by Bradley West
With practiced indifference, Norris glanced at him and put his arm on Katerina’s shoulder. Two bikers who’d been smoking through holes poked in their N95s double-timed it back into the school. Two more followed on their heels at Norris’ barked command.
Muller stood and fumed. How in the hell had it come to this? Yesterday, he’d had the affections of that twisted, sexy bioengineer, Stephanie and her newborn to tap for Covid-proof blood, and the pleasure of watching his former client, business partner, and romantic rival Fraser Burns writhe in agony. Now the kidnap team was down to just him, Katerina had switched allegiances, and Burns must be alive. Worst of all, every minute spent creating the Dark Cure put another mile between him and the fleeing Maggio family and their two immune profit centers. His side hurt like shit and he needed a cigarette. Damnit.
CHAPTER THREE
Sacrificial Lamb
Thursday, July 16, 2020: Foothill Road, California-Nevada state line, and Berkeley, California morning
Carla looked aghast at Steph and Tyson, then waved off Hugh and his crew. “Ignore her. We freed her and her baby from kidnappers last night and that bandage covers a bullet wound.”
The patrol turned to study a skinny woman. Soft-spoken most of the time, Stephanie was even harder to hear this morning: “Carla told you about the vaccine. But you’re right: If you can’t find the ingredients, the vaccine’s no good. There’s a second Covid treatment that can prevent and treat the virus, and it’s made from the plasma of a Covid-20 survivor.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Carla asserted.
Stephanie took a shaky step toward Hugh and his men. “Carla’s just concerned about me. I’m weak because my captors took a pint of my blood and then I was grazed at the base of my neck. Still, I’ll donate a half-pint for you. Carla can separate the antibodies and produce the serum. If you use the Dark Cure, some Covid patients will recover like I did. Those who do should be immune, and you can take a pint from each of them and pay it forward.” Faint from the effort, Stephanie slumped as Carla supported her with arms around her waist, careful to avoid the sleeping infant and her cousin’s wound. One of the State Line crew hustled forward with a folding chair and a depleted Stephanie sank into it.
Stephanie summoned her strength and spoke in a near-whisper: “Too many people have died already. With my blood and Carla’s skill, you can make the Dark Cure.”
Dr. Tina Francisco exited the RV and helped Carla assist Stephanie and her baby back inside the vehicle. Hugh and his crew stood by, deep in thought.
“Is what she’s saying true?” one of the men asked.
Carla was too tired to be evasive. “Yes, she’s right. There’s an alternative to the vaccine, but it’s not fully proven, and you have to start with the blood of a Covid-20 survivor. Do you have anyone around here who beat the virus?”
“We have no Covid-20 survivors,” said a man standing in the back.
“She can spare only a half-pint, which will supply a dozen doses,” Carla said. “Once your patients recover, you’ll maximize your antibody yield if you wait a few days before you draw blood. To extract the antibodies, you only need the plasma. You can strip out the blood cells and reinject them back into the donor. As long you don’t waste the Dark Cure on people who aren’t sick, you’ll be able to scale up inoculations.”
Hugh found his voice: “In the meantime, I suppose you drive away and use all your fancy vaccines on yourselves and leave us to take our chances with the ‘Dark Cure.’ ”
“No, I need two clean spaces, one to set up lab equipment for the vaccine and then a separate room for the plasma centrifuges and membrane separators we need for the Dark Cure. They need to be far enough apart to minimize cross-contamination risks. I have a lab tech and, if you have two qualified people, we can show you the ropes. You’ll need to source lab equipment, but that shouldn’t be too hard. We’ll need till tomorrow morning to set up and debug the processes. My group departs tomorrow night, so no one is driving away and leaving you in the lurch. How does that sound?”
“Better. What equipment do we need?”
“I have a list, but we need you to release your prisoner before I get down to specifics. We’ll exchange your man for ours. We also have to hide our RVs in case my lab asks the Air Force to put up drones. Do we have a deal?”
“We have two wounded from earlier this morning,” Hugh said. “If your doctor is a surgeon, we need her help.”
“Dan died fifteen minutes ago. Kelvin is stable, but he needs surgery,” said the man in the back of the group. He looked at Carla. “I’m a pediatrician, but I’m not surgically qualified.”
