by Bradley West
“Well, technically I’m in charge of our expedition, and we could use a microbiologist. So yes.
“Tien, hand me your walkie-talkie. Thanks. Let’s call Jeanie and see where she wants to go.” Carla pushed the press-to-talk button. “Jaime, put Jeanie on. Jeanie, it’s Carla. Kyle has joined our group. If you want to, you can as well. It’s a long drive to northern British Columbia. If not, we’ll leave you at the edge of town.”
Jeanie paused. “Do you realize the people you want to help have tried to kill all of you, and more than once? Gardnerville’s and Minden’s elected leaders all died and last week these loons took over the unified city governments. I only agreed to help because Dr. Amrat said I was his last hope. Just an hour ago, I heard Karen Vargo tell her men to ignore the ceasefire and kill all of you. That’s why I stole her pickup and drove to warn you. That woman’s crazy and she’s planning something, mark my words. And I’m a traitor to her now. My house is less than two miles away. Could we drop by and ask my parents if they want to come while I pick up some clothes?”
“That’s a bad idea for two reasons,” Carla said. “Protect your parents by staying away from them. And we only have room for two more. I’m sorry.”
Jaime joined the conversation: “While you’ve been talking, I realized the Silverado has a built-in GPS tracker. No one’s following us because they’ll be trying to get onto OnStar. If they succeed, your friend Karen will track us wherever we go. I’ll pull off and disable the satnav. We have two hundred miles to travel on one road, and we’ll need a big head start to outrun pursuit.”
“Tien, do you still have the fake vaccine?” Carla asked.
“Yes, taped to my back,” he replied.
“Let’s find a house with lights on—a gen set means ice. We’ll leave the fake cure there and then pack ice around the real beaker. We need to shed these hazmat suits too. While we work, Jaime will uninstall the OnStar.”
“Wait, we’re not leaving them any Dark Cure?” Travis asked.
“Did you listen to what Jeanie just said? We held out an olive branch and all they could think of was getting even.” Carla keyed her walkie-talkie. “Jeanie, do you still have the recording of the process steps?”
“I do,” Jeanie said. “The chip’s in the GoPro.”
“Normally, I’d leave them the recording, instructions and Dark Cure, but Gardnerville failed the humanity test. Leave them to deal with the pandemic on their own.”
Melvin finally spoke up: “The Gospel of Matthew says to turn the other cheek, but Ezekiel speaks for me: They will know that I am the Lord when I lay My vengeance on them.” No one spoke and the two vehicles drove in silence for a minute.
Ahead, a house off the road had a porch light aglow in contrast to the surrounding darkness. “Pull in here?” Travis asked.
“Yes. I want you to get ice without bloodshed,” Carla said. We’ll leave Tien’s phony vaccine and make a big deal of it.”
“Yes, boss,” Travis replied.
* * * * *
When Derek returned from his post a mile up the road to report no activity, Sal relaxed. Two hours ago, the 3M convoy had arrived at Depot #1, the Oasis, outside Winnemucca. Every able-bodied person worked at a frantic rate to reprovision and refill tanks, eat and drink, and otherwise prepare for the next ordeal. There were awning poles to erect and camouflage tenting to stretch overhead in the gloom created by the scant light of their headlamps. Running the generator wasn’t an option, even miles from anywhere. If anyone heard it, the worst kind of attention would be sure to follow.
Dr. Tina Francisco fretted. The PCR test results weren’t encouraging. Johnny’s caregiver and love interest Erinn had also tested positive, as did Pat Maggio. Sal was the only Horizon passenger still negative, other than his immune daughter and grandson. Both Erinn and Pat were asymptomatic, raising the possibility of false positives so she retested each as a matter of course. But Tina knew that Johnny’s virulent infection had opened the floodgates and it was now a matter of when, and not if. Their lives depended on Carla and Tien’s mission.
After the announcement that Erinn, Pat and Johnny were positive, Stephanie had volunteered more of her blood. Tina deflected her insistent demands by saying that they’d make a decision once Carla returned and they knew the vaccine’s fate. The real reason was that Steph looked to be one gust of wind shy of blowing away like a desiccated tumbleweed. The woman grew skinnier by the day, and a baby who fed rarely and lacked alertness only made matters worse. Steph went back to the Horizon to try to sleep alongside her somnolent newborn.
