by Louise Voss
Morning seemed a very long way off.
Heather marched Rosie and Lucy through the house at knifepoint, into the garage where she found a roll of parcel tape that she used to secure their hands behind their backs.
‘No screaming when we get outside,’ she warned. She had allowed Lucy to pull on a wrinkled sweatshirt over her sliced shirt. Rosie tried to catch her daughter’s eye, to let her know that everything was going to be OK, but Lucy appeared to be in shock; she had no more awareness of what was going on around her than a sleepwalker.
Back through the house and out the front door. Heather hissed, ‘Walk towards the SUV.’ There was no one around. It was gone midnight; any nosy neighbours would be in bed.
Rosie considered screaming. But she knew that by the time anyone roused themselves to investigate, the psycho-bitch would have slit their throats and driven away.
Heather opened the back door of the SUV and shoved them into the cavernous interior. She sat in the driver’s seat, placed the knife on the dashboard and pressed a button to lock the doors. The roads were quiet, just a few cabs cruising around looking for business.
Rosie tried to speak to Lucy, to ask her if she was all right, but Heather snapped, ‘No talking in the back. And if either of you kids says “Are we there yet?” I’ll cut your tits off.’ She rocked with laughter.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the Coopers Hotel, Heather pulling into a quiet space in the corner of the parking lot. She got out and locked the doors, then started to walk away. She’d gone a few paces when she stopped and slowly turned to face them, drawing a forefinger across her windpipe and showing them her teeth.
The moment we get out of this, Rosie thought, turning to press herself against her daughter, whispering to her that everything would be OK, the moment we escape, you’re a dead woman.
‘Talk to me, Lucy, please,’ she implored. But Lucy remained silent, staring into space. Her eyes were glazed, her jaw slack. Rosie felt a new wave of panic rise through her. She had to get Lucy out of this, get her to a hospital.
She wriggled back towards the window, pressing her forehead against the glass, straining to see through the darkness. What was going on in the hotel? Would Paul be murdered while he slept, or would he put up a fight? And what did this woman want with them anyway? It had to have something to do with Mangold, with the questions Paul had been asking. Oh God, why had Paul walked into her diner? And why had she allowed herself to develop feelings for him? She cursed herself.
She had one priority now. Getting Lucy out of this.
A man walked across the parking lot, close to the hotel.
‘Hey!’ Rosie yelled. ‘Help! Help us!’
But the man couldn’t hear her. The glass must be soundproofed. She couldn’t manoeuvre her arms to bang on it. Maybe if she could get to the horn … She struggled to get through between the front seats, surprised that Heather hadn’t thought of this – all she needed to do was press her head against the horn at the centre of the steering wheel.
Getting through the gap between the seats without use of her arms wasn’t easy, but she scrambled through and managed to right herself so she was kneeling on the driver’s seat. She leaned forward and pressed her head against the horn.
The door yanked open.
She heard Heather say, ‘Nothing to see here,’ then a strong hand grabbed her beneath the chin and thrust her into the passenger seat. The door slammed. Rosie looked up to see Heather staring at the horn, like she knew she’d fucked up.
‘Goddamn bitch,’ she said. She was panting with rage.
‘Where’s Paul?’ Rosie asked. ‘Have you killed him? Please God—’
Heather slapped her. ‘Shut up. Just fucking shut up,’ she screamed, and her loss of control was far more frightening than her earlier contained rage.
Rosie instinctively knew that to disobey would mean certain death. Heather was shaking with fury, her knuckles white where she clutched the steering wheel, sweat dripping into her eyes. A rank smell filled the car.
It took a minute or two for Heather’s breathing to return to normal.
‘The bastard’s already checked out.’
Rosie felt relief flood through her.
‘Checked out thirty minutes ago.’ She banged the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. Then she pushed open the door and dragged Rosie out into the parking lot. Rosie struggled, but Heather had a firm grip on her, and she opened the back door and shoved her in. Rosie landed with her head on Lucy’s lap.