“Barring an emergency on our side, Dr. Francisco will help with Kelvin,” Carla said. “If that’s acceptable, hand me your radio and I’ll tell SEAL Team TWO to take their laser dots off your foreheads.”
Hugh winced at that statement and sheepishly spoke into the handset: “Convoy commander, this is Commander State Line. We have agreed to a truce. Let’s meet halfway in fifteen minutes to exchange prisoners.” Hugh handed the walkie-talkie to Carla.
“Travis, we’re here until tomorrow night as these folks’ guests. We’ll work together on Covid treatments. Please don’t shoot anyone. You can pull the vehicles up here and they’ll show us where to hide them.”
“Since we’re all friends,” Travis said. “They won’t mind if you drive the ’Bago back down here so we can work out the details. Tell Commander State Line that I’ll come up in a brown SUV.”
“Will do. Love you.” Carla’s last utterance slipped out: She’d never said those words before. She wrote it off to a lack of sleep and a tense and emotional start to the day. She was fond of Travis—how fond, she wasn’t quite sure, but almost certainly they weren’t at the “I love you” stage.
She returned the handset to Hugh. “You heard all that. I have to drive back down there to calm down my overexcited boyfriend, all right?”
“Well, I don’t know. Seems like that puts us back at square one.”
“I’ll stay here with Tyson,” Stephanie said in a soft, firm voice from the open door of the Winnebago. “You have nothing to worry about.”
* * * * *
In a tent camp on the Berkeley campus, Fraser Burns worried about several things, the first being why he had awakened lying on a field cot inside an unzipped body bag. His post-operative swollen face produced almost intolerable pain. It was morning and the sunlight illuminated the inside of the orange mortuary tent, providing a warm back-lit effect. He sat up and smelled rotting meat from the ripe corpses around him. He tried to stand, but his left knee was grotesquely swollen and wouldn’t bend. Slowly his mind cleared, and he pieced together that last hour before a sniper’s bullet struck: Muller’s blowing out his knee with a vicious kick, self-administering the Maggios’ last Covid-20 vaccine, and the heroic role he’d played in driving Steph and Tyson almost onto the car ferry while under intense fire. Then excruciating pain, being left for dead, the National Guard lifting him out of the car . . . surgery, everyone freaking out at his positive Covid test, and then he’d lost consciousness again. Here he lay, apparently considered beyond saving.
What those fools didn’t realize was that his fever had already broken: He would soon be Covid-immune. He tested his voice, but his distorted face and mangled jaw limited his efforts to bleats. He was truly screwed: once he proved to the medics that he had recovered from the virus, the blood harvesters would be on him and he’d end up like Stephanie Ferguson, caged and milked for plasma.
His head slumped and his eyes filled with tears of self-pity. Katerina would never know his loving embrace. Muller wouldn’t discover the mortal price he’d paid for not killing him when he’d had the chance. The Maggio family wouldn’t feel his vengeance . . . No, he wouldn’t make it easy on them, any of them. He would survive. He would hunt them down and he would take his revenge even on Stephanie and Tyson. Not because they deserved it, but to make Sal Maggio suffer even more.
&n
bsp; Burns sat up again and tilted his head to allow the pooled blood to dribble out of the corner of his mouth. He interlinked his fingers behind his left knee and swung the leg over the edge of the cot. Then he boosted himself to a standing position and the tent swayed as pain waves pulsed through him. The exit was only twenty-five feet away. Surely, he could hobble over there and escape before anyone saw him. What he needed was a good pair of crutches and some water.
* * * * *
Carla had no sooner pulled the hospital RV behind the semi when she was assailed on two sides. Up the steps bounded Travis, adrenaline suppressing his infirmities. From the rear, Carla heard Tina’s remonstrations for Sal to stay in bed.
“Tina said you agreed to stay here until tomorrow night,” Sal called out in a hoarse voice.
“Where are Steph and Tyson?” Travis asked before Carla could reply.
