by Bradley West
In silence the two hazmat-suited researchers pulled out the real ingredients of what Nancy had named 896MX. They only needed a card table-sized area in a corner for their sterilized beakers, flasks and measuring tools. They measured twice, mixed once and handled tiny quantities of precious fluids like humanity’s future depended on it.
Tien was happy for the silence because he didn’t feel like speaking. Carjackers had killed his fiancé two nights ago and he’d had no peace since. He’d temporarily lost his mind the following day—just yesterday—and murdered a random gangbanger for his passing resemblance to the man who’d killed Flora. Then he shot at several other people when their group held off an attacking mob at Berkeley Marina. Whether he’d killed anyone else, he cared not at all. At thirty-two, his past as a bookworm, gifted laboratory worker, and lover of pretty Flora seemed a lifetime ago. Only the beep of his watch alarm to remind him to check in with Travis broke his fatalistic train of thought.
Carla was oblivious to her friend and colleague’s anguish. Once she’d finished with the trial run, she would leave Tien to perform the quality audit while she popped across the hall to play scientific diplomat and help the local lab wizards arrange the mix of discontinuous flow centrifuges, plasma filtration devices and plasmapheresis machines essential to the Dark Cure’s extraction.
* * * * *
Greg Ferguson had been a star lawyer despite—or perhaps partly because of—suffering from Asperger’s. However, he now faced a situation that a photographic memory and extreme attention to detail didn’t handle well. Stephanie wept in his awkward arms, obsessed over her newborn son’s injury, frightened of a mercenary who was likely dead and scared that she might not possess the stamina to donate again. On top of everything else, Greg’s hand brushed her bandaged wound and she cried out in pain.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Greg’s hand flinched and his forearm glanced off his wife’s jaw. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry.” Stephanie jerked away from his clumsiness. “Honey, how much blood have you given?”
“Katerina took a pint and I gave twelve ounces earlier today. I feel faint, but that’s not the worst of it. The pediatrician said he couldn’t tell, but we should assume that Tyson’s brain-damaged. Dr. Amrat suggested we try the Las Vegas Children’s Hospital.”
“Las Vegas is almost due south and we’re headed in the opposite direction. If San Francisco is anything to go by, Vegas won’t have any functioning hospitals.”
“Then what do we do to save our son?” she whimpered.
“We’ll do whatever it takes, honey. If you want to go to Vegas, we’ll leave the convoy. Carla can give me the vaccine, and Tyson and you are already immune. I just need a car with gas. After we fix Tyson, we can catch up later.”
“You know we won’t stand a chance even if we’re immune. Besides, Carla will need my blood to make cures. If I leave, that option goes away. If we stay with the convoy, Tyson may not recover. I don’t know what to do.”
“Once Carla makes the vaccine, she can draw blood from the others. Let’s see if Tyson is more alert when he wakes up. Look at your mother—she didn’t respond for almost three days after her head injury and now she’s fine. Babies are tough and maybe he’s not hurt too badly.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Science Friction
Thursday, July 16, 2020: Douglas County, Nevada; Berkeley, California; late afternoon into night
“Relax, Travis, we don’t climb into the octagon until Saturday.” Jaime was smiling, but his tone carried an edge and his eyes were hard.
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is so obvious that even your fanboy Arkar sees it: you’re thinking with your dick.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We decided we need a different security chief. John’s not well so he’s out. You’re too soft on Carla because you have feelings. I get it, bro. We all get it, but pussy clouds the mind. Surely you’ve seen it before.”
“Careful how you refer to Carla. We aren’t together, and if we were together that wouldn’t disqualify me. Why don’t you do something useful like sort out the sentry schedule since Johnny’s down?”
“Derek said he’ll pull a double shift since everyone else is exhausted,” Jaime said. “The issue is that you’ve left our vaccines and scientist unprotected. You were in the Sandbox back in the aughts. I can’t believe even you stuck-up SEALs sent civilians alone into raghead-controlled cities, at least not more than once.”
