by James Cook
Time to round up the other squad leaders. Time to write a report.
Goddamn, I hate paperwork.
*****
Hamlet passed by to the north of the U-trac much the same as any other town.
Ethan watched the outlines of buildings in the distance as they slowly drifted from left to right, little more than grey and brown husks against the blue morning haze. Even from this far away, he could see the empty, yawning holes staring out from behind shattered windows, the black scorch marks left behind by long-ago fires, and the sharp, stabbing fingers of I-beams, support struts, and shattered concrete pillars where office complexes and government buildings had once stood. All collapsed now. All reduced to great, mountainous heaps of forgotten rubble.
Across the depressing expanse between the town and the tracks, littered like corpses on a battlefield, lay houses, businesses, long-dead industrial facilities, and sagging structures that seemed to have no identifiable purpose at all. Every visible wall was crowded with vines and creepers that swarmed over rooftops in choking, skeletal tangles. Autumn’s chill had turned everything brown and dead, and blanketed the landscape in an ocean of endless beige beneath a cloudy, pewter-colored sky. All seemed still. Abandoned. Quiet.
Ethan knew better.
There were eyes out there. Many eyes, and none of them friendly. They watched the tracks, he knew. They watched, and they would remember. He would not have been surprised if word of the brief, bloody firefight had already reached the marauders holed up in that shattered ruin of a town. Nor would it have surprised him to learn their plans for retaliation were already in motion. It was what they did, these marauder bands. They fought. They killed. They took from others. And if they were attacked, their response was never proportional, never just an eye for an eye. They were vicious, savage people with no regard for anyone’s lives other than their own. Often, they even fought amongst each other, robbing, raping, and stealing.
It was a well-known fact in the Army that you didn’t go after marauders with half measures. You didn’t just hit them and hope they would learn their lesson. These were people who didn’t back down from a fight. Didn’t run away. Didn’t get intimidated by the occasional strafing run or mortar bombardment. If a platoon was sent to take down known marauders, it wasn’t just a police action. It wasn’t just an effort to bring them to heel.
It was total annihilation.
Kill them all, root and branch, or die in the attempt. And dying wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. More than once, entire platoons had limped back to Fort Bragg decimated and in shambles, most of their men dead or dying of wounds or infection. Contrary to what all the strategists had predicted, the marauders were becoming increasingly well-armed. Unexplainably, alarmingly so. They were determined, these insurgents and raiders, and they were getting better at their craft. And out there, across that cracked veneer of dead civilization, was an unknown number of them.
Waiting. Plotting.
Ethan stood near the wall, his face close to the chill, gently blowing air outside and stared out the narrow window as the U-trac slowly rattled along. He searched rooftops for movement, eyes narrowed, jaw constantly working. He searched the tall grass for the telltale streaks of lighter brown that would indicate someone having passed through recently. He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to catch the acrid odor of wood smoke born on the wind. He listened for the crack of distant rifles echoing across the low, gently rolling hills. But mostly he simply watched, gaze unfocused, never letting his eyes rest on one spot for too long, determined to spot trouble if it was out there. He rested his head against one thick forearm, and for long into the morning, he watched.
He watched, and he worried.
If you enjoyed Fire in Winter, you may also like the exciting zombie apocalypse thriller Victim Zero, by Joshua Guess. Read on for a preview!
Chapter One
Kelvin McDonald, who was only called by his rightful first name when some woman or another in his family was angry, sat in his office long after his staff went home for the day. It had been seven years since that last trip before being awarded his doctorates; seven years of constant research into the strange organism he'd drunkenly dubbed Chimera on a night out with his team members.
The world hadn't really been a different place then, but looking back on how much of his life changed from that day, it seemed like someone else had lived it. He had entered college at sixteen, sought after by every university with a science program to speak of. Full scholarships offered and finally accepted, Kell found a home at Stanford. He remembered those first few days on campus; a tall and gangly black kid, too young to need a shave more than every third day, southern accent not thick enough to get him laughed at but always present and commented on by the west-coast cast of characters around him.
His first few days were hard, but in the biology department he fit in for the first time. The memory of discussing microbiological theory and favorite research papers with peers sharing his excitement was a treasured one. Like an heirloom, Kell took that one out often. It was polished and beautiful and sharply detailed. His first few days at Stanford were a major turning point in his life.
At twenty-six he went on that trip, ten years of hard work that would have been twelve or thirteen if not for his brilliant mind and perfect recall. Before his next birthday he was awarded those sheepskins; one specialized in microbiology, the other in genetics. Kell had always suspected the initial months he'd dedicated to studying Chimera had played a part in the decision to grant his doctorates. It wasn't a secret the faculty wanted him on staff as a researcher. Indeed, it worked out that way.