“I convinced Hugh not to shoot Jaime by offering to help with the vaccine,” Carla said as they entered the RV’s master bedroom. “Steph jumped in and mentioned the Dark Cure, which obligates her to donate blood she can’t spare. She’s a grownup and made that decision herself, so I followed her lead and said that I’d teach them how to make both treatments. Tien can batch the vaccines we need while I work on the plasma.”
“Where are Stephanie and Tyson?” Travis repeated.
“She’s sitting up the road with the border guards so you don’t start World War III.”
“I put Travis in charge to avoid these situations,” Sal said. “These people may be just like us, and we’ll be able to collect Steph and Tyson without incident. But what if they’re not? Maybe they’ve already got a needle in her and are transfusing more than the half-pint. Maybe they’re holding them to trade against one of our RVs? Or both of them? Or all of our supplies?”
“While you were resting,” Travis said, “this so-called State Line Militia set an ambush and fired on us when we detected them. We shot them up and killed at least two, but they captured Johnny and beat him unconscious. That’s the reality of what we’re dealing with: They cooperated because we had the upper hand, and you just handed them the same two hostages that my friends died to free yesterday.”
“I’m just a research scientist,” Carla said, “but I know we don’t have the firepower to shoot our way all the way to Canada.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Travis said. “I have to set up the prisoner exchange. Tina, they knocked Johnny out and we don’t know how badly hurt he is. I’ll collect him, plus Stephanie and Tyson. And I’ll leave instructions for Jaime and Melvin to come get me if I’m not back in a half-hour.” Travis turned and headed out the door.
“Travis, wait! There’s something else. Jaime killed three of their men and a fourth needs surgery for a gunshot wound. They need Tina to operate. Remind Hugh if he gives you any trouble.”
“Got it.” The door slammed.
Carla looked at her favorite uncle for support. Sal sank into a fold-down seat. He was pale and seemed smaller. “Let’s assume Travis comes back, and Steph and Tyson are unharmed. We have to get this convoy out of sight and then decide who’s in charge.”
“Uncle Sal, you’re the boss, but until you’re better, the rest of us will pitch in.”
“That’s what I thought too, but that’s no longer the case. Help me back to the bed. I need to lie down.”
Carla called to Tina and the two of them helped Sal to the bed, where his wife continued to fade in and out of consciousness. Even when Pat was awake, she made little sense. Several days ago, she’d tried to stop Stephanie’s abduction. Muller would have shot her if Melvin hadn’t stepped up and pistol-whipped her instead. Unfortunately, that precautionary blow backfired when Pat’s head hit the driveway, fracturing her skull. Physically, she was on an improving trend and could sit up and eat, but she didn’t speak in more than mumbled monosyllables.
Carla sat down in the seat that Sal had vacated. She was tired as hell. Her left hip hurt like a son of a bitch where a round had flattened out against her hip joint, giving her a green-purple bruise and a walnut-sized welt. Shattered safety glass from shot-out windows had left her back and upper torso peppered with cuts. She hadn’t slept and the two men she admired most, her uncle and her . . . whatever Travis was . . . were accusing her of needlessly risking lives.
She nodded off for a few minutes and awoke with renewed conviction that she’d taken the right approach. They had to rethink the long road to Canada’s far north. The Manned Mission to Mars wasn’t a military force able to fight running battles over long distances. They needed cooperation to survive. The ordinary citizens out here needed help too, and there had to be a way to coexist. She wasn’t naïve: Not everyone they met would accept an offer of medical training in return for safe passage. But if they played it smart and used the contacts supplied by the good people they met along the way, they could make it with minimal violence.
Uncle Sal’s idea that they lay up by day and travel by night had failed the first time they tried it. A lot rode on the next few hours. She hoped for all of their sakes that the good side of human nature would win out.
* * * * *
Travis had Arkar lie flat in the back of the Telluride while they seated the hooded and gagged hostage in front. If the other side played it straight, Arkar wouldn’t even have to reveal himself, but if Hugh’s men wanted to screw around, then the Burmese sharpshooter would pop the tailgate and give them a taste of green tip 5.56 bullets.
Hugh Vargo had received an earful from his men in the short time since that copper-haired vixen drove off. The majority view was that they should have insisted that the doctor stay behind to operate on Kelvin and keep the RV. Give Carla a car if you were hellbent on letting her go, but at the very least they would have ended up with three more poker chips and the new Winnebago. The minority view was the most vocal: there were scores to settle and that they shouldn’t have let anyone go anywhere.
