by Mara, Wil
“That’s it,” Childress said, nodding.
Beck found himself temporarily distracted by the magnitude of the moment. That’s the stuff that’s going to stop this thing. Right there, within those two square feet of space … the curative for the virus that could’ve driven the human race to extinction.
It seemed so insubstantial: a few squirts of liquid in a cluster of glass tubes. It was being manufactured in the room right outside, like putting cars together on an assembly line. And yet how many people would sell their loved ones into slavery to be standing where I am right now? How many wouldn’t hesitate to break Brian Childress’s neck if that’s what it took to get one of those vials and fire that magical fluid into their bloodstream?
“This is the latest batch?” he asked, for no other reason than because he felt he had to say something.
“Yes. It was finished about ten minutes before you arrived.”
Beck looked around at the other drugs. “And these are the only dosages in here?”
“Yes. They don’t stay around long. In fact, someone should be along shortly to prepare them for shipping, which the military is handling for the obvious reasons.”
“Okay, good.” Beck nodded as if all of this met his approval. “Now, I have just a few more questions, then I’ll leave you alone. Can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
Childress’s office was as tidy as the man himself. Personal effects included a few framed photographs of what Beck assumed was his family, an impressive collection of awards in the form of plaques and certificates, and a Velcro dart board. Every other item in the room existed to serve his employer. Piles of papers had been neatly squared off. Three clipboards hung in an even row on the wall by the chair. Even the mouse sat in what appeared to be the perfect geometric center of its pad, making Beck think Childress left it that way on purpose each time he was finished using the computer. And the Nobel Prize for Anal Retention goes to …
Taking his notepad from his pocket, he fired off questions from the top of his head. How many doses had been sent out already? What has the success rate been so far? Have there been any adverse reactions? Do you plan to start producing it in your California site as well?
Then he asked, “Where on the priority list is Valley Hospital in Ridgewood?”
It was a clumsy attempt to slip the question into the conversation, and Childress seemed slightly taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I’m based in Ramsey right now, and Valley Hospital in Ridgewood is nearby. They’ve been overflowing with cases.”
“Many hospitals have been overflowing with cases.”
“Sure, I realize that. But if Valley is due for their delivery, I’d be happy to take it back with me. I’m not exactly driving an armored vehicle, but I don’t think anyone will be looking in my direction.”
Childress still had his affable smile in place, but it seemed slightly forced now.
“I’m headed to Valley next,” Beck added. “That’s the only reason I bring it up.”
“Dr. Beck, you know I can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I cannot do that. I can’t simply hand it over to someone. There is a procedure to these things.”
“Right, I know. But it’s not as if I haven’t handled vaccines before.”
“Of course, but this situation is different. It’s very sensitive.”
Beck nodded amiably. I’m quite aware of the sensitivity of the situation, chump, he wanted to say, but there would be no productive value in dragging the conversation down to that level. For all his warmth and affability, Childress was, at heart, a bureaucrat, hopelessly enamored with procedure and protocol. Revealing Cara’s condition at this point would do no good—it would expose Beck’s visit as the charade that it was, and since Cara was already in Stage Two, Childress would be justified in refusing her a dose due to its unpredictability at that point. But most important, telling this prim little hard-ass about Cara would reduce the odds of pulling off Plan B, which had to be launched into action immediately.
“All right, well, I appreciate your time very much, Brian.” Beck rose somewhat abruptly, which caused his host to do the same. Then they shook hands again.
“My pleasure. I hope you got all the information you came for.”
“I certainly did. Thank you.”
“Any time, Dr. Beck.”
As Beck reached the door, he turned back and said, “Oh, one last question. Could you please tell me where the bathroom is?” He put on an embarrassed smile. “I’ve been on the road all day and I think I’m gonna pop.”
Childress said it was down the hall, then right, second door on the left. Beck thanked him one last time and walked out.
* * *
He reached the bathroom and kept going, quickening his pace. This is crazy, this is crazy…, his mind kept repeating. If you get caught, it’s all over. You’ll be lucky if you’re not indicted.
He slowed when he reached the lab. He took his notepad out again, flipped the cover, made sure the pen was in the other hand. It was all about looking right. He opened the door and walked casually inside. A few of the workers, he saw from the corner of his periphery, took notice of him. But no one approached. They’d just seen him fifteen minutes earlier with their boss, so he was okay.
He stopped twice on the way to the freezer and looked around, scribbling in the notepad. When he opened the freezer door, he didn’t go inside right away but instead jotted down a few more observations. Don’t look too eager.
When he stepped inside, the door glided to a close and the overhead lights came on. He had never felt such relief as when he saw the six polypropylene racks sitting there; no one had taken them away for shipping yet.
He lifted five of the six racks and set them aside. Then he carefully withdrew a vial from the center of the group, stored it in his jacket pocket, and returned the five racks to the original position.
He stepped out as casually as he had stepped in, scribbling in his pad again. No one took any notice of him. He glanced around quickly, begging God for Brian Childress to be nowhere in sight. He got his wish and exhaled slowly.
