The door to the den suddenly opened, diverting Dr. Sanderson’s attention from the TV. Entering the room was Benton Worthington III. He was in his late forties and just a tad over six foot, with a full head of dark brown hair, wearing khaki pants and a thin dark blue cable knit sweater over a stripped blue pinpoint oxford shirt. After closing the door behind him, he strode purposefully toward the Doctor who rose from the couch to meet him halfway.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Doctor,” Benton said while offering his hand.
“With all due respect, Mr. Worthington,” Dr. Sanderson said as he extended his hand, “that’s something you say to someone whose been waiting an hour for you, not almost a week.”
Unfazed, the billionaire replied, “Again, allow me to apologize, but unfortunately my delay was unavoidable. I had important business to tend to overseas and every time I thought I was going to be able to leave, I was forced to stay. I kept my staff informed and instructed them to relay the message.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “your staff was very diligent in informing me every day that you would be here soon.”
“I hope you were treated well, and your stay a comfortable one,” Benton said.
“Very comfortable, and I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but I was hoping that I had impressed upon your staff the urgency for us to meet.”
Benton began to make his way over to the semi-circular bar in the corner of the room. He slid behind the counter, reached down, and retrieved a bottle of very expensive cognac. He slid a glass off the rack behind him and turned back around.
“Would that urgency have anything to do with the events unfolding back East?” Benton asked.
“Yes,” the Doctor responded. “I’m afraid it does.”
Benton lifted the soon to be filled cognac glass in the air and motioned in the Doctor’s direction.
“No thanks,” the Doctor replied thinking it was too early for a drink.
“Suit yourself,” Benton said.
He poured the amber colored liquid into the glass and replaced the cap. Leaving the bottle on top of the bar in the event the snifter needed refilling, he came around the bar and joined Dr. Sanderson by the couch. Putting the glass to his nose he took a deep breath. He raised the glass to his lips, swallowed hard, and let out a small sigh. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to Dr. Sanderson.
“I left Paris, as a matter of fact, just in time,” Benton said. “My understanding is that most European airports have discontinued any and all outbound flights to the United States. They are also turning away any inbound flights as well. Unfortunately, it might be too late. Reports similar to those coming out of the Eastern United States had begun in a few European cities as I was leaving. Having your own jet does have its advantages.”
Benton motioned to the couch and they both sat down.
“Why don’t you fill me in Doctor as to how your research in Florida is connected to the terrible state of affairs that is undoubtedly heading this way.”
Dr. Sanderson filled Benton in on the events at the lab and the escape of the test subjects; then the escalation of the infected and how cities began to be overrun. Those that were infected seemed to be passing the virus to the people they attack. The descriptions of those people wreaking havoc in the cities matched that of the test subjects the Doctor had observed on the data disks; the blank stare, the unsteady gait, the unprovoked attacks. Finally, he mentioned that systems outages across the country have made it very difficult to get any reliable information.
“So,” Benton said, “you’re saying that the test subjects from your lab escaped, after apparently dying, and have been the cause of this epidemic.”
Dr. Sanderson said nothing. He was not sure if Benton believed him or not. Was he was being made fun of or if Benton was just summarizing the facts as he understood them?
Benton leaned back on the couch and took the last swig of cognac. His mind was racing, that much was obvious. But what was going through his mind, Dr. Sanderson could only guess at.
After nearly a minute of silence, Benton leaned forward and said, “What is it that you need from me to help resolve this crisis that you have created?”
“That we’ve created,” Dr. Sanderson countered.
Benton said nothing and turned his attention to the television for the first time. He finally noticed the images from the med lab on the screen.
“What have we on the TV?”
“This is where I believe we need to begin,” the Doctor replied.
He picked up the remote and played the attack scene in the lab. Benton watched, his face revealing nothing. After the scene finished, the Doctor turned to Benton.
“I believe that the key to solving this problem and perhaps reversing the condition or providing an antidote lies within the body of test subject Number 5.”
“If you say so Doctor, I of course yield to your expertise, but finding one infected person in a sea of infected people will prove daunting at best,” Benton concluded. “And fatal at worst,” he added.
“You would, of course, be right except for one thing.”
“What would that be?” asked Benton.
“All the test subjects had small transponder microchips embedded in them when they first arrived.”
------------------
Before he was test subject Number 5, his name was Richard Kimbro; a twenty-nine year old with a wife and young son from Lynnwood, Washington. He was an account executive for an advertising company in Seattle. Being very good at his job, even at his fairly young age, he was allowed to make presentations to prospective clients. It was after one of these presentations that his life changed forever.
The clients he had just presented to loved his ideas and were all but ready to sign on the dotted line. It was going to be the most lucrative contract of his short career. He was naturally very excited. After leaving the meeting, he got into his Ford Fusion and headed back to the office to report the great news. Unfortunately, he could not wait and started messaging his boss. Being in such an excited state, he neglected to fasten his seatbelt.