“They still have Red,” Hugh had said, ending the debate. “I want him back before we do anything drastic. I have a couple of thoughts on that count.” That was a few minutes ago. Now he was in his Silverado with the unconscious John Gratton lying on the back seat. He stopped his pickup twenty feet shy of the brown SUV, an easy pistol shot away.
Travis pulled the pillowcase off Red’s head and the young man blinked in the bright sunlight. The windows were down, so there was no need for walkie-talkies. “Here’s your man. Where’s Johnny?”
“Laid out in the back seat. My man hit him pretty good. He’s breathing steady, but he may be out for a while longer. If you let the boy go, we’ll carry your man over.”
The tinted windows on the pickup prevented Travis from seeing inside, and he wasn’t about to take this bastard’s word. “I’m leaving Red where he is. I’ll come to you and we can carry Johnny over here, then I’ll cut this one free.” Travis didn’t wait for a reply and got out. His Glock 17 nine-millimeter pistol was in a quick-draw holster nestled against the small of his back outside his tucked-in shirt.
“Suit yourself.” As Hugh got out of his pickup, Travis noted the shoulder rig and big revolver under the left armpit: Travis would likely lose in a quick-draw competition. However, the Dirty Harry gun—the Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 magnum revolver—was almost impossible to fire multiple shots accurately because of the recoil. On balance, Travis gave himself better than even odds.
Hugh opened the Silverado’s rear door and leaned inside. “Come over here and help me with your friend,” he urged.
Travis had seen enough. He moved as fast as bad knees, a bum ankle, and shrapnel-riddled body would take him, breaking over to the other side of the Silverado and yanking open the door as he cleared his Glock. Crouched on the floor was a teenage girl with both hands on a small-caliber automatic pointed the other way. Johnny Gratton was in a semi-fetal position and unmoving. Travis put his muzzle against the base of her skull. “Hugh, use your left hand and two fingers to remove that hog and drop it on floor. Honey, you put your pistol o
n the floor mat next to the big gun. That’s it.” Turning his attention back to the disarmed man, he said, “Take out your walkie-talkie and toss it over here next to me.”
The former SEAL pulled out his own handset and called Arkar. “Put the hood back on the prisoner and drive forward to shield the Telluride’s front seat with the pickup’s cab. Bring tie-ties and duct tape: we’ve got another two prisoners to process.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Fresh Starts
Thursday, July 16, 2020: Berkeley, California; Fredericksburg Road, California-Nevada state line; and Oakland, California, morning
Burns stuck his head out of the mortuary tent pitched on Cal Berkeley’s Memorial Glade. Empty body bags sat in tall piles on either side of the entrance, obscuring his frame up to neck height. The dead zone stood apart from the cluster of medical tents. National Guardsmen in green mingled with turquoise-garbed EMTs and nurses as they bustled in the middle distance. Despite the debilitating pain in his face, the fever’s end meant Burns’ mind had cleared. Water, followed by footwear, topped his needs list.
He patted where his pockets should be. There weren’t any, and that meant his wallet and the vital USB were missing too. As Burns’s hands searched his attire, he realized he was wearing only a disposable hospital gown with his bare ass hanging out the rear. Dried blood covered the front of the flimsy teal green plastic. He wouldn’t travel far unnoticed, that was for certain, and a fate worse than death loomed if the authorities found him stumbling around the tent city. He had to get far, far away. He spotted a discarded face mask and with effort put it on. It didn’t matter if it stank: He was Covid-20 immune.
The bureaucratic, honest National Guard would have created a central depository of patients’ personal property. Where that might be located, how items were stored, and how to retrieve them were important questions, but each was subservient to the overriding necessity of staying free. He worked through his options: Anyone would understand his wish to reacquire his Cartier watch and hand-tooled leather wallet, which bulged with platinum cards and high denomination bills. Those would be decoys for his real aim—reacquiring the encrypted thumb drive containing dark web advertisements, Bitcoin vault details and Dark Cure customers’ contact details.