Taking an optimistic tack, Tina had set up a card table with a container of cotton balls, isopropyl alcohol, and twenty disposable syringes awaiting the scientists’ triumphal return. On the pragmatic front, she’d also laid out tourniquets, sponges, forceps, clamps, morphine, bandages, and bags of saline.
The convoy members not on sentry duty or sequestered in the Horizon hospital sat on socially distanced folding chairs and stools. As they waited, conversations petered out as thoughts turned inward. Most wore jackets to ward off the chilly desert night air. Maung’s two orphans had insisted on waiting up for “Uncle” Arkar, but Kyaw and Schway were curled up asleep around “Auntie” Zarni’s chair in short order. No sleep would come to Zarni until her husband returned, and her son was back from patrolling the convoy’s perimeter.
In the desert, sound travels far at night. Those still awake picked up the engine noise even before they spotted two pairs of headlights bouncing in the distance. Sal was on the walkie-talkie in an instant, but he received no reply. Maybe their batteries were dead. He considered the ramifications of two vehicles instead of the solo SUV. The convoy was out of shooters other than Yonten somewhere out back, a sleeping Derek, and Tom standing sentry duty. “Tina, can you wake Derek, please?” Sal asked. She was updating patient records and noted that more than half of the 3M suffered from gunshot wounds, serious injuries or Covid-20.
While Tina went to rouse Derek, Sal used ordinary binos to survey the incoming pair. He couldn’t see much in the dark and the dust, but the lack of gunfire from Tom suggested that they were 3M’ers. Derek awoke from deep sleep, and as his head cleared, he immediately asked after Erinn. His daughter still felt well enough to tend to Johnny and Pat: no signs of illness so far. He trotted over to Sal, who handed over his binoculars to fresher eyes. Derek squinted at the inbound vehicles and said, “That’s our Telluride in front of a black pickup. If they’re under enemy control, we have limited options.”
“We have zero options,” Sal said. “If the militia holds our people, they’ll offer to trade them for our goods and vehicles, and then they’ll kill us, or leave us here, which is the same thing. If our team’s already dead, they’ll block the road out and surround us on foot. Either way, it leads to the same result. When they get close enough for you to shoot, take out a tire on the Telluride. If they’re friendlies, tomorrow we can repair or replace it. If they’re foes, we’ll force their hand far enough away to give us a fighting chance.”
Derek frowned and said nothing. He took an M-4 and the field glasses and moved into the desert to divert return fire from the noncombatants and their vehicles. He found a spot behind a rock pile and sat with the unfamiliar weapon at his shoulder when the SUV pulled up one hundred yards short and the doors popped open. He drew a bead on the driver, but at night with no moon he couldn’t see squat. He dropped his rifle and put the glasses up: Carla, Melvin and Travis were out of the first vehicle. Ah, he could see better as the dust settled: The Telluride’s driver was Tien. Behind them, Jaime’s unmistakable bulk and dirty bandage around his head stood by a black pickup. Little Arkar and two strangers rounded out the ensemble. Everyone waved and smiled. “Looks good, Sal!” Derek shouted. “Let’s bring ’em in.”
Yonten burst out of the brush, dropped his M-4 and sprinted down the road, not stopping until he’d hugged his father. Derek walked over to Sal and said, “Do you believe in miracles?”
“You bet I
do,” Sal said, swallowing hard. “Wake everyone up—there’s lots to be done once we hear their stories.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Berzerkeley
Friday, July 17, 2020: Berkeley, California; morning
A hand shook Katerina by the shoulder. She awoke to a tender right cheek, a lacerated mouth, and the telltale aftereffects of too many Adderall: a dry mouth and a stomachache. A long pull of water helped a little.
“Wake up, princess. Time to get to work,” a disembodied voice said as a high-intensity headlamp bored into her dilated pupils.
“What the fuck? Who are you?”
“I’m Specs. Norris told me to have you talk me through it and record it all. It’s four a.m. and you have until six tonight to make good. Otherwise, there’s a party in your mouth at sundown, and all the Souls are coming.”
