by A. G. Riddle
Elliott gathered everyone around him. It was cold in the alley, and his breath came out in a puff of white steam.
“Remember, the knock is three raps, pause, then two, then one. Three-two-one. We’re going to wait here until all of us report back. There’s food in the RV, blankets too. Use the portable batteries and electric heater if you need them. Try not to crank it unless you have to.”
Elliott looked each one of them in the eye. “Okay. Good luck.”
On the buildings flanking the alley, he spray-painted a large E. As they walked, he put the same mark on every building they passed. It felt strange, painting graffiti all over downtown Atlanta, but he hoped it might get one or more of his people back. He expected some or all of them would be in a very bad mental state when they returned.
The streets were packed with people on foot, just like them, hiking toward downtown and the Georgia Dome, looking for their loved ones, or the cure, or both. Many carried guns and knives, while others simply jammed their hands in their coat pockets, trying to stay warm.
When Marietta Street met Northside Drive, Elliott heard the roar of heavy machinery. To his right, two bulldozers were pushing cars to the side, clearing a path. A front-end loader bounced along behind them. Two pickup trucks brought up the rear. Men in the beds held rifles.
One of the men called to the crowd.
“They surrendered! Come on, follow us!”
People broke from the crowd, began falling in line.
Elliott quickened his pace, jogging down Northside Drive. The heavy bulldozers had left track marks in the pavement, their own version of breadcrumbs leading to the Georgia Dome. People in orange vests were scattered along the road, making sure no cars blocked the cleared thoroughfare.
Elliott and his neighbors were forced back onto the sidewalk along with everyone else when two tractor-trailers powered down the road. The back doors to their empty trailers hung open, and men looked out, several of them smoking. It took Elliott a minute to realize why they needed the giant trucks: to hold all the guns they were rounding up. They were disarming the government troops.
A few minutes later, school buses emerged from downtown, heading away from the Georgia Dome. They were the same buses that had taken him and Rose downtown, but now they were filled with uniformed people—National Guard, Army, and FEMA. The very people who had crowded Elliott and the rest of the population onto the buses days earlier.
Along the street, some people clapped and cheered; others, like Elliott, simply stared at the surreal scene. A few yelled out names and rushed toward the buses, but the orange-vested individuals held them back. That was something Elliott hadn’t considered before—that some of the people making their way downtown were coming to help their friends and family in uniform.
When the buses passed, he waded back into the street and ran even faster. The cold early-December air burned in his lungs. He was very out of shape, even for his age. His younger neighbors were pulling ahead; he was slowing them down.
“Go on,” he said between breaths.
Bill smiled. “A wise man told me we should stay together.”
Elliott just shook his head. But he was glad for the company.
Three blocks from the Georgia Dome, the crowd became too thick to run. Their group slowed to a walk, and Elliott caught his breath.
He drew out his long stick, which he had held to his body with his belt. Carefully, he unfolded the posterboard sign and taped it to the stick. Then he passed around the tape, and one by one, they all raised their signs. Elliott’s read: ROSE SHAPIRO. It was one of thousands of posters waving in the air as the crowd pressed toward the Georgia Dome.
Chapter 105
Desmond was contemplating his escape from the cargo container when he heard a group of people marching across the concrete. The boots pounded in the vast space, drawing closer. It sounded like a stampede at first, then there was a screeching sound, and muffled voices. He recognized only one of them.
A single set of footsteps resumed.
The door to Desmond’s container opened with another screech of metal on metal.
The dark space flooded with light. He squinted, held an arm up to shade his eyes.
Avery.
The blonde was shrouded in shadow, but Desmond could see that she was still clad in tight-fitting body armor. She looked like a superhero. She held a handgun at her side, ready, but not pointed at him. Her expression was remorseful, apologetic even.
“I had to,” she said.
Desmond was stone-faced.
“We were getting nowhere at SARA. It was a dead end, Des.”
She waited, but he still said nothing, only stared at her.
“This was my backup plan. We needed to get back inside the Citium. I knew the tactical team was at the house, waiting.”
“You could have told me.”
“I needed them to believe it.”
“Like you needed us to believe the rescue was real.”
Avery’s silence confirmed his theory.
He had suspected that the escape from the Kentaro Maru was staged. Now he knew for sure. He wanted to know why. “They let me go because they wanted me to lead them—to lead you—to Rendition.”
“Yes. It’s the only thing they need for the Looking Glass.” She stepped away from the container. “Look, I took a risk. I didn’t want the group to debate it because I knew it was the only option we had. And we didn’t have time for our little committee to vote. It worked out—better than I thought it would.” She motioned away from Desmond’s container. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Across the aisle, another cargo container lay open, its heavy metal doors revealing cardboard boxes stacked on pallets. The closest box had been torn open. It held hundreds of oblong handheld devices roughly half the size of a cell phone and a bit thicker.
Avery handed him one. “It’s a jet injector.”
She pointed to another box, which held CO2 cartridges. They were small and round, similar to the ones Desmond had used in his pellet gun as a child.