“Gardnerville-Minden and Fallujah have nothing in—”
“Nothing in common but people who hate our guts and are trying to kill us.” Jaime’s index finger jabbed toward Travis’ chest, but stopped short of touching him.
“What do you suggest?” Travis asked as the color crept up his thick neck.
“You were right when you said we didn’t have enough men to guard two places at once. It’ll be dark in four hours. We use that time to pack up and at nine o’clock, we take over the fire station across the street from the clinic. Set up a perimeter that contains the med center and the station: no one in or out except through us. Keep it peaceful but explain we’ve had a change of plans and are leaving as soon as our vaccines are done. Then we dump Vargo on the edge of town along with the description of how to run the Dark Cure process. If we don’t, you know the locals will wait until Carla finishes, then snatch her and her tech for leverage. She’s our MVP and we need those vaccines.”
Travis surprised himself by what he said next: “I agree with most of what you say, but they outvoted us. It sucks, but in a democracy we have to accept that sometimes you lose. Carla’s approach is dangerous, but rolling up in two RVs, a truck, and an SUV, none of them armored, is risky too. If shit goes sideways, we could lose our transportation and suffer more civilian casualties. Carla and Tien made the first two comms checks, and the third one’s due in twenty-five minutes. We go in hard at the first sign of trouble, but for now her plan is working and we stay back. The locals need her know-how to make that plasma cure and they’re keeping their distance. It’s a tricky balance, but she might pull it off.”
“It’s no longer up to you,” Jaime said. “You can stay here but I’m putting everyone on alert that I’m in charge of convoy security. My plan is to send the SUV back there like we’re hauling more lab equipment, but we drop two men off at the fire station. If anyone’s there, we either restrain them or tell them to move their fire engines. There are four doors on the firehouse and we have four vehicles. Google Street View shows a brick exterior and few doors and windows. We empty the firehouse, insert our vehicles, and make it our stronghold. I don’t know if you’ve looked at Johnny’s collection of weapons, but he somehow got hold of an M249 SAW plus ten boxes of two-hundred-round belts of 5.56. We put Melvin, the SAW, and nogs upstairs in the fire station facing the med center. We then put two men inside with Carla and the other fellow—”
“Tien.”
“Right, Tien, and post our sentries outside their labs. If there’s shooting, the rest of us are across the street and just a minute away. The surprise and show of force should keep those assholes off balance, and if we’re lucky, we’ll drive off before they work up the nerve to attack.”
“It’s a better plan than sitting on our asses,” Travis admitted. “But if you do this, you risk permanently fracturing the 3M before we’ve even got going. Sal was right: either we’ll all make it north together, or none of us will. People who don’t have a say in how they’re governed don’t make for committed convoy members, particularly when the men with the guns change the rules. It’s a balancing act, but I still say we stick with Carla’s plan until we know it’s failed.”
“Let’s save the civics lesson for later. I’m in charge and that’s not what we’re doing.”
Travis looked at Melvin and Arkar, and both men avoided his eyes.
Erinn Strub rushed up in turquoise scrubs. “Travis, Tina needs to see you right away. Johnny and the prisoner are both Covid-positive. We needed a
place to isolate them so we moved Johnny in with Vargo. Tom is the sentry and he’s pulling on a hazmat suit. We need someone to guard the prisoner for a few minutes. Do you have a spare man?”
Travis turned to Jaime. “Pick someone to send over there but keep him twenty feet or more from the door. Let me see what’s going on and then I’ll speak with Carla. If their leader’s down with the virus and Johnny was their captive, then that means their entire group might catch the plague. They may not be in shape to attack us.”
“Well, shit. That torpedoes the new plan,” Jaime said. “All right, we’ll sit tight and retest everyone.”
