by Louise Voss
‘Not yet,’ Kate said, unzipping him and sliding her hand inside his boxers. ‘You?’
‘Nope,’ he replied, lifting up her skirt and pulling down her knickers. The beige moulded wall of the plane’s small bathroom felt cool against Kate’s hot flesh.
‘Oh, darling,’ Paul said, kissing her neck and slipping a finger inside her, groaning when he felt how wet she was.
Kate felt tears fill her eyes and she held Paul tightly as he pushed his hard cock into her. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, before losing herself in the sensation of his thrusts; gentle at first, then becoming faster and harder. He lifted her up so she was sitting on the edge of the basin, and she leaned back, putting a hand on either side of it to steady herself as the movement increased in speed and intensity. They were both panting.
Over the engine noise, Kate heard a sound right outside the bathroom. ‘Stop!’ she hissed, and they both froze, their eyes wide, like guilty schoolkids caught in the act. There was a soft knock and the sound of a woman clearing her throat.
‘Everything all right in there?’ the flight attendant enquired drily through the door. Paul gave another gentle teasing thrust and Kate had to press her lips together to stop herself from either giggling or moaning – or both.
‘Just a minute,’ Paul called, with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘I think she’s on to us,’ he whispered to Kate, resuming his activity with renewed vigour.
‘Yes, well, when there are only three passengers on
a plane, and two of them suddenly vanish, I think it’s a fairly safe bet as to what they’re up to,’ Kate said, digging her fingernails into his back. ‘We’d better get back to our seats …’
Paul groaned. ‘Not yet.’ He slid out of her. ‘Turn round.’ She did what he asked, bending over the sink, biting her lip as he pushed deep inside her. She could see his face in the mirror, his eyes screwed up tight, and she thought how beautiful he was, and how beautiful his cock felt, and then she closed her own eyes and threw back her head, spiralling with him into an ecstasy made all the more intense by the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
By the time the plane landed, Kate was exhausted. But despite the doubts and the fears, her curiosity was burning, adrenaline still fizzing from the amazing sex. Fortunately Harley seemed to have remained asleep throughout. Kate squeezed Paul’s hand. We’ve still got it, she thought. That chemistry.
As they walked down the plane steps, Kate saw that they had landed in a small airfield, half a dozen hangars dotted around a single runway. Beyond the airfield there was little to see – no signs of civilisation, just an arid ochre landscape populated with spiky trees and tumbleweed. In the near distance, rocky hills blocked the horizon. The sky was sheer blue, the sun a white ball of fire that hurt her eyes, even at six thirty in the evening. The heat swept over her and she had a moment of dizziness. Paul grabbed her arm
as she swayed on the steps.
‘Steady,’ he said tenderly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, just about.’ She turned to Harley as her feet touched solid ground. ‘What is this place?’
Harley had taken off his jacket and sweat had already begun to darken his shirt beneath his armpits. ‘Lone Pine Airport,’ he replied. ‘We’re in north-east California, about a hundred miles from the state border.’
‘The border with Nevada?’ Paul asked.
‘Yes. We’re between Death Valley to the east, and the Sequoia National Park to the west. That’s where the research lab is based.’
‘In a national park? But I thought we were heading to LA.’ Kate noticed a pair of black BMWs parked outside the closest hangar, three men standing beside them, one black, two white. They were wearing dark suits and inscrutable expressions.
Harley spotted them at the same moment and raised a hand in greeting. The men opened the doors of the two cars, got in and started to drive slowly towards them through the heat haze.
‘FBI?’ Paul asked.
Harley nodded, then cleared his throat. ‘There have been some developments.’
‘What do you mean?’ Paul exchanged a worried look with Kate.
Harley didn’t reply.
The two cars drew up beside them and the black agent got out, walked round the car and opened the back door. He had broad shoulders and a shaved head, and was carrying a little too much weight around the middle.
‘Dr Maddox? Your carriage.’ He gestured for Kate to get into the car. She ducked inside, glad to get out of the heat.