A year later Stanford was made an offer it couldn't refuse. Kell didn't know how much money exchanged hands, but the biotech company that bought out every scrap of Stanford's research into Chimera, Sinclair, was international and enormous. A few years before they'd been hit with a lawsuit decision that required a hundred-million dollar payout, and the company hadn't hesitated.
The only catch to the deal was that Kell came with it. The man who lived and breathed Chimera would have to leave his home of more than a decade.
Kell agreed with the proviso that if he were so vital to the company that they wouldn't buy the research without him attached, he got to choose where he did his work.
The office he sat in, with only the recess lights burning, was the place he'd settled after leaving the university. An hour and a half north of his home, the Cincinnati division of Sinclair Global was his. Entirely his—no other work went on in the subdued building.
The phone on his desk rang, and Kell answered.
“Kelvin McDonald,” he said.
“Doctor McDonald,” the voice on the other end replied. “This is Jim Mitchell. You were told to wait for my call?”
Of course I was, you idiot. Why else would I be here an hour late?
“Yes, sir,” Kell said.
“Good, Good,” Mitchell said. “Let me tell you what this is all about, then. You've been working on Chimera variants that repair nerve damage, correct?”
Kell inhaled sharply. “Yes, that's right, but--”
Mitchell cut him off. “And how would you categorize the success of those variants, Dr. McDonald?”
“I'd call them good, so far,” Kell said. “But in need of a lot of work.” He made an effort to keep his voice even, calm. Mitchell was a vice-president.
“Is that so?” Mitchell asked. “I think you're being modest, Doctor. You've been testing the variants on primates for months now, haven't you? With a total success rate?”
Kell fought the urge to grind his teeth. “Yes, but there are concerns. Chimera is extremely difficult to control. It evolves within a subject. In lower order test subjects, there were always mutations that created unexpected results.”
“But not undesired results?”
Kell snorted. “You're pushing for something, Mr. Mitchell. I won't sit here and explain the complexities of Chimera. You want to tell or ask me somethin
g, and you want to hear that I'm confident about where our research stands. Why?”
Mitchell paused for a moment. “I think you are confident, Doctor. I also think you're being overly cautious. Aside from one incident last year, my understanding is the Chimera organism has given overwhelmingly positive results. I want to know your opinion on moving to human trials.”
Kell didn't hesitate. “It's an incredibly bad idea. Not only will we not be eligible for clearance on that for several years, but Chimera seems to be more active in more complex life forms. As you pointed out, last year we lost sixty-seven mice in less than an hour. That was due to a mutation, and all those animals died from a single test subject being introduced to the population. I'm sure you read the report, sir, but if I feel my position is more grounded in reality it's only because I was cleaning out the shredded corpses of more than four dozen mice. I saw that with my own eyes, touched it with my hands.”
Mitchell cleared his throat. “So you're telling me you are absolutely opposed to human trials?”
Kell felt relief wash over him. “Yes, sir. I am. Even if we could get clearance, this organism is simply too dangerous and our understanding too limited. I've been working with it for seven years and even I have barely scratched the surface. As quickly as Chimera evolved in that single mouse, it did so four times as fast in our primates. In humans the generational changes would be at least as quick and not necessarily for the better.”
There was a long silence. Kell began to think Mitchell had ended the call, but caught the faint sound of the other man breathing.
“That's very unfortunate, Doctor McDonald. Because Sinclair Global received a special dispensation for human trials three months ago, and half a billion dollars in DARPA backing to escalate our research.”
Kell swore. Loudly.
Mitchell chuckled nervously. “Understandable reaction, but you're going to like this next part even less. Tomorrow you'll be receiving a visit from some workers who will be installing a basic isolation unit in an unused section of your lab. You see, Dr. McDonald, we've had our Boston lab working with the primate variants for six months, and the first human subject began trials three weeks ago. There have been...complications. And we need your expertise.”
Kell's free hand gripped the edge of his desk so hard he felt the heavy wood creak. “How long until this patient arrives, if I may ask?” Kell said with icy formality.
“Oh, he'll be there in about six hours, actually. We're sending him in a temporary unit housed within a shipping container. Transitional staff will stay with him until you arrive at work tomorrow morning. Then he's all yours.”
Kell pinched the bridge of his nose and for the first time in his life wished he'd gone into mathematics or physics or wizardry. Something harmless.
“Yes, sir,” Kell said. “I'll be here.”
*****
Karen was already in the shower and baby Jennifer in her crib, when Kell finally made it home. Kell thought about slipping behind the curtain to join his wife but reconsidered when he remembered her habit of keeping a loaded .38 on the towel rack next to the tub. One break-in was enough to teach her caution.
