As soon as Greg was out of sight, he lunged forward, grabbed the piece, and furiously cut at the rope around his wrist. He stopped once Greg came back into view. Once he was gone again, Irwin went back to cutting.
Suddenly Greg heard one of the bottles shatter from the basement downstairs. “Are you OK?” he said.
There was a pause, then Veronica called out. “Yeah. I dropped one of the bottles. Damn it. Greg, could you go into the bathroom and get me some cleaner.”
“Cleaner?”
“Yeah. She’s got Pine Sol under the sink, and I don’t want the floor to get sticky.”
Greg looked under the kitchen sink just to be sure but didn’t see anything.
“She keeps it in the bathroom,” she shouted, as if hearing him look under the kitchen sink. “And grab a mop too, please.”
Greg looked at Sergeant Irwin. He still appeared to be tied up to the bookshelf and gave Greg a friendly nod. Greg went down the hall into the bathroom and turned on the light. Realizing he had to urinate, he closed the door.
Veronica stood in front of the liquor cabinet just where she remembered it to be, right next to the washer and dryer. There was glass everywhere and a big puddle of Jack Daniels spreading on the floor. A single hanging bulb illuminated the cluttered basement, and Veronica looked at the washing machine with sinking relief.
She could finally wash her clothes the normal way. The cabinet was an antique of sorts that had two small glass doors above the base, where most of the liquor was stored. She opened the door with one hand and stuck the bottles inside. As she closed the door, she breathed in an odd, putrid smell, like a dead animal.
“Ugh,” she said. The odor made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She surveyed the basement, all the stacked boxes of memorabilia under the stairs and old books and records piled up in the shadows.
She took notice of a blue tarp wedged into the corner and approached it. The closer she got, the stronger the smell grew. There was a large bulge under the tarp, and she was hesitant to investigate further. Her imagination had taken over.
One step closer and she noticed a red smear on the ground. She leaned down and saw another small red spot, untouched; like a blood drop. It heightened her curiosity and fear, but she approached the tarp, determined to investigate.
The tarp was rolled up and tied on both ends with rope. She pulled the rope on one end loose and untied it. The tarp fell open, and she was struck with a potent smell, followed by the sight of two bare legs streaked with blood.
She screamed and jumped back, falling onto the ground. An intense, sick feeling gripped her stomach, and she could feel herself shaking. Breathing heavily, she mustered the strength to approach the tarp and pulled it open further. Suddenly, she heard footsteps running down the stairs.
“Greg!” she shouted.
A quick glance downward revealed the mutilated body of a woman wearing a bloody sundress with countless open stab wounds crusted over with thick, dark blood. Gray, messy hair covered the woman’s face, but Veronica could see a large and jagged opening across her neck, where blood had flowed into a thick puddle on the tarp.
“Oh my God!” she screamed, covering her mouth. She turned around, expecting to see Greg, but only saw Sergeant Irwin standing there in front of her under the light of the fluorescent bulb, clutching a glimmering knife. There was a backpack slung around his shoulder.
“Keep your voice down,” he said.
Veronica recoiled and sobbed. “What happened?” she said in a shaky voice. “You did this?”
“You seem like a nice girl, so let’s just cut to the chase. What happened, happened, and there’s no use crying over spilled milk.”
“You monster. How could you?”
“I didn’t mean to kill her, honest. It was an accident.”
Veronica began to cry, her body crippled with shock. They heard movement upstairs. Irwin took a step forward.
“I told you to keep your voice down. Don’t make me roll up another body tonight.”
Veronica tried to calm herself, but her emotions felt as if they were beyond her control. She sobbed with erratic gasps.
“You’re no soldier. Who the hell are you?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. This is what we’re going to do,” Irwin said, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a small .22 LR handgun. “You’re going with me back to Base 42. They’ll love a person of value like you. If you come willingly, no one gets hurt.” He gestured with his gun. “If you put up a fight, I’ll put one in you and another in your boyfriend. Understand?”