“Absolutely not,” Travis said. “You ever hear how the Black Death spread to Europe? The Mongols were besieging an Italian colony in the Crimea and they catapulted infected corpses over the walls. We’re going to do the same thing with Hugh Vargo. Tell everyone to get another Covid test, then pack up and prepare to pull out at sundown.”
* * * * *
Tien spoke with Travis at the appointed time. They assumed the State Liners monitored their comms and kept the conversation vague until Travis said, “By the way, on the drive back, the engine warning light came on. We’re looking at it, but it could be overheating. Jaime’s in charge, but he’ll take a break soon for dinner. We should be back over after nine o’clock with the rest of the equipment.”
“Okay, I’ll let Carla know,” Tien said and clicked off. He walked over to his boss, wrote in silence, and passed over the paper: Travis said “overheating” and “taking a break” around 9:00. Something’s wrong. Carla looked at her assistant and nodded.
* * * * *
“What do you make of that last conversation?” Karen asked. “Something’s going to happen around nine o’clock. Do we move up the timetable and hit the DOT compound now?”
“No one wants to put down the man who shot my son more than I do,” Eric said. “But if we try to break Hugh out before dark, we’ll suffer more casualties. Their team may be small, but if they all shoot like that Mexican, we’ll be in serious trouble. We should wait until it’s dark and attack the maintenance site when they drive over to the med center.”
“That sounds right, but I want our people inside the medical complex before nine. Once we move for Hugh, we’ll take them captive in case we need bargaining chips. They’ll finish making their vaccines at gunpoint if need be.”
“We can do that,” Eric said. “We have twelve volunteers overall. I’ll assign eight to the DOT site and four to the med center. With any luck, we’ll have this wrapped up before ten o’clock.”
“Go brief the men. I’ll keep listening.”
* * * * *
Muller’s conversation with the Shamrock Plaza’s desk clerk identified Burns’ likely treatment site as the National Guard triage center in the middle of campus. Rather than tire himself out further, Muller drove Burns’ ambulance back and parked along the street next to Memorial Glade. Someone might recognize the vehicle as stolen, but he had a bag with twenty-two thousand problem-solvers.
Muller walked over to a National Guardsman and displayed his bloodstained side. “Looters broke into my home last night and shot me. Can you have a doctor examine at me?”
The soldier wasn’t a combat veteran as he blanched at the sight of the weeping flesh. Five minutes later, Muller had a free ride on a stretcher and a jump to the head of the line. He rejected attempts by helpful hands to take his gym bag and lighten his burden: the handles stayed clenched in his right hand even as they swabbed his nose.
A nurse looked at the wound and immediately summoned a doctor. The harried surgeon examined the entry and exit holes. “You’re fortunate that it’s not infected, at least not yet. How much blood did you lose?”
“Plenty. I could use a transfusion,” Muller replied.
“We’re short of whole blood, but I’ll start a saline drip and antibiotics. We’ll put you under and I’ll go in and clean it up. From what I see and you say, I don’t think the bullet perforated the intestines. You’ll be up in a couple of hours.”
“No GA. Just give me a couple of painkiller shots and a towel and do what you need to.”
“A towel?” she asked.
“Something I can bite down on.”
“I see this isn’t your first gunshot wound, Mister …?”
“Mortimer, Douglas Mortimer.”
Muller endured the cleaning and disinfecting routine without crying out by focusing on the people he would kill. First up was Norris, that squat biker who’d taken his Benelli shotgun and his woman, and then left him unarmed on foot to die in the urban jungle. Next up would be the Maggio family’s snipers who’d killed two of his team. Unfortunately, Fraser Burns would have to live a bit longer with his Covid-20 immunity and current unique ability to access certain Tor accounts. Once he’d eradicated Norris and Burns, he was confident that Katerina would return to the fold. She was an opportunist and a bitch, but she had her charms, too.
The session concluded, the nurse removed the IV and gave him a ten-day course of antibiotics. “We need every bed for the more badly injured. You’re fortunate to be Covid-free, and your best chance to stay that way is getting far away from here.”