Hands trembling and heart pounding, he reached the hallway and walked swiftly to the fire stairs.
This was when Childress spotted him.
It would be another fifteen minutes before he discovered the missing vial.
Then he made a call to Washington.
* * *
In her office, Sheila Abbott quietly set the phone back into its cradle. The seriousness of Childress’s accusation was inarguable. What Michael Beck had done went well beyond the limits of unprofessionalism. It bordered on the criminal. If convicted, he would lose his medical license, be shunned by his peers, incur massive fines, and possibly spend time in prison. His career would be over, and his life reduced to ruin. Childress knew all this and pushed for Abbott to act anyway. She promised she would. She assured him she would formulate an appropriate punishment and see that it was carried out. Then, at just the right moment, she told Childress about Porter. Childress went quiet, as she knew he would. Then—also as she expected—he tried to salvage his pride with a flaccid continuation of the assault. Abbott permitted this. When he was finished, she reiterated her intention to see that Beck be reprimanded for his actions. Childress hastily thanked her and was gone.
She returned to her priorities and never gave the incident another thought.
TWENTY-THREE
Cara Porter was sitting up in bed, a notebook on her knees, when Beck and Gillette returned in fresh PPE suits. Beck led the way, holding a small steel tray by its tiny handles. The contents of the tray were covered by a white sheet, although it wasn’t tough to figure out what was under there. Porter brightened when they made eye contact, but Beck did not—her condition had advanced in the hours since he’d been gone. The swelling around her face was more noticeable, causing increased crookedness to her formerly symmetrical features. And the vesicles on her hands had fi
lled with more fluid, turning some of them into sagging, paper-thin bags of flesh. Beck’s stomach tightened as he remembered the other victims he’d seen in this very room a few weeks ago.
Porter set the notebook on the nightstand and removed her earbuds. She likes to draw, Beck thought. To relax. She told him that once, something about not being very good at it, but she liked doing it anyway. They were on an investigation in Arizona: a group of people who’d fallen ill at a church picnic. She had a sketchbook with her at the hotel. She didn’t show him any of her work, though. The scared kid that she was, afraid to reveal anything to anyone. How wonderfully life has treated her, Beck reminded himself, and for a moment he felt murderously angry.
“So, you didn’t get arrested?” she asked. Her speech was slightly slurred.
“No, but I honestly thought I might.” He set the tray on the wheeled table next to the bed and removed the sheet. One syringe, one vial. They looked ominous somehow, like instruments of torture.
“Is that it?” Porter asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s go. Load me up.”
Beck didn’t move. He simply stood there, staring down at the tray.
“Michael? What’s wrong?”
His eyes went to Gillette, then back. “Cara, Ben did some digging while I was gone. He got on the computer and found some data about the treatment.” He paused again.
“And?”
Clearing his throat, Gillette stepped forward and said, “At the stage you’re in, I’m afraid the antibody is having almost no effect.”
Her smile faded instantly. “Oh.”
“You are, of course, more than welcome to try it,” Gillette added quickly, then felt like an idiot. What a strange thing to say—“more than welcome,” like I’m inviting her to come use my swimming pool while I’m on vacation. “But…”
Beck sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. She barely seemed to notice the gesture.
“What if we increase the dosage?” she asked. “Give me the full vial?”
Beck and Gillette looked at each other.
“You talked about that, too?”
“We don’t know what might happen,” Gillette said. “The dosage they’ve been giving people has been relatively low. Because this is a new treatment, there’s a lot we don’t know about it. For people in later stages, the antibody doesn’t seem to do much at all.”
“Increasing the dose could pose certain dangers,” Beck added.
“But what choice is there?” she asked.
Beck looked to Gillette again; then his eyes found the floor and stayed there.
Porter slid her hand out of Beck’s and went to work. She loaded the syringe and injected half of it into a generous vein running along the inside of her left elbow. She flexed her fingers several times to encourage blood flow.
Then she reached for the syringe again. Beck tried once to stop her, but she gingerly removed his hand and said, “Michael, it’s my choice.” It was her tone that surprised them the most, possessing a sagelike maturity neither of them realized she had.
With her thumb on the plunger, she paused to look up at Beck. Neither of them spoke, yet there was some kind of communication going on. Gillette could sense it. Then she pressed down on the plunger until the barrel was empty.
* * *
A moment passed. Then another. Porter eased the needle out of her arm and set it on the tray.
“Now let’s see what happens,” she said, mostly to herself. She was trying hard to be casual about the situation.
“So, how’d you get the stuff?” she asked Beck. “Just walk in and someone handed it to you?”
“Huh? Oh, no. Not exactly.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Still watching her carefully, he got to his feet and said, “You would’ve been proud of me. I did a little lying, indulged in some con-artistry.”
“Wow, that does make me proud. I’m also impressed that you pulled it off without getting caught.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was this guy there.…” Beck turned to Gillette. “Do you know Brian Childress?”