Veronica stood there, unresponsive, with her legs shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Are you picking up what I’m laying down, sweetheart?” Irwin asked.
She tried to nod her head but managed only a slight shake.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now go ahead and start walking. I’ll be right behind you. One wrong move, and things are gonna get real ugly.”
Veronica moved slowly up the stairs, her legs quivering with each step. She felt that at any moment she would simply collapse under her own body weight. She could feel Irwin’s hot breath on her neck as he pushed her up the stairs.
“Now open the door, slowly,” he ordered.
At the top of the stairs, she turned the doorknob and opened the door. Greg was in the process of walking toward the basement with Pine Sol in hand. He stopped, suddenly noticing that Sergeant Irwin was no longer on the couch. He looked over at Veronica, noticing the tears on her face.
“Where is he?” he asked, pistol drawn.
Suddenly, Irwin emerged from behind her and fired his pistol at Greg, hitting him in the left leg below his thigh. The blast was deafening. She screamed. Greg hit the floor and pulled his Berretta out. He was hesitant to return fire as Irwin was standing behind Veronica, pushing her toward the foyer. She began to cry hysterically as he gripped her waist and forced her along.
“Don’t do it!” Irwin shouted. “You may be a good shot, but it’s not worth the risk.”
Greg struggled to get up, but the pain in his leg was too severe. They were about to move out of view and into the foyer when Greg saw his moment. He took a shot, hitting Irwin directly in his exposed shoulder.
A shell casing hit the floor and rolled along the tile as Irwin fell back against the wall in shock, pulling Veronica with him. She screamed again and tried to wiggle herself out of his grip, but he had her locked in. Irwin pushed himself against the agonizing pain and regained his footing. He had managed to hold onto his gun.
“Move!” he shouted as he awkwardly pushed her out the door. The hot barrel of his pistol burned against her head, and she stumbled along down the porch steps with Irwin holding onto her.
“To the truck. Go!” he demanded. Blood started to run down his shirt from the gunshot wound, and he winced at the sight of it. Adrenaline kept him going.
Greg crawled on the kitchen floor, leaving a streak of blood in his path. He found his way to the bar and attempted to lift himself up, gripping the countertop. His leg felt as if it was a phantom appendage, dragging down the rest of his body. He shouted for Veronica as he heard the blaring engine of the F-150 start up.
She was in the passenger seat as Irwin frantically tied her wrists together and then ran Greg’s own nylon rope around both of her ankles. Next, he placed a bandana around her mouth and tied it tightly around the back of her head.
“Just don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll be fine,” he said with rapid breaths.
He winced again as he leaned against the driver’s seat. One hand clutched his pistol as the other pulled the gear shift into reverse. He took one glance back and floored it.
From the kitchen, Greg still struggled. The pain of the wound in his leg was coming full force, almost as if it was on fire. He made one last attempt to make it outside but fell hard on the ground like a bag of rocks. He crawled in agony as sweat poured down from his forehead.
The door was five feet away and
within reach. As he pulled himself into the foyer, he saw the truck through the window, roaring down the dirt path leading out of Tilda’s ranch. The red taillights became distant and then soon faded.
Hope for a Cure
Dr. Robbins had an urgent appointment with the research department at the underground biochemical laboratory at Emory University. He left the CDC headquarters without saying a word to anyone. His replacement, Director Taylor, had his hands full trying to handle the spread of Ebola and the public outcry while maintaining a facade of competence and trust.
The research Dr. Robbins was privy to was at an early stage of development, and things were very secretive. He even had to sign a nondisclosure agreement upon entering the laboratory. There were several drugs being tested against the virus in research labs throughout the country, and the government was looking for the right drug to throw their weight—and reputation—behind. As long as Ebola was circulating at such an accelerated rate, there would be a race to find a cure. Nothing, however, seemed like it could keep up with the mutation of the disease and its baffling growth.