“They’re CO2-powered.”
She pulled another open box closer. It was full of vials. She took a vial and a CO2 cartridge and inserted both into the jet injector.
“This is the cure. I thought if they captured us here in Australia that they might take us to a warehouse like this one.” She waited for him to respond, but Desmond said nothing. “It was the only way, Des. Our only option.”
He took the device from her and stared at it. We’ve done it. He held in his hand the key to saving Peyton, and billions more. But it was her he thought of first. He realized then how worried he’d been about her. He didn’t want to lose her—or the second chance he wanted so badly. Everything had happened so quickly in the last two weeks, he hadn’t had time to process it. It all hit him now. They had found the cure—and they had a fighting chance of stopping the Citium. Erasing his memories had been a big risk, but the clues he’d left himself had worked. In a roundabout way, they had led him here, to this moment—to what he thought was a turning point. Now it was time to finish it.
Avery stepped closer. “I mean it, Des. This was the only way. Do you believe me?”
She needs me to forgive her. There was a deeper relationship between them, and he couldn’t remember it. That was an unsettling feeling.
He looked at her, but he still didn’t speak.
“It was the only way to get you off the ship,” she said. “It was the only way to get us here, to the cure. I gambled. I did what I had to. I did it for you, and for the mission. Please tell me you understand.”
A cough rang out in the silence; a congested, sick sound. Not a nagging, nuisance cough, but a deadly one, like a bell tolling, reminding him that time was running out.
“Yeah, I understand, Avery.”
She didn’t smile. She only glanced away, as if his words of absolution had come up short.
He wasn’t ready to forgive her; not until he trusted her completely. And right now, his only
thoughts were for Peyton. He didn’t want to wait another second to give her the cure.
“We’ve got some people who need this,” he said.
He followed the cough to another metal shipping container, unlocked it, and pulled the screeching metal door open. Peyton was lying on the floor, squinting at the bright light. She barely sat up.
He handed Avery the jet injector, walked inside, and gathered Peyton in his arms. She felt like a rag doll as he lifted her and carried her into the light. She was no doubt worn out from the fitful sleep in the back of the plane on the way to Australia, hungry, and exhausted from the sickness that had been slowly overtaking her.
In the glow of sunlight through the skylights, he sat her on the concrete floor of the warehouse and held her head in his hands. Her eyelids were droopy and her hair soaked with sweat, either from the fever or the hot southern Australian summer that was just beginning.
Avery pulled Peyton’s sleeve up and began to press the jet injector to her arm, but Desmond stopped her and took the device. He wanted to administer the cure to Peyton himself. He realized then how much it meant to him, and why. Twenty years ago, they had spent the most important years of his life together. Perhaps of hers too. He had discovered who he was. Before he met her, he had never known the true extent of the wounds from his childhood. He was broken. He had given up on waiting for his wounds to heal. He had left her because he thought that by leaving, he was saving her. He thought he was giving her the life she deserved. He knew now that he had been wrong.
He held the injector at her shoulder and pressed the button.
The pop of air and the pinch snapped Peyton to attention. She looked from Avery to Desmond, then at the jet injector in his hand.
“Hi,” he said.
She smiled.
“Hi.”
Chapter 106
Everywhere Elliott looked, he saw death. The dead and dying lay on cots and blankets in rows on the infield of the Georgia Dome. The stench was overpowering. He gagged twice before he got used to it. He marched, his sign held high, searching for his wife’s face or voice. His fear grew with each step. He tried in vain not to think about what he would do if he found her dead.
Elliott had spent decades of his career working in field hospitals. He had treated the victims of outbreaks, just like the living and dead lying all around him. But none of it had prepared him for being on the other side: being a family member of someone infected, whose life would be claimed by the pathogen. It was a feeling of complete helplessness. Tears ran down his face. Very soon, he would know whether X1-Mandera had claimed the love of his life. He dreaded that knowledge, and at the same time, he desperately wanted to know. Not knowing if she was alive and suffering, or gone and at peace, was tearing him apart.
A voice he knew well called out. “Dad!”
Elliott turned to see his son weaving through the crowd.
When the thirty-year-old physician reached Elliott, the older man pulled him in, hugging him hard.
“Your mom?”
Ryan nodded. “She’s alive.”
Elliott saw in his son’s face the words he didn’t say: But just barely.
“Are Sam and Adam with you?”
“They’re back at the RV. They’re safe.”
“Thank God. Are they…?”
“Sam’s asymptomatic. Adam’s infected, but it’s still early stage. I’m so sorry, son—”
Ryan squeezed his dad’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. We’ll deal with it. Come on, let’s get Mom and get out of here.”
Elliott swallowed and steeled himself as Ryan led him into the Georgia Dome’s offices. He was anxious and afraid and so eager to see her again.
Rose lay on a cot in a small office, her eyes closed, pulse weak. Elliott did a quick examination. The rash on her abdomen was dark red and had spread up to her neck. Her face was ashen; dark bags hung below her eyes. But she’s alive. He was thankful to see her again, to hold her hand, still warm, pulse beating, if only to say goodbye.