Paul made a move to follow her but the agent stepped into his path. ‘Uh-uh. Not you. You’re not coming. Just Dr Maddox.’
‘What the hell?’
Harley said, ‘Sorry, Paul – like I told you, there have been developments.’
Paul tried to push past the agent, who blocked his way, placing his hands on Paul’s chest. At the same time, Kate got back out of the car. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’
‘Get back in the car please, Dr Maddox,’ the agent said. The other FBI agents had emerged from their car and were standing watching.
‘Harley, can you please tell us what’s going on?’
‘OK, OK … Listen, there’s no need for all this aggression. What’s your name?’
The agent who had blocked Paul’s way looked at Harley like he’d just broken wind. But he replied, ‘McCarthy.’
‘Good. Agent McCarthy. We’re all on the same side, right? Let me talk to Dr Maddox and Mr Wilson for a couple of minutes, explain the situation, and then we can be on our way. OK?’
McCarthy folded his arms and made them wait for his reply. ‘OK. You got five minutes.’
‘I need ten. Come on, Kate, Paul, let’s get back into the plane.’
‘So what the fuck is going on?’ Paul asked.
Harley had the demeanour of a middle manager who has been told to make half his team redundant. He rubbed his eyes, then reached under his seat and produced a newspaper. He handed it to Kate, who gasped at the
headline then scanned the text. ‘Fifty-nine dead already? The containment at the reservation failed?’
Harley avoided her eye.
She opened the paper. The headline across the inside spread read: KILLER FLU SWEEPS THROUGH LOS ANGELES. The first four pages were dominated by the story, accompanied by snapshots of a few of the victims:
a young mother in her twenties, an elderly black man, a muscular guy in an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt and, worst of all, a seven-year-old boy.
Kate gazed with horror at the picture of the boy. It was the kind of school photograph kids across the world pose for once a year, the school sending home glossy prints to the parents. Kate had almost identical portraits of Jack in her suitcase. The caption read: Tommy Walker, 7 – the youngest victim of Indian Flu.
Paul read aloud over her shoulder: ‘A doctor at Los Angeles County Hospital, who did not want to be named, told us that none of the antiviral drugs that are normally effective have worked in combating what he believes is a new, deadly strain of flu. “This is far worse than swine flu or any of the other epidemics that have broken out in recent years. We are at a loss how to treat it and are desperately seeking advice from the World Health Organization and the Centers for Disease Control.”’
Paul read on. ‘The number of people suffering from the disease is currently unknown, as few people report to hospital with flu, especially in poorer communities where people have no health insurance …’ Paul skimmed to the final paragraph. ‘If you develop flu symptoms, the advice is to stay at home, drink plenty of fluid, do not travel. Family members you have come into contact with should call the number below but should also stay at home, away from other people, even if they currently feel well, blah blah blah … Oh shit.’
Kate couldn’t tear her eyes away from the picture
of seven-year-old Tommy Walker. It hit her like the wave of heat that had almost floored her on the steps of the plane. She tried to imagine how Tommy’s mother must feel, if she was still alive. Suddenly, even more so than when s
he had learned of the bombing and Isaac’s death, this whole thing, the outbreak of this new strain of Watoto, all felt very real.
‘As I told you in London,’ Harley said, ‘the authorities here decided not to go public about the outbreak. They didn’t want a repeat of the fallout that followed the swine flu pandemic, when the WHO were accused of exaggerating the dangers so the sale of vaccines would soar, boosting profits for the drug companies. The allegations were rubbish, but it’s made some of the decision-makers cautious, if not paranoid. So they decided to keep it under wraps until they knew exactly what they were dealing with. They put together this team in secret, hoping some progress would be made before the situation escalated.’
‘But you can’t keep things like this quiet these days!’ said Paul. ‘Let me guess – it leaked online.’