Katerina had suffered enough from the team doctor’s fingers as a teen gymnast and would rather die than be molested again. Besides, a fourteen-hour window gave her plenty of time. Propping herself upright on the sofa, she fumbled for her purse. “Get that fucking light out of my eyes and turn on the wall switch.” She rummaged through her pill vials until she found the painkillers. She’d finished the Oxy 80s so she popped a Vicodin 10. Next stop was the faculty bathroom down the hall, its splintered lock allowing easy access. Specs followed her to the door and stood outside, whether to keep her in or others out she neither knew nor cared. Thirty minutes later, Katerina felt like a human being despite Norris’ backhand. She didn’t care for many men to begin with, certainly none who struck her. She was, however, attracted to power and Norris exuded the alpha dog vibe.
Back in the professor’s office with her guard, she gave Specs a harder look. The young man couldn’t have been over twenty and he was the wrong color. “How does a brown kid join a racist biker gang?”
Specs bristled at the characterization. “I’m not black—my mother’s from India. My dad Killer Kris was the Souls’ sergeant at arms and helped Norris take over. Norris is smart and realized the Souls needed something other than meth to get by. My dad was a legend in Northern Cali. Norris and him started letting me hang around when I was sixteen. I installed encrypted PC networks and secure messaging apps, swept for bugs and rotated burners. I did a year as a probationer and they beat me into the Souls two years ago,” Specs concluded with pride.
“It’s great that the Souls get authentic tandoori recipes, but I still don’t understand how a darkie got into a white supremacist gang.”
“If you knew anything about history, the Aryans civilized India four thousand years ago. The same people later settled Germany. My mother’s ancestors were the original master race, just darker from the sun. You can see in our faces we aren’t Africans. You talk black-boy shit in front of my brothers and they’ll knock your tiny ass into next week. Time to get to fucking work.”
“Thanks for the history factoid. Before I can make anything, we put on decontamination suits and disinfect all the lab equipment after last night’s abortion. If you don’t do what I say, when I say it, I’ll throw your satay-stick ass out of there. I’m not sucking hillbilly cock because of an unsterile lab. Put that camcorder down.”
Such tough talk from a tiny figure came as a surprise, but Specs respected her need to control the workplace environment, and he didn’t want to explain to Norris how the second batch of Covid treatments had gone bad. “Watch your mouth before I give you a black eye to match that bruise.” Dignity intact, Specs shut up and followed Katerina’s lead, picking out a plastic-wrapped decontamination suit and stripping to his underwear.
* * * * *
Four floors above, another person with a damaged jaw awoke early. Burns’ facial swelling had stabilized and his mouth no longer dribbled blood, but his head still hurt like hell. The pillowcase was stiff with dried blood and he hadn’t been able to sleep in more than snatches. Nevertheless, to have a Covid-free mind was proof that the half-dose of 896MX had fully cured him. That was good news for him and someday would be hell on earth for his enemies. He lifted his swollen and stiff left knee over to the mattress’ edge and hobbled into the bathroom.
Muller’s heavy breathing testified to the half-bottle of Jack he’d swigged the night before. Burns decided this was a good time to go downstairs and rent internet access. Besides his laptop, he brought the rest of Muller’s money—actually, money belonging to Burns’ dead wife Lindy—and put the .38 Special in the bag as insurance. Hopping and gimping his way downstairs took ten minutes and raised a sweat. The night clerk let him online for five hundred in cash. He was getting the hang of the virtual keyboard and logged onto the onion router without mishap.
Lo and behold, Katerina Kiel had reached out to confirm what Muller and he suspected—she was on campus and working on the Dark Cure. Her offer to sales agent LifeSaver was a revised partnership that added the Twisted Souls Motorcycle Club and subtracted Rolf Muller. After a one hundred thousand rake off the top, the Souls wanted half the Dark Cure revenues but—and this was an important point—would handle delivery and cash collection as well as security. Katerina had seen the $350,000 in sales from four customers, with one claiming he’d paid in advance. Was that true? If Burns wanted to cement the partnership, he should reply to the message and show up tonight at 21:00 on the main steps of Moffitt Library on campus. In return for his passing the $100,000 worth of Bitcoin to the Souls, they’d guarantee a speedy delivery to the first paying customer, plus the other three once they transferred funds. Very interesting.