‘Please, let us go,’ she pleaded.
Heather was back in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. ‘Uh-uh. No way. You’re coming with me. Wilson told the hotel clerk he was heading to LA. That’s where we’re going.’ She banged the steering wheel again. ‘Shit, man. Angelica’s going to be pissed.’
36
Glencarson Prison, where Camilo Diaz had been living in minimum security exile for the last twenty-three years, was in south-east Los Angeles – within the quarantine zone. Paul tapped the address into the satnav. It was a ninety-minute drive; if he didn’t get turned back at the roadblock, he would arrive at the prison around 2 a.m. – not exactly visiting hours. But he couldn’t stay here a minute longer. He felt an urgent need to get going. By leaving now he’d ensure that, in the event they did try to turn him away at the roadblock, he’d have other options. Under cover of darkness, he might be able to sneak along the perimeter
of the quarantine zone until he found somewhere to break through. Daylight would leave him too exposed to try it.
Setting off, he made a vow to himself. If Camilo Diaz couldn’t help him, if this turned out to be a dead end, he would abandon the hunt for Mangold and go find Kate. Maybe that’s what Stephen would have wanted: not for him go in search of vengeance but to be there for Kate, get her and Jack out of the country, away from all this madness.
Logically, he knew that was probably right.
But the hunger for retribution still burned inside him.
When he was younger, Paul had dreamed of visiting LA, picturing himself cruising wide open highways against a backdrop of palm trees, hot winds and endless blue sky. Now, driving through the night towards that city of dreams, he wished he was back in grey, homely England with Kate.
He wanted to put his arms around her, to feel the warmth of her body against his, the soft tickle of her hair on his face. He craved the sound of her voice, that mid-Atlantic accent that he found so sexy. More than anything, he longed just to have her there. She made him feel calm, centred. Until he met her, he’d been going through the motions: working, spending money, watching himself get older, trying not to think about any of it. All that had changed when he met Kate. In a way, it was Stephen who had brought them together. Desperate to find out what had happened to him, they’d raced around the country, chasing down clues, facing danger … falling in love. It would have been easy for the passion to burn out, extinguished by the daily routine of work and child-rearing. Instead, he discovered that sharing a normal existence with Kate – and Jack, whom he adored as if he were his own son – made him love her even more.
The coast road was eerily deserted. Beyond the cliffs, the sea was a black mass. He made a silent vow to return here one day, with Kate and Jack, to see it when the sun was shining, when things were better. If things ever got better.
Just east of Malibu, as the highway passed through Topanga State Park, he heard a rumbling ahead of him. His first thought was earthquake, but a minute later he came upon a great convoy of army trucks, eighteen or twenty of them, heading towards the city. This was followed by a roar from above as a helicopter’s navigation lights appeared above him, first one then another, following the line of the highway. A few minutes later he saw the first sign: QUARANTINED AREA. TURN BACK NOW, with the universal biohazard sign illuminated in neon. A glow on the horizon materialised into the distant lights of Los Angeles.
Guts twisting, Paul kept driving. Within minutes he came upon a wall of trucks. St
riped barriers manned by National Guard troops blocked the road. He slowed down, passing yet more TURN BACK and biohazard signs. Overhead, a helicopter circled, its searchlight pinpointing his car. Two soldiers, guns slung across their chests, began to walk out towards him.
Paul hesitated, unsure what to do. Would they arrest him? Shoot at him? As the soldiers came closer, he saw they were wearing protective masks. Panicking, he threw the car into reverse and swung the car in a 180-degree arc, the soldiers shouting and breaking into a run behind him. In his confusion, he fumbled the gearstick into Drive and put his foot down – and almost drove straight into another car.
He stamped on the brake, jolting forward in his seat. The car – a large black Mercedes – had pulled up sideways across the road. Paul sounded the horn but the car didn’t move. In the rear-view mirror he could see the soldiers getting closer.
The door of the Mercedes opened and someone got out. They walked towards him. There wasn’t enough light to make out a face – not until they reached him and bent down, beckoning for him to open the window.
‘Hello, Paul.’
Heather turned up the radio with a gloved hand as she
left Sagebrush’s city limits and pointed the SUV towards the highway. The guy on KHTB, panic obvious in his voice, was informing listeners:
‘… cases have now been reported all around the surrounding area. We’re getting reports of deaths in San Diego, Fresno, Bakersfield, Las Vegas …’
Heather smacked the steering wheel and yelped with glee. ‘You hear that? It’s spreading. And the benighted and the sinful shall be powerless to prevent the tide of change. You said it, baby. Hell, yeah!’
Her words were lost on Rosie. She was still reeling from the shock of hearing places so near to Sagebrush listed among the towns affected. Beside her, Lucy was still in a catatonic state, staring blankly at nothing. She longed to reach out to her, but her hands were still tied.
The man on the radio was urging people to stay calm, stay indoors. Anyone who had come in contact with people who might be sick should stay at home. The government was refusing to confirm the death toll.
‘They don’t want people to be scared,’ Heather said. ‘But they oughta be terrified. You know what’s gonna happen, huh? It’s gotten out of LA. Pandora’s box has opened. The Goddess has breathed her holy, cleansing breath all over this … devil’s playground and …’ She trailed off. She’s quoting someone, Rosie realised, and she’s forgotten the script. ‘Whatever. It’s gonna spread quickly now. This is when it really takes hold. In a few days, everyone round here will be sick. Then it’ll be the whole state. Then the whole country. And then the whole world!’
It sounded as if she was building up to an evil cackle, but instead Heather swore loudly as something ran out on to the road.
‘Freaking coyote.’ She stamped on the brake and, to Rosie’s amazement, wound down the window, pointing the gun into the woods beside the road. She fired off a couple of shots into the trees, then calmly wound up the window and drove on.
‘Harley.’
‘So nice to see you again,’ the agent said. ‘Mind stepping out of the car?’
The two soldiers arrived at that moment. ‘Don’t even try it, or I’ll order these fine American soldiers to shoot.’ He had produced his agency card, which he displayed for the guards.
Paul sighed, pushed open the door and stepped out into the warm night air.
‘How did you find me?’
‘We’ve been tracking your phone.’
Paul nodded. ‘How’s Kate? You were with her earlier?’
‘Yes. She’s all right. Working hard to find a cure. She could do without the distraction of worrying about you. What exactly are you trying to achieve, anyway?’
Paul hesitated and looked over at the roadblock. Maybe Harley turning up now wasn’t such a bad thing, as long as he played this right.
‘I’ve been trying to find Charles Mangold.’
‘Mangold? Why?’
‘You were there, Harley. You saw what happened to Stephen. Mangold was part of that.’
‘So you’ve been on a wild-goose chase looking for some old man …’ Harley lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you just let it go, Paul?’
‘Because Stephen deserves justice, that’s why. As long as the people responsible for what happened to him are walking around free, I won’t let go. Besides, it isn’t a wild-goose chase.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve tracked him down!’
Paul knew he had to tread carefully if he was going to enlist Harley’s help in entering LA.
‘Have Kate and her team made any progress yet?’ he asked.
Harley looked pained. ‘Give them a chance, they’ve barely been at it two days.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not as if time is on their side, is it? Anyway, the reason I ask is that while I was looking for Mangold I came across someone who I think can help.’
Harley raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Who?’
‘Mangold’s former head of research, Camilo Diaz, is in Glencarson Prison. I think he could help, and I need to go and talk to him.’
Harley mulled this over. Paul got the impression that he was desperate enough to try anything, so he pushed it: ‘We don’t have time to stand around thinking about this. Any chance at all that we can find a cure – we have to take it.’ He didn’t feel guilty about leading Harley on. All he cared about was getting to Diaz.
