The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

  The drone made three passes, but found no sign of life.

  William pointed to a house on the outskirts of the town. “We’ll sweep the town, then stage here. Peyton, you’ll monitor the drone feed from the house. Just keep flying over, and alert us if you see any movement. Desmond, Avery, and I will move on the complex.”

  The town was creepy. Peyton thought it felt like an abandoned movie set: erected quickly, used and reused, then left to decay.

  At the edge of town, closest to the labs, they found homes that showed signs of habitation. The windows were new, and the roofs had been repaired. But no lights burned, and they didn’t hear a single sound except for the wind.

  William and Avery took the right side of the road, Peyton and Desmond the left, systematically searching each house along the way to make sure it was uninhabited.

  “Are you sure you’re okay staying alone while we go to the labs?” Desmond asked.

  “I’m not afraid of the dark,” Peyton said.

  “That makes one of us. This place creeps me out.”

  At the next house, Desmond ran through the rooms while Peyton waited in the living room. “It’s clear,” he said as he came back. But he didn’t move to the door as she’d expected. Instead he said, “What was that about in the plane? With you and Avery.”

  Peyton glanced away. “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like nothing.”

  “She’s just trying to mark her territory.”

  Desmond bunched his eyebrows. “What territory?”

  She smiled. “You know what territory.”

  Across the street, William and Avery entered another home and moved through it systematically, each calling clear as they swept another room.

  Upstairs, William found a desk set into a dormer across from a single bed. Pinned to the wall was a wallet-sized photograph, faded and wrinkled, like colored wax paper. A picture of his three children. Yes. This is the place.

  At the cabin in Shetland, William had held back on what he knew about Aralsk-7. He’d had to—for Peyton’s sake. In truth, coming to this island had been a gamble. But now he was convinced: they’d find answers here.

  Chapter 89

  When they’d finished searching the town, the four of them regrouped at the house on the outskirts that would be their command post. It was empty and cold, but Peyton noted that there was very little dust on the simple furniture.

  “Someone was living here very recently,” Desmond said.

  In the kitchen, Avery opened the refrigerator. “Within the last month.”

  Peyton got a whiff of the horrid smell before Avery slammed the door.

  “Let’s get set up,” William said.

  He placed a laptop on a coffee table in the living room and pulled up the drone footage for Peyton to monitor. He had pre-programmed a flight plan into the drone, and he took a few moments to show her how to alter it if needed. She waved his hands away from the laptop. “I got it. Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  Peyton wanted to hug Desmond and her father before they left the small home, but figured it would be awkward with Avery left hanging. She settled for a nod, and the three departed.

  Peyton watched them go from the window, then she sat on the cloth couch, pulled a thick cotton blanket over her, and watched the drone footage. Bathed in the green glow of night vision, Desmond, Avery, and William were now pushing past the complex’s heavy iron gate. She let out a sigh and coughed—something she had avoided doing with the others around. The virus was gaining on her immune system.

  Desmond shivered as another gust of frigid wind hit him. He followed William, gun held at the ready, sweeping the man’s left flank. The gravel crunching under their boots was the only sound in the night. Snow drifted down, then began falling harder. The wind caught the white flakes, tossing them around like the inside of a snow globe. The scene would have been beautiful if Desmond had had time to stop and observe it, and if he hadn’t been so nervous.

  William stopped at the complex’s nearest building. The door was solid steel, with a hefty handle.

  He nodded to Avery, who formed up across from him, ready to sweep the room. All three pulled their night vision goggles down. Desmond stood behind William, who turned the handle, and then the three of them were rushing into the room, guns sweeping left and right, red laser pointers dancing over crates and plastic-wrapped pallets of supplies.

  The building was a warehouse, and there didn’t seem to be anyone inside.

  Desmond moved across the concrete floor, to the first pallet, and peeled back the plastic. Cardboard boxes, flattened for shipping. There were more pallets of them, dozens.

  Avery called out in the darkness. “Packing tape over here, must be a thousand rolls.”

  William and Desmond joined her. Beyond, they saw pallets stacked with plastic jugs of water.

  William stared at the pallets. “I think this is how they did it. Water. Boxes. Packing tape. It’s a distribution system. I bet the cardboard contains the virus. It survives inside the closed cells. Any puncture lets it out. The tape, too. The infected water is likely highly concentrated; they mixed it with water bottles, maybe large jugs that go in offices or a city water supply. What’s left here must be extras they didn’t need. That assumes they manufactured the virus here. If we find it in the main lab complex, that will confirm it.”

  Desmond marveled at the genius of the plan. Parcels and water. A very simple yet effective way to distribute a contagion.

  “But no cure,” Desmond said.

  William thought for a moment. “They may have shipped all of it off-site, to test it elsewhere.”

  “Or manufactured it elsewhere,” Avery said.

  William nodded. “That’s also a possibility. Let’s keep moving.”

  In the next building, they found a manufacturing facility where the boxes and tape had been made and injected with viral particles. There was still no sign of anything that might treat the virus.