‘That’s right. First of all, Twitter. A lot of people in LA tweeting about how sick they felt. Then a couple of days later, those people stop tweeting, and the friends and families start to leave messages mourning the deaths of their loved ones, apparently from the flu. And then a doctor at a hospital in LA ripped the whole thing open with a blog post about how this super-flu had started filling up the hospital, how he’d never seen anything like it – not realising it’s actually Watoto because no doctor in LA would ever have encountered Watoto. Of course that blog got picked up by people on Twitter and Facebook and it hit the national press. I only found out about it at the airport when you were saying goodbye to Jack. Fortunately, the message we received after the terrorist attack on the hotel has not been leaked.’
‘Isn’t the CDC supposed to be in charge in these situations?’ Kate looked up from the paper. Her entire body felt cold.
Harley nodded. ‘In the normal course of events, yes. But in this instance … well, I haven’t been entirely … forthcoming with you about how this is all set up.’
‘Why doesn’t that shock me?’ Paul said.
‘All right, all right.’ Harley glanced nervously out of the plane window. The three FBI agents were standing motionlessly by their cars. ‘Look, I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but we’re in a need-to-know situation here. Under normal circumstances, the Centers for Disease Control would take the lead in the event of an epidemic or pandemic within the United States, while the WHO would have global responsibility. But in cases where terrorism is—’
‘Terrorism? So you suspected terrorist involvement before the bombing?’ said Paul.
Irritated by Paul’s continued antagonism towards Harley, Kate flapped a hand at him to be quiet so they could hear what the MI6 man had to say.
Harley continued: ‘After the anthrax attacks in America in 2001, the US Government set up an agency called the BIT – Bioterror Investigative Team. Initially it was a small unit, working out of FBI headquarters, monitoring and investigating suspected bioterrorist groups and individuals. Then, after Clive Gaunt’s attempt to release the Pandora virus in London by infecting your son with it, the two governments decided it was time to join forces. The BIT became an international agency, charged with monitoring bioterrorism on a global basis. Whenever something out of the ordinary happens – like an exotic virus breaking out where it shouldn’t – the BIT steps in. I joined them not long afterwards, and because of our previous … involvement, it fell to me to enlist your help and escort you over here. Usually I’m based in London, but I’ll be staying on to help with intelligence.’
‘So you did suspect terrorist involvement before the bomb went off?’ Kate asked.
‘Like I said, if something out of the ordinary occurs, we investigate. And this case was unusual from the start. It made no sense, Watoto showing up on the reservation. No one who worked there had been to Africa. And even though hundreds of people pass in and out of the casino every day—’
‘Watoto has a short incubation period,’ Kate interrupted. ‘It’s highly unlikely someone who’d contracted the disease in Africa would make it all the way to a casino outside LA. They’d be far too sick by that time to want to go gambling.’
‘Exactly. Which made us suspect the source of the virus was closer to home. That’s why BIT took the lead on this. Obviously we’re working with the CDC, who will keep the public informed and try to contain the outbreak. But it was BIT who put together this team and set up the facilities where you’ll be working. Previously, the team were going to be based in LA, but in light of the media coverage we’ve decided to move the whole operation out here. Also, it hasn’t been announced yet but the airports in LA are going to be shut down tonight. No more domestic or international flights in or out of the city.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘And to prevent leaks to the media, only necessary personnel will be permitted anywhere near the lab. Which is why we can’t allow you in there, Paul.’
Before Paul could respond, there was a loud knock on the door of the plane. It opened and Agent McCarthy stuck his head through. ‘Time’s up.’
‘Give me one more minute,’ Harley said.
‘We’ve got to get moving.’
Kate stood up. ‘Let’s go. I’ve heard enough.’
Paul blinked up at her, surprised. ‘Kate?’
She gestured to the pictures in the newspaper. ‘I don’t want to waste any more time sitting around here speculating about who, how or why this outbreak happened. Right now, I just want to get on with helping to find a cure.’