Burns checked Tox for other messages. There was a fifth confirmed buyer for $100,000 in Bitcoin, taking them to $450,000 in cumulative sales. He increased the price to $150,000 a shot and replied to Katerina that he’d see her tonight. He powered down and began the long trudge upstairs, ideally to arrive before Rolf awakened.
As he limped and sweated up the staircase, the proximate question was whether he should kill Muller while he slept. Two immediate objections arose. First, Katerina was untrustworthy. Second, any biker gang she’d partnered with would be equally mendacious. Muller was Burns’ life insurance policy, but once Muller had Burns’ dark net dataset, his protector would likely murder him. If he got the timing right, Burns might walk away with all the prize money from Dark Cure sales, but there were no guarantees of that fortunate outcome. One miscalculation and he was dead twice over. He eased back into the room, a hint of dawn illuminating the curtains’ edges.
Muller heard Burns come in. The Brit was moving better than yesterday and from the clunk on the desktop, he’d returned with the laptop. All Muller had to do was reconnect his cellphone’s Bluetooth app to the computer and his keylogger malware would export every stroke Burns had made since yesterday afternoon. Half-faced Burns was a goner once Muller could monitor sales, contact customers, and shift Bitcoin around. A high-pitched whining jolted him from his reverie. What in the hell? It was Burns, blending breakfast ingredients with his new portable eggbeater. Muller hefted the Walther PPX automatic off the nightstand and fantasized about slotting that asshole.
“Almost . . . seven,” the Elephant Man said. He limped over to the window and flung the drapes open. “We . . . have . . . bizz . . . iness.” Muller blinked while his pupils adjusted. Burns surprised him by sitting down at the desk and saying, “Come . . . here.”
Muller put down his weapon and took Burns’ offered chair. On screen, Burns had cut and pasted Katerina’s Tox offer and his reply. To minimize the likelihood that Muller would draw the wrong conclusion, Burns had also typed a paragraph suggesting that Muller stay in the background and at the appropriate time replace or re-partner with the Twisted Souls provided that Muller’s percentage came out of Norris’ end.
Muller stiffened with anger. Who the fuck did this Silicon Valley hotshot think he was to dictate terms? He swallowed his impulse to shred Burns’ other knee. “Good work. While you suck your breakfast, use that big brain to figure out how I can get a shot of the Dark Cure while staying out of sight. Short of spending
, what, a hundred thou?”
“Steal . . . one.” Burns took a pull of his protein powder, fruit yogurt, and UHT milk smoothie and looked at Muller. The man had a tell: when he was angry, the welt running from the corner of his left eye to the center of his jawline pulsed. His face mask covered most of the scar, but Burns noticed his ears burning red. As he watched, he could see the bottle blonde’s eyes convert from homicidal fury to something akin to thoughtfulness, assuming that was a trait Muller possessed.
“Write out what you have in mind,” Muller said. He walked over to his bedside table and powered up his burner, suppressing the urge to shove the barrel of the Walther up Burns’ nose. He looked to “Settings” and saw with relief that his phone had paired with the laptop via Bluetooth.
Burns finished typing, looked at Muller, and shrugged in apology. Muller walked over to read the screen as he gently deposited his mobile into a shirt pocket. Burns had summarized three scenarios:
1. Kill one biker and take his dose BUT KK WILL BE INJECTING THEM PERSONALLY, SO NO EASY WAY.
2. Follow a biker making a delivery and steal it back from the customer after he’s paid. WE WILL SUFFER LOWER ONLINE SALES IF WE DO THAT.
3. Pose as a customer, pay for it upfront and use a proxy to accept delivery. BETTER: We can recoup the cost later.
Muller read the message and actually smiled. The reason he succeeded where others failed was his ability to imagine and implement unconventional solutions. “You’re forgetting a vital piece of the puzzle—you’re immune to Covid-20. You offer to give them a half-pint of blood that they can turn into another dozen doses, but as part of the deal you get half the Dark Cure shots to sell on your own. They’ll offer you four and you take the deal provided they let you choose the ones you want after she finishes.”
“Sounds . . . possible,” Burns admitted, though he harbored fears of being held captive and used as a blood bag like the gang had planned to do to Maggio’s daughter and grandson. And after losing substantial blood from being shot in the face, he wasn’t keen on donating again so soon.