Richard did not notice the traffic light had turned red and flew into the intersection at around forty-five miles an hour. Sideswiped and thrown from the car, he was thought to be dead. The paramedics, however, were able to revive him but his normal brain functions had ceased. His family was, of course, devastated. There did not seem to be any hope and they were considering pulling the plug. Then the Brain Research Centre of nearby Vancouver contacted them about an experimental procedure in need of test subjects in Florida. With nothing to lose, the family signed the waiver form and he was transported to Florida and put under Dr. Sanderson’s care.
The treatment started and at first nothing happened. Then everything happened. He awoke, regained full brain function, and seemed to be on his way to a full recovery. Even then, Richard felt as though this was happening to someone else. He could not quite explain it but it was as if someone, or something, was inside his body with him. It sounded crazy he knew, but the Doctor told him it was natural and not to worry. He became more withdrawn and was soon barely talking. That, however, was the outward appearance; inside he was screaming for help.
Whatever was inside with him was taking over and there was nothing he could do about it. Then suddenly, while lying on a hospital bed attached to monitoring devices, he ceased to be Richard Kimbro. He awoke and was filled with an unusual need; the need to feed on flesh; specifically, human flesh.
He could not deny the need, but he also seemed to be able to control it somewhat. More accurately, whatever was inside with him controlled it. He did not need to feed all the time. When he did not, he simply bit his victims and added to the army he was creating. This same temperament seemed to be passed onto those he infected. They would feed when needed and infect when the hunger was satisfied. The others that became infected and those they infected, however, lacked Number Five’s basic ability to reason. They acted on pure primal desires; feed or infect and move on.
Test subject Number 5 seemed more cognitive. He also seemed to be able to manipulate, in some small way, others that were infected. There was, of course, no verbal communication above the occasional grunt, but somehow he was connected with them.
As he moved on, feeding and infecting, he survived on what could be best described as instinct. Driven by that force that had taken up residence inside him; its purpose unknown. All Number 5 knew was that he could hear your heart beat and if he found you, he would have no choice; he could not be bargained with, reasoned with, or stopped. He was a Zombie.
Chapter 13
The Search
Benton Worthington III got up from the couch and slowly walked around behind it. Using his free hand he ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. Looking at the other hand, he considered the empty brandy snifter and began walking toward the bar. When he arrived he grabbed the bottle of Cognac, unscrewed the cap, and poured himself another glass. Turning back around, he looked in the direction of Dr. Sanderson.
“If the test subjects have transponders implanted in them, why was this technology not employed to locate them when they went missing?” Benton finally asked.
“Well,” Dr. Sanderson began looking a little embarrassed, “we were unable to locate the receiver.”
“I see,” said Benton.
“The microchips we imbedded were made up of three components,” the Doctor continued. “There was a microprocessor that relayed valuable medical data to the computers. Second was a GPS transponder. We placed these inside the patients because several of them suffered from Alzheimer’s and dementia. They would be prone to wonder off. In the unlikely event that we actually misplaced one, we would be able to quickly find them. And lastly, the chips are powered by a small lithium battery which will likely run out of juice in about,” the Doctor thought for a moment and concluded, “a little over a month.”
Benton had made his way back over to the couch, still standing; he took a sip of his drink.
“So, if I follow Doctor, what you require of me would be a new receiver and a method of transportation so that you may go and find your missing test subject?” Benton asked.
“For starters, yes,” Dr. Sanderson replied. “Assuming I am able to locate Number 5 and somehow capture him, I will also need a laboratory to work in.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Benton said. “My facilities are at your disposal.”
“Thank you Mr. Worthington.”
“I assume we are talking the sooner the better,” Benton said. Dr. Sanderson nodded. “Might I also suggest some company on your trip?”
“Company?”
“It would not be very wise heading back East, traipsing about with scores of infected looking to take a bite out of you,” Benton suggested.
“I suppose not, I hadn’t considered that,” Dr. Sanderson admitted.
“I can provide you with a private plane complete with pilot,” Benton said with a wry smile, “a new receiver and a security detail to keep you safe. We can’t have anything happening to you Doctor, you may be mankind’s only hope.”
Dr. Sanderson nodded. He was trying to get a read on Benton Worthington III. He had been ever since he had first met him. He’s never done anything to overtly arouse suspicions but the Doctor could not help feeling that the billionaire’s motives are not always one hundred percent altruistic. Then again, it just may have been his overactive imagination.
“It’s settled then,” Benton said. “All I need is the GPS transponder code for the test subject you are looking for so that I can program it into the receiver.”
The Doctor remained quiet.
Benton, finishing his drink, turned to the Doctor and said, “You do have the code?”
“Yes, I have the code. It’s on my computer,” Dr. Sanderson replied. “But, unfortunately, the codes for all ten test subjects are the same.
“Why would that be Doctor?”
“The GPS was designed just to be a beacon of sorts. The microchip that relayed the medical data was encoded to identify which patient it came from. Since the test subjects are no longer exhibiting any brain activity, the microchip has no need to send any information. The receiver will be able to acquire the GPS signal from each subject; we just won’t know which one until we make visual contact.”