The biochemical research department at Emory University believed they were close to finding something. Their experimental treatment involved creating an artificial DNA strand to mimic Ebola so that the patient’s immune system would be able to recognize the threat and eliminate it. That was the theory anyway. Robbins had been briefed on the phone, but details were minimal.
The thought of some “miracle cure” was on everyone's mind, and there was a great push for pharmaceutical companies and government agencies to get results. Dr. Robbins had a strong feeling about the work going on at Emory University. He knew of their outstanding advancements in medical research in the past and that they were generally at the cutting edge. Spearheading an effective treatment for the disease would be one thing; discovering a cure would be something entirely different.
He arrived at the research facility in the early afternoon, trying to remain low-key and inconspicuous. The Emory University School of Medicine in Atlanta was one of the premiere medical facilities in the country, and Dr. Crosby, the lead administrator, had always kept Dr. Robbins up to date on their research. Now that Dr. Robbins was no longer the CDC Director, he wondered if he'd still be provided the same inside access as before or if he would be relegated to a more limited role.
Being a former-CDC Director had its perks. He walked down the long, busy halls of the facility with his visitor's badge affixed to the lapel of his suit jacket. The front desk was in sight, and Dr. Robbins checked in with the female receptionist. She promptly paged Dr. Crosby, who eventually showed up looking busy and distracted. He wore a standard white coat with a blue dress shirt and tie underneath. A security badge was affixed to his coat as well, identifying him as the regional administrator of the medicine and research program.
“Dr. Robbins, so nice of you to come,” Dr. Crosby said, extending his hand.
Dr. Robbins shook his hand. “How are things going here?”
“Oh boy, where do I start?” He looked around the busy lobby filled with students, doctors, and nurses. “Follow me,” he continued.
Dr. Crosby was an astute man in his early sixties with graying hair and square-framed glasses. He had a long neck, which hung in pockets of wrinkly skin. At the very end of his sleeve was a gold watch, which caught Dr. Robbins's eye. He followed the doctor past several departments, care centers, offices, patient rooms, and nursing stations, which seemed endless in number.
“Never ceases to amaze me how big this place is,” Dr. Robbins said.
“Yeah, we're taking the scenic route for a reason,” Crosby said, walking ahead.
A girl on a ventilator machine being pushed by two nurses walked by, and they moved out of her way.
“What's the reason?” Dr. Robbins asked.
“Because we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I'll make a deal with you, Ted. You tell me what the CDC knows but hasn't yet told the public about, and I'll fill you in on our research.”
Dr. Robbins wondered whether or not to tell Dr. Crosby that he was no longer CDC Director, but in doing so, he wondered if he'd still be told of this supposed breakthrough. Hopefully Crosby was too busy to have watched the news.
“Did you talk to Chen?” he asked.
Their footsteps clicked along the white tile floors. A sign hanging from the ceiling indicated that they were nearing the research department. An arrow pointed left.
“Chen?” Crosby asked.
“Kal Chen, one of your students.”
“Ah yes, of course, Kal. He told me that he spoke to you on the phone and that you'd be right over.”
“He didn't say anything else?” Dr. Robbins asked.
Crosby gave him a weird glace. “No. What else would he have told me?”
“Nothing. It's nothing,” Dr. Robbins said. “I just know that with the spread of this outbreak, both of our backs have been against the wall.”
“You said it. My team has just been trying to stay focused. It's been hard, Ted, it really has. They've put in long hours and remained dedicated despite the spread of this terrible disease. I can only imagine what the CDC has been going through.”
“Well,” Dr. Robbins said. “It's our job.”