Instead he stood over his newborn daughter and watched her sleep for a while. She fidgeted, tiny hands grasping and flexing as she did the baby equivalent of chasing rabbits. Strange how a person only eight weeks old could change everything about a person. Kell became interested in biology from sheer wonder as a child. Some people looked to the sky in awe at all the things that vastness contained, but he was always fascinated by the mysteries found in the smallest parts of living creatures.
Every cell a puzzle, every strand of DNA a conundrum waiting to be tinkered with and explored.
Yet here before him lay an enigma even he couldn't wrap his mind around. He and his wife made love, and then followed the meiotic dance that created an entirely new human being. It was so simple, so basic, yet that one primal act of creation moved forward with time to make his daughter. She would be her own person in the end, a collection of small mysteries of her own.
Feather-gentle, he ran a finger over her fine hair.
“She's been sleeping for an hour,” Karen said from behind him.
The tendon in Kell's jaw twitched, his only sign of surprise. Five years together had given his wife a good working knowledge of his reactions. It was a game of hers, to constantly try to get more than an involuntary twinge from him. Karen sometimes called him 'Buddha' for his unshakable calm.
If only she could have seen him a few hours before.
She put a hand to the back of his neck, using him as a fulcrum to pull herself high enough to kiss his cheek. He trembled as she did it, the stress of the day finally becoming too much.
Karen put a hand on his shoulder lightly and turned him to face her. She wasn't short, but even at five foot eight she had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. Hers were hazel flecked with gold, a striking match to her deep tan skin. Her mother was from South Africa, her father American but ethnically Indian. Both of them were lawyers, and their beautiful daughter, she of the almond-shaped eyes and wavy black hair, had followed in their footsteps.
“What's wrong?”
Kell considered the question much longer than absolutely necessary. It wasn't that he didn't trust his wife—she was a lawyer, after all, and knew how to keep confidence—but she also knew about non-disclosure agreements, of which he was under at least half a dozen. Beyond that, the work he did was cutting-edge and frankly dangerous to know about.
So, he compromised.
Kell sat on the edge of the bed. “I can't tell you the details, honey. But basically I've been put in a position where I had to choose between letting someone else deal with a complicated problem they might screw up, and taking it on myself.”
Karen nodded as she sat next to him in her fluffy red bathrobe. “I assume that this has to do with your research?”
Kell nodded. “Of course. Sinclair has always wanted me for only one reason.”
She put a hand on his leg. “You've always been able to trust your staff with tough problems. What makes this one different?”
“This time there could be...larger implications. You know I've always been strongly against creating potential weapons or pathogens. That's not what I'm dealing with, but a screwup could be just as bad. Maybe worse.”
Her fingers tightened on his leg. “And you think you're the right man to fix it?”
Kell nodded again.
Karen gave his leg a slap. “You're damn right you are. No one has been working on this as long as you. Your own professors handed Chimera over to you when they couldn't figure it out. You're not just the right man for the job, baby. You might be the only man for it. If safety and diligence is important here, I can't think of anyone on the planet better suited to the task.”
Kell smiled at her, but it was weak. Which led her to slap him on the back of the head. It was gentle. Mostly. Then she pointed a finger in his face, and he knew she was getting serious.
“Look, Kell. Just because I've been on maternity leave and not carrying around a metric ton of stress doesn't mean I'm gonna let you get away with self-pity. You might be in a tough spot, but you didn't make it. You got handed a mess; you know you're the one who should clean it up. Not because you made it, but because anyone else runs the risk of just screwing it up worse.”
She leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “So stop moping about it. That's not going to do you any good. Sleep on it, deal with it, then move forward. It's not like you have any choice.”
“I know, Karen, I just worry that...ah, Jesus it's hard to even explain without telling you everything.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don't need details to know you shouldn't be worrying yourself to death over something you have to do and can't change. Maybe me saying that won't make it better, but I promised your momma I'd set you straight for the rest of your natural life. You knew that when you signed the papers, and look; you managed to live with that decision just fine.�
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Kell couldn't help laughing. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Her lips tasted like raspberries—her favorite lip gloss. She must have put it on as soon as she hopped out of the shower. Though he'd fallen for her hard many years before, it was small gestures that kept him falling in love in little ways every single day. It got him through the lonely nights when she was stuck at the office. It kept his hand steady and mind sharp when dealing with potentially dangerous organisms with a penchant for unpredictable mutations.
“You're right, of course,” Kell said, running a hand over his shaved head. “I'll get on with it. I'll probably bitch about it for days, but you're used to that by now. And let's face it, you aren't going to divorce me over that. You only do what Mom tells you because she makes you dinner twice a week. You won't give that up.”
She poked a finger into his slight paunch. “Well, one of us could suffer without for a while.”
Laughing, he slid his own hand under her robe and across the damp skin of her belly.
“Maybe I could do with a little exercise instead,” he said.
To Read on, pick up a copy of Victim Zero on Amazon!
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN