  Gillette turned toward him, eyes wide, but said nothing.

  “What?”

  “A serum. A family came in with the infection, but it faded before Stage Three. They caught an attenuated version of the virus from their dog.”

  “Has it been working?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what?” She studied him carefully and caught the hesitation in his eyes. “Michael, what?”

  “It has to be given no later than Stage Two … and the earlier, the better.”

  Her hands had tightened around his at the mention of the serum. Now they went limp again. “You mean it won’t work on me.” There was a heavy wash of dark sarcasm in her tone. Of course not. I’ve been on the wrong side of luck all my life. Why should today be any different?

  “I don’t know,” Beck replied. “It’s too new to say for sure.”

  “You could up the dosage, or the concentration,�
�� she said.

  “That’s risky,” Gillette told her.

  “But if we don’t try, then … then I’m going to go for sure, right?”

  Beck and Gillette glanced briefly at each other. This is something they’ve already discussed, she realized.

  “Right?”

  Beck slid off the bed and stood. A thousand words flowed between them: words that could not be spoken aloud, for all sorts of reasons.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Zooming down the winding back roads that led to the Hoffman-LaRoche campus, Beck focused on the plan he had hastily formulated while pushing aside unsavory thoughts concerning several other subjects—not the least of which was, If I screw this up, I’m absolutely finished in this business. The plan, he kept telling himself … focus on the plan. He’d hung up with Sheila Abbott ten minutes ago, and the name she gave him was Dr. Brian Childress. He was the laboratory chief in the immunogenetics section. Thank God she hadn’t asked why he wanted to know this.

  He reached the entrance, which had a small guardhouse and a candy-striped gate at the front of the long driveway. The lawn on the property was immaculate, covering the gently rolling hills like a green carpet.

  The uniformed employee inside the guardhouse looked fearful enough—a young, broad-shouldered man with a stubbly beard who should’ve been playing professional football instead of checking ID tags. But what really caught Beck’s attention were the two National Guardsman lingering outside. They were dressed in camouflage and holding their machine guns to their chests. He had no doubt they had been given the proper authorization to use them at their discretion.

  The uniformed man came out. “Can I help you?” he said. There was no attempt to sound hospitable.

  Beck had already put the lanyard holding his CDC credentials around his neck. He held up the two plastic cards for the guard to inspect.

  “Take it off, please,” he said, holding his hand out and sighing.

  “Oh, sorry. Here you go.…”

  The guy looked at both IDs carefully, then back to Beck to make sure the photos matched. He had a permanently pissed-off air, as if life hadn’t shaped up quite the way he’d hoped, and he since decided it was everyone else’s fault.

  “What are you here for?”

  “To see Dr. Childress. Brian Childress, lab chief of the immuno—”

  “I know who Dr. Childress is. Does he know you’re coming?”

  The last thing Beck expected was for this guy to be throwing questions at him. Never a good liar, he became nervous. “Yeah, of course. I called half an hour ago.”

  The guy kept studying the ID cards, looking for some signs of forgery.

  Offense is the best defense, Beck thought, remembering an adage his mother had once taught him. Funny how those things surfaced in your mind at precisely the moments when you needed them.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a very important matter and time is of the essence. Unless you’re going to call Brian right now, I really do need to get in there.”

  This earned him a dirty look—one that would’ve had him peeing his pants if he’d bumped into the guy in a dark alley—then returned the IDs, took one step back, and motioned for the guardsmen to lift the gate. Beck mumbled a thank you and zipped through.

  Step one, he thought, his heart pounding.

  Hoffman-LaRoche was a massive health-care organization with facilities in the United States, Switzerland, Germany, and China. It specialized in both pharmaceuticals and diagnostics, investing nearly $10 billion a year into research and development alone. It had over sixty-five thousand employees worldwide and was responsible for such brand-name drugs as Boniva, Tamiflu, and Valium. Due to its state-of-the-art New Jersey facilities and proximity to the epicenter of the outbreak, it had been contracted by the CDC to undertake the mass-production upscaling of the serum.

  Beck followed the cottage road signs to the main laboratory building. There were more National Guardsmen in jackboots in camouflage, including an older man with a standard-issue eight-point cap instead of a helmet. As he approached, Beck realized he was a colonel by the spread-eagle insignia on his lapel. The stripe above his left breast pocket read CRAWFORD in military letters.

  Beck stuck with the same story, figuring the guy wouldn’t know Brian Childress from a hole in the wall. To Beck’s surprise, Colonel Crawford seemed considerably less concerned than the guy at the guardhouse. He spent all of two seconds examining Beck’s credentials before passing them back and grunting, “Go ahead.”

  At the front security desk, a heavyset man in a blue blazer eyed him up and down suspiciously.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Dr. Brian Childress. I’m Michael Beck from the CDC.” Once again the IDs came out.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I believe one was set up for me, yes.”

  That was a good line, he thought. It left wiggle room when the guy inevitably discovered that, in fact, no appointment had been made—What? My secretary didn’t take care of it? Damn her.…

  Blue blazer dropped his considerable butt into his chair, which creaked in protest, and fingered through his calendar book. “There’s nothing on here.”

  “There should be. I’m supposed to make sure the production schedule is being kept.”

  “Production schedule?”

  An obvious lie, no doubt on the orders of his superiors. If anyone asks, you don’t know anything.

  “On the serum. The one that originated at Catskills Regional.”

  The man became considerably more interested in his visitor now. “Oh, that,” he said lamely. “Okay, well, let me call Dr. Childress and see if he’s free.”

  As casually as he could, Beck said, “Sounds good.”

  The guard spoke to Childress in an easy manner, as if he had called up an old college friend. Childress is a softie, Beck realized. Thank God. He was a little surprised that someone of this nature would be elected overlord of such a sensitive project, but he wasn’t about to argue.

  The guard finished the dialogue and held the phone out. “He wants to speak with you.”

  “Sure.” Beck took the receiver and summoned his inner diplomat.

  * * *

  Childress began with a friendly, “Good afternoon, Dr. Beck,” and expressed unabashed honor at being visited by such a renowned figure. He apologized for not realizing Beck was coming, then asked him to come up to the office. Security concerns were never mentioned.

  As Beck stood in an otherwise empty elevator, he allowed himself to relax slightly. The doors opened as Childress was coming down the hall. He was in his mid to late fifties, tall and slim, with his brown hair conservatively short and combed to perfection. Steel-rimmed glasses completed the picture, making him look more like a corporate officer than like a scientist. His clothing, too, was flawless, from the polished shoes and long white lab coat to the tightly knotted tie that was visible only at his throat.

  As Beck stepped into the air-conditioned hallway, the two men smiled at each other.

  “I’m Michael Beck,” he said again, and Childress shook his hand enthusiastically. “Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

  “You’re most welcome, Dr. Beck. We’re very busy today, as I’m sure you can imagine, so I’m afraid my time is limited. How can I be of service to you?”

  The story he had prepared was that he was supposed to check on the progress of the serum production as part of his ongoing investigation. He was also gathering stats on how effective the serum had been so far, plus where the next shipments would be, in what quantities, and so on; that is, a general overview of the situation that could be relayed to his superiors. He took pains to point out that he did not consider himself to be here in any kind of authoritative capacity, and that no one was obligated to answer to him, and so forth. His function was purely for the purposes of fact-fi
nding and observation.

  Accepting all of this without hesitation, Childress took him into the main production laboratory. It was expansive and brightly lit, with several giant stainless steel kettles in the center. A dozen or so pipes ran to and from each one, then disappeared either into the floor or the ceiling. Workers milled about at various stations, in masks, gloves, and shower caps, nodding and smiling as Childress passed. He led Beck along the fringes, staying within a walkway that was demarcated by a painted yellow line on the floor.

  “We’re producing roughly three hundred doses an hour.”

  Beck didn’t need a calculator to figure out how inadequate this was—there were over thirty thousand people infected at last estimation, and that number would continue growing over the next few weeks. The key was to make the immunization rate higher than the rate of the infection’s spread—and the CDC was still having difficulty determining exactly how to achieve that.

  “You’re using monoclonal cell cultures, correct?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we cannot increase the process exponentially. We have to adhere to a fixed rate.”

  “Where are the finished doses being stored?” he asked, staying focused on the time factor. “In a safe place, I hope.”

  “Yes, quite safe,” Childress replied. At the end of the walkway was a large metal door similar to those on restaurant freezers. Beck was surprised to find it wasn’t locked—Childress simply grabbed the chrome handle and pulled. Then he realized that, under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t need that much security here. A locking refrigeration chamber was more common in military facilities.

  As the door swung back, they were enveloped by a frigid fog. Stepping through it, Beck found himself surrounded by rows of steel racks. There were thousands of vials representing a variety of medications. Most were neatly and formally labeled; others had handwritten stickers.

  Toward the back, on a middle shelf on the left side, was a stack of six white polypropylene racks. Each held fifty small vials, and in each vial was a dark red fluid that looked like cherry Kool-Aid.