“It will make your job all that much harder,” Benton said.
“Yes, I’m afraid it will.”
“Well then,” Benton said putting the glass down on the bar and springing into action, “there truly is no time to waste. Collect anything you may need to assist you on your quest Doctor and wait here for me while I assemble everything we discussed. Oh, and please find that code for me.”
With that, Benton Worthington III exited the room.
About an hour later the door to the den opened and Benton returned as promised. He was, however, not alone. He entered the room with a mountain of a man. He may have been the largest human being Dr. Sanderson had ever seen. Six and a half feet tall and most likely made of granite, the stranger wore black trousers with casual dress shoes. A navy blue sport coat covered a snug fitting microfiber tee shirt. Underneath the jacket was a conspicuous bulge that was likely a not so concealed hand gun. He had a chiseled face topped with a head of cropped blond hair. The only thing the Doctor could not see was the throwing knife hidden under his right trouser pant leg.
The Doctor was standing at the far end of the conference table after having just finished organizing his notes and retrieving the GPS codes from his computer. Benton moved toward the conference table to meet Dr. Sanderson with the massive stranger in tow.
“Doctor,” Benton said, “I’d like you to meet my chief of security, Gunner Johansson.”
The Doctor extended his hand to meet Gunner’s and it was swallowed up whole. Even though he had a feeling that Gunner was easy on him, it took a lot of self-control not to rub his hand and cry out in pain after the handshake.
“Doctor,” Gunner said in a thick Swedish accent.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Johansson,” Dr. Sanderson said.
“Please call him Gunner. He will be accompanying you on your journey,” Benton informed him, “as well as his team.”
Dr. Sanderson seriously wondered if this man would be able to fit on a plane. He did not know if he felt safer with Gunner around or terrified. Either way, it was not like he had much of a choice.
“Hopefully we will find Number 5 quickly and return as soon as possible,” the Doctor said.
“Speaking of Number 5 Doctor, have you the code?” Benton asked.
Dr. Sanderson handed a piece of paper where he scribbled the GPS transponder code to Benton. He took it, turned and handed the paper to Gunner and said something to him in a language the Doctor did not understand. Gunner nodded and headed towards the door.
“Gunner will meet us at the plane,” Benton said as he escorted Dr. Sanderson out of the den.
“Do you have everything you need?” Benton asked.
“Most of my notes will only be useful if and when we have Number 5 back here in the lab. The most important things right now are the GPS receiver and making sure we have a way to transport Number 5.”
“All of that is being taken care of Doctor,” Benton replied. “If you need to get in touch with me for any reason, Gunner will assist you. He has my express orders to aid you in any way you need. You will be in charge Doctor, but I would suggest you let Gunner take the lead when it comes to matters of safety.”
“Of course,” replied Dr. Sanderson adding, “could I ask a favor?”
“What can I do for you?” Benton replied.
“I was hoping you might be able to locate my wife and daughter. I have been unable to reach them and am quite concerned. My son lives overseas and I haven’t been able to get in touch with him either. I have their address in Vancouver …”
“That won’t be necessary Doctor,” Benton interrupted, “I have that information already. I will do what I can to locate them.”
“I would appr
eciate it very much Mr. Worthington.”
“Consider it done.”
They left the den and headed down a long hallway then went down a flight of stairs. Turning left, they headed out a side door into an expansive garden accessed by a maze of cement walkways. They walked along these paths passing some of the most ornate shrubbery the Doctor had ever seen. Suddenly, they turned sharply to the right and went through some sort of tunnel and emerged on the other side where the garage was. Benton motioned Dr. Sanderson to get into the passenger’s side of a Bentley Mulsanne. He did as instructed as Benton got in on the driver’s side. Benton pulled a set of keys from his pocket and started the car. He pulled out of the driveway and headed down a steep hill that connected to a mountain highway.
Benton noticed the Doctor admiring the automobile. “Goes from zero to sixty in 5.1 seconds,” he said.
“Impressive,” the Doctor said.
They drove in silence for a few minutes as the Bentley moved effortlessly through the mountainous terrain. If the thing had wings, thought the Doctor, the car would fly.
Breaking the silence, Benton asked, “How many infected soles do you think are out there?”
“Well,” replied the Doctor, “that’s really hard to say. If you look at it from a strictly mathematical standpoint by taking the original ten test subjects and assume they could infect one person every three hours, you would have twenty infected people after three hours, forty after six hours and so on. After only seventy-two hours the infected total would be,” the Doctor thought for a moment and turned to face Benton.
“What is it Doctor?”
“The infected total would be over 160 million people.”
For the first time since coming to know Benton, the Doctor was able to discern an actual human emotional response from the man. Quickly recovering, Benton said, “We’d better get you to that plane then,” and punched down hard on the accelerator.
The Zombie Principle Page 12