Gillette thought for a moment. “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“I didn’t know him, either. Sheila did, of course. Anyway, he—”
The beeping cut him off. They turned to see a red light flashing on one of the monitors. Porter was still lying in the same position, but something wasn’t right.
“Her pressure’s dropping,” Gillette said, hurrying to her side. “Oh hell…”
Her eyes were wide open but staring blankly at the ceiling. There was an adjustable light over the headboard. Beck flicked it on and shone it directly into her face.
“Pupils are dilated.”
“She’s in shock!” Gillette said. “Dammit!”
Beck picked up the phone, hit one of the memory keys, and called for a crash team. This would take some time, though, and he knew it—they had to put on their own PPE suits, and that couldn’t be rushed. Emergency or not, healthy employees were not expected to put their own lives at risk.
Porter began choking, although her hands did not go to her throat.
“Oh God, anaphylaxis,” Beck said. “Ben, do you have any—?”
“Getting it now!”
Gillette threw the cabinets open and found an EpiPen—an autoinjector preloaded with adrenaline. He tore apart the protective envelope and administered the shot in the same location Porter had used. The adrenaline was supposed to slow the constriction of the airways as well as reelevate blood pressure.
But it didn’t seem to work—Porter’s blood pressure continued to drop, and her choking became more convulsive.
“Get a respirator!” Beck said. “Fast! Let’s go!”
Gillette found one on the top shelf. Beck took it from him and put it over Porter’s nose and mouth, then began frantically squeezing the rubber bladder.
Her blood pressure kept dropping.
“Oh please … no, please don’t.” Beck’s eyes filled with tears and began streaming down his face, dampening the PPE mask. “Cara, come on! Come on!”
He continued pumping until the monitor issued a steady electronic note. Beck looked up to see the double zeros on the screen.
“NO!”
He pumped faster now, begging and pleading with the gods for mercy, but to no avail. After a time, Gillette stepped in and took the respirator out of his hands.
Beck stared into Porter’s eyes, still wide open, and searched for a sign—any sign. When it became obvious there would be none, he set his head down on hers and wept mightily.
She was pronounced dead by the leader of the crash team five minutes later.
TWENTY-FOUR
“… wake up, wake up!”
Shalizeh lay in his private tent on his side, lost in a thick and dreamless sleep, as the desert winds howled outside. The one who came in to rouse him was named Khalil. He was the youngest member of Lashkar and had been around for only a few months. He was cocky as hell, which irritated some of the older members. But he was immunized because Shalizeh liked him. Confidence and arrogance would serve the boy well, Shalizeh thought—and, if properly manipulated, could be a useful asset at the right time.
“My leader, please!”
Shalizeh’s good eye popped open first, followed by the dead one at a gruesomely slower pace. The good one shifted wildly about while he regained his bearing on reality.
He turned abruptly, as if shocked. “What? What do you wake me for?”
“Vehicles are approaching from the south! Look, please!”
The boy held out a pair of night goggles. Shalizeh threw off his blankets and took them. Peering through the slit in the tent, he saw it—a military convoy led by four Hummers and two covered troop trucks, then a few more too blurry to identify.
“Wake the others, tell them to prepare for battle.”
“Yes, right away. What w
ill you do?”
Khalil instantly regretted the question—it was not his place to ask such a thing, and he knew that before he had a chance to stop the words from spilling out. He prayed Shalizeh would understand he was asking only out of concern for the man he admired so deeply.
Shalizeh sensed this and smiled. “I am going to retrieve the rest of the weapons and explosives. If we are to go down, we will take as many of them with us as possible.”
There was a flicker of uncertainty in Khalil’s eyes, as if “going down” wasn’t exactly what he’d signed up for. Then he smiled back, and the arrogant sparkle came into his youthful eyes. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Good. I will return in a moment.”
Shalizeh hurried outside, crossed the compound, and kept on until he reached the river. He did not hesitate before wading in, ignoring the fact that he and his men pissed and crapped in it every day. Once on the other side, he continued through the underbrush until he reached the foothills. The entrance to the cavernous network was slightly larger than an ordinary doorway and obscured by a pair of acacia trees. He turned and took one last look—in the neon glow of the tilted moon he could see his men hastily loading their rifles and crouching behind the gentle ridge that drew a perimeter around the southern edge of the settlement. The convoy was close now, and he wondered how in hell they finally figured out where he was.
He ducked in, the air thick with an earthy pungency, and began down the main passage. There was a flashlight on a ledge, and he grabbed it. The armory was about thirty yards along, in a chamber on the right. He’d had his men dig it out until it was large enough to hold everything they brought, plus extra space for assets that he planned to acquire but never did.
He went past it without so much as a glance.
A few minutes later he came to a sharp right-hand turn, then a second that went left. Fifty feet farther on was a final curve. Almost there … He pivoted sharply and broke into a run. He began laughing out loud, unable to help himself.
Then he stopped.
The second entrance—which he thought of more as a private exit he hoped he would never need—had been filled in. Large stones, hundreds of them, now blocked the way. He appraised it with the light beam several times, up and down, up and down. His heart begin pounding. How did this happen?…