In the doorway, McCarthy applauded with slow handclaps. ‘Finally, someone around here speaks sense.’
Paul got to his feet and Kate took both his hands in hers. ‘I wish you could come with me, but it sounds as if I’m going to be working all hours. I won’t get to see you anyway.’
‘But I want to help.’
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Harley said firmly.
Paul opened his mouth to argue, but McCarthy stepped forward to usher her away: ‘Let’s get going. Dr Maddox, you’re coming with me and Agent Thompson. Harley, you should wait for further instructions. Agent DiFranco will drive you and Mr Wilson.’
He smiled grimly at Paul’s expression. ‘Don’t look so frightened, my friend. We’re not taking you to Los Angeles.’
8
The old man knew death was coming. He felt it stirring deep within his bones, in the way they creaked when he heaved himself out of his bunk each morning. He heard it in the pleading of his heartbeat whenever he got excited or did anything strenuous. Sometimes, when he looked out at what all the guards told him was ‘the best view in the prison’ – over yonder at the bay, the flat horizon a taunt for the men held in this Federal Correctional Institute – he thought he could see death coming for him, a dark shape in the distance, creeping closer every day.
Well, screw death. He wasn’t afraid. Just as long as he got to do one more thing – that thing he’d been waiting all these years to do – before he shuffled off this mortal coil.
He stood at the window now. For the last fifteen years, this room in the low-security wing of the prison had been his home. Once, before he was betrayed, before that bastard took a large sharp rod and fucked him with it, he had lived in a beautiful house, the kind of place his father could only have dreamed of. His brains had taken him a long way. He was a Mexican immigrant who’d been living the American Dream. He’d had a great job doing important work – OK, so some of it was illegal, but that did not make it any less vital. In his spare time there had been stunning women, luxury yachts, fine wines. The only ones who wanted his attention in this godforsaken shithole were a lot more hairy and a little less tender than the women who had never even written him in prison.
He clenched his teeth, waiting for the tremors of anger to subside, his hand resting on the cool surface of the microscope they allowed him to keep. It was not much better than a child’s microscope, pitifully inadequate. Still, it was better than nothing. Beside it, he had placed his reading material, the Journal of Virology and The Infectious Disease Review at the top of the pile. He liked to keep up with what was happen
ing. There had been so many advances, so many fascinating new diseases, since his incarceration.
He picked up a copy of Immunology Today and leafed through it, but couldn’t concentrate. For weeks now he’d been on edge, more desperate than ever to get out of this shithole. Since he’d been here, both his parents had died; his sisters had married and remarried and spawned children he’d never seen. He’d missed the chance to become a father. And the men who put him here had made it clear there would be no parole, even though he had never murdered anyone with these hands, never robbed a bank or tried to blow anything up.
He was a sacrificial goat. The man who knew too much.
He switched on the TV and channel-hopped, a little flutter of anticipation in his belly. Prisoners were only allowed a few channels: ESPN, CNN and Fox News, the Weather Channel, and a handful of Christian channels on which preachers hectored and begged for money. He had pleaded for the Discovery Channel, for the occasional documentary about his favourite subject, but the bastards would not listen.
Now, he settled on Fox News, and the presenter’s words immediately grabbed him.
‘… Indian Flu, a deadly new virus that is sweeping through Los Angeles …’
The old man sat on his bunk and stared, rapt, at the TV.
‘… symptoms are similar to a bad case of flu: fever, head cold … Victims describe it as being like the worst case of flu you’ve ever had, multiplied by ten …’
He leaned forward. It was happening.
‘… and then the victim is killed by what appears to be a seizure …’
They showed footage of people waiting, shivering, in a hospital, dozens of them lined up. He could almost picture the virus particles swirling and leaping through the air around them.
‘… the CDC reports that this particular flu virus has not been seen before, but denies that it is a new strain of swine or bird flu. Sufferers are being advised to stay at home and drink plenty of fluids. Do not go to the hospital. A special helpline has been set up …’