  The main building, which was four stories, held the labs. Desmond knew it the instant they crossed the threshold. The floor was white linoleum, recently cleaned. The walls were gray, with stainless steel handrails. The vibe was that of a hospital in the sixties, one that had never been updated.

  The three stood just inside the door, listening for any movement, hearing none.

  William took a step deeper into the building, then another, cautious, as if the white square tiles might be mines that could explode at any moment.

  He paused, turned his head.

  Desmond heard it too: the whirring of a small electric motor.

  William looked up to a black plastic bubble on the ceiling. Extending his rifle into the air, he used the barrel to bring the cover down, revealing a black security camera within. A red light glowed at its base. It panned to get Desmond and Avery into the scene.

  William walked past them out the door, whispering for them to follow.

  The three stood outside in the falling snow, the yellow moon’s faint light obscured, like a paper lantern behind a sheer white curtain.

  “They’re still monitoring the facility,” William said. “Either someone on site or remotely.”

  Avery glanced around. “They could have a team in hiding or a rapid response force inbound right now.”

  William nodded. “We need to hurry. We’re looking for shipping manifests.” William motioned back to the warehouse. “They transported the tape, boxes, and water to their distribution centers. I’m willing to bet they shipped the cure there as well—whether it was manufactured here or somewhere else. We figure out where those facilities are, we find the cure. Let’s move.”

  Back inside, the three of them split up and began racing through the four-story building. Desmond’s boots pounded the white tiles. He found a surgical wing with bloody gurneys, scrubs left in piles, and ransacked medicine cabinets. These people had left in a hurry. On the second floor, he found a set of double doors that were locked. He activated his mic. “This is Desmond. I’m goin
g to shoot a lock on level two. Have encountered no resistance.”

  Avery and William responded quickly, with the same word: “Copy.”

  Desmond shot the lock and pushed the steel doors open. The stench of rotting flesh overwhelmed him. He gagged, stepped back, bent over, and waited, fighting not to retch. The odor drifted past the doors, sweeping into the outer room like a ghost set free from its frigid tomb.

  By degrees, Desmond adjusted to the repulsive smell. He took a step into the vast room. It was a near copy of the Kentaro Maru’s cargo hold, with sheet plastic dividing cells that ran the length and width of the space. In the green glow of night vision, the scene was even more eerie.

  At the first cell, Desmond drew back the milky-white plastic. An Asian male lay dead. Dried blood ran from his eyes and mouth. Had they just left these people here to die when they evacuated, locking them in here like animals in a slaughter pen? What kind of people could do this?

  Fury erupted within Desmond, and the thought that he had once been part of this project repulsed him.

  He activated his comm. “I’ve found bodies. They were testing something here.”

  “Copy,” William said. “I’ve located the target.”

  He’s found the shipping manifests. Desmond breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Level three, front left corner,” William said.

  Avery and Desmond acknowledged and said they were inbound to his location.

  William ducked in and out of the offices, searching quickly. In an office on the corner, with a couch and a bar-height long table, he found what he was looking for: the same picture he had seen in the home—his three children, holding hands on a street in London. It had been taken around 1982, William thought. This was the right office.

  He moved to the filing cabinet, yanked it open, and began reading the folder names.

  He paused at one that read, Viral Candidates. He pulled it out, scanned it. They had evaluated several pathogens for modification. He froze when he saw the notes in the margins. Yes, he was on the right track.

  The rest of the drawer was filled with more research—documents of their trials. The drawer below that one had folders on distribution methods. They had tried air fresheners, hand soap, even cologne. All had proved either too expensive or ineffective.

  The next drawer had folders marked with locations. Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Dakar, Senegal. Harare, Zimbabwe. Lusaka, Zambia. Bamako, Mali. Conakry, Guinea. This is it, William thought.

  He opened the first folder, read quickly. It was a study of the location’s population, economy, transportation, and infrastructure. The page heading read, Index Site Study. These were places they had considered starting the outbreak. One of the files was marked Mandera.

  William slammed the drawer shut, pulled open the last one.

  A folder marked Supply Shipments sat in the very front. He pulled it out and let it fall open. Inside were shipping manifests—hundreds of them. Medical supplies. Water. Food. Were those words used as code for the virus, or the cure? They certainly wouldn’t list “virus” or “cure” on the shipping manifests. No. This had to be it.

  Into his mic, he said, “Desmond, Avery. I’ve located the target. Level three, front left corner.”

  He studied the folder, lost in thought.

  Desmond’s voice came over the comm. “William, I’m almost to you.”

  The explosion that ripped through the office threw William against the wall. The metal filing cabinet toppled over, trapping his leg.

  In the home’s living room, Peyton heard the explosion. She leapt from the couch and raced into the street. The largest building in the complex was on fire. Another explosion went off, blasting brick and roof tiles from the facade like lava spewing from a volcano. She didn’t hesitate. She began running toward the building, coughing as she went, her lungs already burning.

  Chapter 90

  The blast knocked Desmond off his feet. He rolled across the white tiled floor. Ceiling tiles rained down on him. He curled up, waiting for it to stop.