He left a thousand-dollar tip on the bed and asked the orderly for the directions to the lost-and-found tent. The combination of xylocaine, a quart of saline, and a few stitches to stop the leaks had Muller in the best frame of mind since Katerina had blown him in the teachers’ lounge two nights back.
The young man in the L & F tent could tell him nothing about Fraser Burns or his missing belongings: ninety percent of the plastic crates’ contents had “John Doe” or “Jane Doe” labels. No one had the time to sort through wallets and purses to pull out the IDs of the dead and injured. Without a complete hazmat suit, he didn’t recommend that Muller try to do it himself since most of the personal property was formerly owned by Covid fatalities.
The National Guardsman responded to his discreet query by searching a special L & F box and producing a Walther PPX .40 caliber with a full fourteen-round magazine, Muller’s sidearm of choice. Four thousand dollars later and Muller had a bulge in his waistband and his old swagger back. “Where are the impounded vehicles?” Muller asked of his new arms supplier.
“There are so many they’re parked on several lots. I have a friend at the Berkeley Marina who guards dozens. If you have ten thousand in cash, you can pick anything you like and drive it off the lot. Another grand buys a full tank, which is a real bargain when you think about it. Should I tell Gentle Ben you’re coming?”
“You do that. Tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes riding in an ambulance.”
* * * * *
With one eye on the street and the other on the laptop, Burns utilized the expensive Wi-Fi to download and install the Zeman Anti-Logger virtual keyboard to prevent Muller’s malware from capturing his Tor passwords and keystrokes. Next up was a Tor browser and a quick tour of the online bazaars where the former Dark Cure partnership of Burns, Muller & Kiel (trading as “LifeSaver”) had hawked their as-yet nonexistent plasma treatment at the introductory price of $50,000 per shot in Bitcoin. Burns had last checked Pirate Bay and Cyber Souk twenty-four hours ago when there was a single legit customer, plus Sal Maggio masquerading as a buyer as he tried to trace his kidnapped daughter and grandson. After the first sale, Burns had doubled the price and was surprised to see three more confirmed buyers. Two asked him to private message the delivery details before they made payments, while one said he’d already paid and wanted his dose delivered pronto. This last development sent Burns into a minor tizzy as he confirmed eleven shiny Bitcoins worth $9,150 each in his account. In less than a day, “Magic Man” had left three increasingly agitated messages demanding delivery.
This posed a problem on several counts, not least of which was that Katerina had yet to produce any of the Dark Cure to Burns' knowledge. She was also hiding from Muller and him, and he hadn’t identified a reliable delivery agent either. Because of Martial Law,
the military controlled air travel in the U.S. How in the hell did courier companies operate? The only good news was that Magic Man lived in Vegas: if Burns could come up with a dosage, he could drive it eight hours across the desert if need be. He used Tox to post to each buyer and pointed out that irregular electricity and internet access had slowed things down, but not to despair: Help was only a few days away. At 18:30 the electricity died and the laptop went back to being a paperweight rather than a wealth conduit.
The sound of a revved-up motorcycle engine reminded him to look outside. Four Harleys swung out of a side street one hundred yards away and passed by a big building fronting a secondary road. It seemed like Muller’s hunch was correct.
Burns’ face throbbed so much that his vision had blurred as the afternoon shadows lengthened into evening. He’d saved the straw from the ambulance and sipped water, replenishing his cup from the bathtub he’d filled when the electricity worked. He sure hoped Muller had found a battery-operated blender; otherwise, he would continue to go hungry. He lay down to rest: it would be a long night.
* * * * *
“Carla! Dr. Amrat shouted, knocking on the locked door. “I have to speak with you. There’s been another outbreak and my team’s down with Covid-20. Can you help us?”
Muffled voices argued on the other side of the door, then Carla’s voice came through: “I can’t open the door when we’re mixing the vaccines for fear of contamination. I’ll come over as soon as I can.”