He turned to his son and told him what they had to do.
Nearly an hour later, they reached the RV Elliott had parked off Marietta Street. He knocked three times, then two, then once, and waited. Three seconds. Then four. The door cracked, and he saw his neighbor’s face.
Ryan took off the blankets piled upon Rose. He hoisted her out of the wheelchair and carried her into the massive motor home. The kids lounging on the bed sprang up at the sight, allowing Ryan to gently set his mother down on the bed. The instant he released her, Sam ran into his arms, and they were both crying and shaking as they hugged each other. Adam joined them, clinging to his parents, them embracing him, and Elliott was there too, wrapping his arms around the three of them for a few long seconds before crawling into the bed to lie beside Rose. They had brought medicine and oral rehydration salts, but for the most part, all they could do now was wait.
Elliott pulled her freezing body close to his. The tears flowed fast now.
“It’s going to be okay, Rose. I’m here. We’re going to fix this. Everything is going to be all right, you hear me?”
She said nothing, but he felt one of her tears touch his cheek.
He held her tighter. “Don’t give up. Please.”
Chapter 107
After Desmond administered the cure to Peyton, he and Avery found William in another container and injected him with the cure.
As Desmond had suspected, Charlotte was confined to a shipping container as well.
Avery read his question before he asked. “I ordered the team at SARA to capture her. It seems she’s connected somehow.”
“That was good thinking.”
They freed Charlotte, and she thanked Desmond as he administered the cure.
The warehouse was huge, the size of a football field, stacked three tall with sea freight containers in rows. According to Avery, the building was in Port Adelaide, a suburb northwest of Adelaide, Australia. She led them to an office above the warehouse floor, where two camo-clad soldiers were laid out, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, both shot in the chest, center mass.
“Where are the rest of the soldiers?” Desmond asked.
“In a cargo container,” Avery said. “They were more compliant.”
Desmond still didn’t know what to make of the woman, but he knew she was deadly efficient.
The five of them gathered around a large table the shipping company had likely used to plan routes and review manifests. Plate-glass windows looked down on the warehouse floor and the rows of cargo containers below. A window on an adjacent wall revealed a harbor where cargo ships were docked.
William focused on Desmond. “Did you reach the Labyrinth location before they captured you?”
In his peripheral vision, Desmond saw Avery cut her eyes to him.
“Yes.” He paused, considering what to say.
“Well?” William said, eager. “What did you find?”
“A memory.”
Peyton bunched up her eyebrows, studying him.
“It wasn’t…” Desmond searched for the words. If he told them the truth, there would be an argument for sidelining him going forward. He couldn’t let that happen. Stopping the Citium was more important to him than ever. “The memory was from the day of the fire. It was personal—not related to the Citium or the pandemic.”
William eyed him. “Are you certain?”
“Yeah.”
“In that case,” said Avery, opening a laptop, “I’ve got something you all need to see.”
Desmond couldn’t read the expression on her face, but he was thankful for the change in subject.
She told them that the computer had belonged to one of the Citium soldiers, whom she had “persuaded” to provide the password. She played the two messages the Citium had sent to the US and other governments.
Charlotte and Peyton stood aghast. Desmond was deep in thought. William turned and stared at the rows of shipping containers, then spoke slowly, in a reflective tone.
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“That confirms it. They mass-produced the cure and shipped it to sites like this around the world—so they’d be ready to release it quickly.” He turned to the group. “Governments need to begin searching ports and shipping terminals for the warehouses like this one.”
Avery typed on the laptop. “That’s going to be a problem.”
Video feeds showed drone footage above the streets of major cities. Desmond recognized the Golden Gate Bridge in one feed. People were rioting, marching upon AT&T Park. Similar scenes played out in Chicago, New York, London, Moscow, and Shanghai.
Peyton crossed her arms. “It’s a global civil war.”
And the Citium’s winning, Desmond thought. If the people who had started the pandemic got control of world governments, what would they do next? They were capable of anything. But what was their end game?
To William, Desmond asked: “Why are they trying to take over world governments?”
“I’m not sure. All I have are theories. If they’re still pursuing the Looking Glass device proposed in 1983, they need a massive amount of power and a large data communication network—the Internet, for example. Controlling world governments would provide them with both. The chaos serves another purpose. It keeps governments from conducting a search effective enough to find the cure distribution sites. They might find a few, but not all of them, not quickly enough.”
“We need to help them. There has to be a list of the sites,” Desmond said. He turned to Avery. “Can you do a search?”
Avery was already typing furiously. “No, this laptop only has information on what’s happening at this facility. It’s standard Citium policy—compartmentalization.”
William walked across the room to a window that looked out onto the pier and the harbor beyond. “They wouldn’t be that sloppy. These people are very, very smart. And efficient.”
He pointed out the window to the harbor, at a docked container ship. “But if we can find the ship that delivered the cure here, and see where it’s been, we might be able to figure out where they manufactured it. And that location will likely have a list of all the destinations the cure was shipped to.”