  When the building fell quiet again, he had caught his breath. He rose and ran toward the blast location. In the corridor, long fluorescent lights hung by wires from the ceiling. Doors stood open. Plate glass windows were shattered. Shards crunched under Desmond’s boots.

  In the stairwell, he felt warmth from above. He ascended, driving toward the blaze. When he pushed open the door to the office wing, a wave of heat blew past him.

  A cubicle farm spread out before him; offices with exteriors windows lay along its perimeter. Smoke and flames filled all of it. The fire was finding plenty to consume: papers, old wooden furniture, and most concerning, the wood studs in the walls.

  “William, do you copy?”

  William’s voice was weak. “Copy, Desmond. I’m pinned. I found it. I’m going to read you the location where the supplies were sent—”

  “Sit tight. Prep for evac.”

  Desmond studied the inferno churning through the office, trying to find a path to the corner office. Most of the cubicles and desks were burning, and the fire was moving quickly. For a moment, he was back in Australia, at his childhood home, watching the blaze. Just like then, he gathered his courage as he prepared to wade into the flames.

  But this time, a hand caught his shoulder.

  Avery stood behind him. “Don’t, Desmond.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him, but he threw her off.

  “Come with me or stay,” he said. “But don’t get in my way.”

  Without another second’s hesitation, he raced into the fire.

  Outside the building, the snow fell faster, sticking to the gravel courtyard. Peyton’s footsteps left a track of prints in ash-coated snow, a trail that led directly to the front door.

  The heat of the fire was excruciating, but the asphyxiation was worse. Desmond held his breath as long as he could, then inhaled and coughed.

  He was close to passing out when he reached the corner office. The blast had blown out the windows, and cool air rushed in, fueling the fire. Desmond inhaled for a few seconds, gathering his breath.

  Ahead, he saw William lying under a steel filing cabinet, flailing about, looking for any means to work his way out from under it.

  Desmond raced to him and gripped the steel cabinet. He was shocked when he heard steps behind him. Avery. She took hold of the filing cabinet as well, and together they pushed. The cabinet was not only heavy, it was buried under debris from the wall and ceiling. But it moved just enough for William to wriggle free. He stuffed a folder inside his body armor and tried to stand. One leg was fine, but he winced when the other touched the ground.

  Desmond didn’t wait for discussion. He leaned forward, pressed himself against William’s abdomen, and lifted the man up onto his shoulder. Desmond estimated he weighed about 170 pounds, and Desmond’s body protested under the added strain; his ribs still hadn’t healed. But he pressed on, putting one foot in front of the other. Avery led the way, pushing desks and debris aside as they went.

  Soon, Desmond let out the breath he had held, sucked in hard, got a mouth full of smoke, coughed, and stumbled—but he stayed upright. If he collapsed now, Avery would have to choose which one of them to drag from the flames.

  He felt himself getting dizzy. His head swam, vision blurred. He was staggering. He felt Avery’s hand grip his arm, pulling him forward.

  Spots appeared in his vision. He was only vaguely aware of walking now. Waves of nausea washed over him.

  The smoke was a wall of black. He thought he should have been clear by this point. The fire must have advanced since he entered the blaze. He had no hope of escape. His body was shaking, wobbling, as if he were being rolled in a washing machine, bounced around. His legs gave out. He fell to the floor, William on top of him. Everything went black.

  Peyton stopped just short of the burning rows of cubicles. She panted, trying to catch her breath. Her chest heaved and ached. But she had to push on. She covered her mouth and drew the deepest breath she could
, preparing to rush in.

  At that moment, she saw a figure emerging from the smoke. Avery. Walking backwards. Dragging someone. Peyton peered around her, saw the short, dyed black hair. Desmond.

  As soon as she was clear of the fire, Avery fell to the floor. Desmond’s head rested in her lap. Avery’s eyes rolled as she leaned back and coughed.

  Peyton bent over Desmond, covering her mouth as she coughed. He wasn’t breathing. The fire—the smoke inhalation—had asphyxiated him.

  With every ounce of energy she had, Peyton dragged him from Avery’s legs and ripped off his body armor.

  Avery lay motionless, watching with watery eyes.

  “My father?” Peyton asked urgently.

  Avery closed her eyes, could barely move her head to shake it.

  Peyton tried to focus.

  She began chest compressions, counted to thirty, and started giving him rescue breaths.

  Panting, she said, “Avery, I need you to find an AED.”

  The woman rolled onto her belly, pushed up with her elbows on shaking arms. Her head bobbed from side to side, like a boxer about to go down for the count. She collapsed again, rolled onto her back, and gasped for breath. She would pass out soon.

  A scraping sound came from the wall of smoke.

  Peyton looked up to find her father limping out of the fire, one arm covering his mouth.

  She started another round of chest compressions.

  William fell to his knees beside her and coughed. “Get out.”

  Peyton looked down at Desmond. She couldn’t carry him. None of them could. But she wouldn’t leave him. She had lost him once; she wouldn’t again. She couldn’t. Couldn’t bear the thought of standing outside, watching the building burn, knowing he was in there.