They walked into the research department, past several security stations where armed guards had taken over the job of receptionists. Dr. Crosby had a key card that allowed them access through each door in their path. Dr. Robbins couldn't recall a time when precautionary measures were so high, but he completely understood why. He noticed the array of security cameras poking out from the ceiling down each hall, and realized that any attempt to keep his visit secret had been thrown out the window.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to come down here,” Dr. Crosby said. “I know it must have been nearly impossible to get away with everything that's going on.”
“From what I heard on the phone, your team is making magnificent strides,” Dr. Robbins said, rubbing his eyes.
“That’s correct, and the only reason I would even ask you here at this time is because I believe we've made a huge breakthrough, and I wanted you to be among the first to see it.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
Crosby let out a small laugh. “Don't think it's all about you, Ted. If this treatment works, we'll need all the backing from the CDC that we can get.”
Dr. Robbins nodded, feeling his Adam's apple tighten.
They took several corridors that went deeper and deeper underground. Dr. Robbins could feel the change in atmosphere and the compressed air flowing into the room through overhead vents. Past the last security doors, they entered the main research floor, which spread out into an extensive oval-shaped room with low ceilings and several sections divided by thick Plexiglas.
There were people moving around in full protective gear in what looked like some sort of high-tech lab, brightly lighted from above. The lab was full of digital machines, meters, microscopes, freezers filled with vials, and test tubes arrayed on every countertop. All of the activity was happening behind Plexiglas. An airtight metal door led into a decontamination room which separated the lab from where Dr. Robbins and Crosby were standing. Dr. Robbins had never seen this floor of the lab before.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
Dr. Crosby glanced beyond the Plexiglas then back to Dr. Robbins. “They're working.” He paused then continued.
“My students are joined by two of the best scientists in their field, Dr. Hosk and Dr. Roland. They specialize in DNA strand manipulation, among other fields. I personally called them here to guide our research team.”
From where Dr. Robbins was standing, all the people looked the same in their protective gear, and he couldn't tell student from professor or vice versa. There was another area to the left of the lab, which housed four small separate rooms all divided by Plexiglas. Within each room was a thick transparent curtain attached from above on a square-shaped r
ailing and concealing whatever was behind it in a distorted blur.
“What's that over there?” Dr. Robbins asked, pointing to the rooms.
Crosby looked over. Dr. Robbins could feel the cold air from the vent above blowing onto the back of his neck.
“Those are our patients,” Crosby said. “They've all contracted the Ebola virus.”
Dr. Robbins naturally took a concerned step back, and Crosby suddenly reassured him.
“No, no. Don't worry. They're in quarantine right now. Four patients in all who volunteered to undergo experimental medical treatment to help us find a cure.”
Dr. Robbins walked back to the window and tried to make them out. Each room had a blurry figure behind the curtain that appeared to be in a hospital bed, sitting upright. Oddly enough, he had yet to see an Ebola patient up close since the epidemic began. He was intrigued.
“How long have they had the disease?” he asked.
“They just started showing signs and symptoms three days ago. Fever, loss of appetite, redness in their eyes, blood in their stool and vomit. We've never seen the disease work so quickly. They were flown here from Florida by one of our special courier planes.”
“How did you get around the FAA with this? Does the CDC know?”
Crosby gave Dr. Robbins another funny look. “The proper channels are aware, that I can assure you. As far as the CDC, that's exactly why we called you here today.”
“I know, but—” Dr. Robbins began.
Suddenly the airtight door opened, and a man walked into the room, having already taken off his protective gear in the decontamination pod.
Wearing green scrubs, the man immediately walked over to where Dr. Robbins and Crosby were standing. He was a tall man, with brown curly hair, a long face, and a square jaw. He exuded authority with his size, and his eyes were wide and serious.
“Dr. Robbins, this is Dr. Hosk,” Crosby said. The two men shook hands and gave each other hardy nods.
Dr. Hosk gripped Robbins’s hand tightly in his large and tan hand. “Seems like you’re public enemy number one right now,” Roland said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, and I commend you for staying on at the CDC through all of this.”
End Days Super Boxset Page 96