‘Have you tried calling the prison?’
‘Yes. The line just rings out. A bit like the lab in Sequoia.’
‘Really?’
‘Come on, we need to get to the prison. You can get me into the city, can’t you, with your ID?’
Harley hesitated.
‘Come on.’
Finally, Harley nodded. He gestured for Paul to get into his car and they drove down the road towards the roadblock, where dozens of armed guards with dogs were patrolling the road, the military helicopter endlessly circling overhead. On the other side of the roadblock, a queue of cars stretched back as far as the horizon, people, many of them in family groups, standing by their cars, the tense threat of a violent eruption rippling through the night air. A mobile field testing unit had been set up on the other side of the checkpoint and medical personnel in full biohazard suits were calling people in one by one to test them for Indian flu. If any member of a family was found to be positive, the whole group was told to return home immediately. Nobody seemed to be getting through – the barrier hadn’t lifted once in the whole time Paul had been standing there.
In one of the cars at the front of the line he could see a red-haired woman holding a toddler with identical colouring. The little boy squirmed on her lap then jerked as he sneezed: one, two, three times. Paul didn’t rate their chances of getting out. The woman looked haunted, clinging to the last thread of hope, even though she knew that she and her son – her whole family – weren’t going to make it out. Weren’t going to make it full stop.
Paul swallowed. Thank God Jack was a long way from all this.
Harley stopped the car beside a soldier and rolled the window down.
The soldier was wearing a surgical mask and carrying a machine gun. He stooped to look into the car. ‘Border’s closed,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to turn back.’
Another guard came over, pulling down his mask to spit on the ground. ‘Why in hell do you want to get into the city? Every other fucker’s trying to get out.’
Harley produced his badge and showed it to the guards. ‘We’re heading to Glencarson Federal Institute of Correction.’
The first patrolman scrutinised the badge. ‘BIT? Never heard of ya.’
‘You should have received a memo when the outbreak started,’ said Harley.
The guard turned to his colleague. ‘Did you see any memo?’
‘Nuh-uh.’
Harley added, as patiently as he could, ‘We’re a federal team set up to prevent biological outbreaks.’
The border guards loved that.
After they’d finished laughing, the first one said, ‘Well, you ain’t done a very good job, have you, buddy?’
‘Just let us through.’
‘You won’t be able to get back out. We got strict instructions. No one gets out. But if you really want to go into the D-zone, then it’s your funeral. Literally.’
‘The D-zone?’ Paul asked, leaning across.
‘Yeah. The dead zone.’
The guard gestured to the men further ahead and the barrier was lifted. Harley drove through. As he accelerated along the empty right-hand side of the highway, Paul saw the incredulous look on the faces of those trying desperately to get out.
But no matter how great the danger, if it got him one step closer to Mangold, he would take the risk.
Rosie stared out at the lights strung along Route 101. She felt sick and feverish and, as she watched the lights blur and dance in and out of focus, an icy sensation spread up her body from her feet. Could this be the Indian flu? She leaned over and kissed Lucy’s head, praying that it wasn’t, that her feverishness and Lucy’s catatonia had been brought on by the trauma they were enduring. She’d had a sore throat for a couple of days now, but the virus hadn’t reached Sagebrush – had it?
She cast the thought from her mind and tried to focus on the immediate problem of what this madwoman was planning to do when they got to LA. One thing was certain: if they pulled up at a roadblock, Rosie was determined to make her throat even more sore by screaming her head off.
But shortly after passing a sign warning them to TURN BACK, Heather stopped the car and sat in silence for a moment. Then she jumped out and wrenched open the rear door. Rosie’s throat clenched with fear and she shrank back in her seat as Heather reached towards her. But, to Rosie’s astonishment, Heather merely grabbed her seat belt and clicked it across her body. Then she ran around the other side and repeated the action with the unresponsive Lucy. What was she doing?
As if she’d heard Rosie’s unspoken words, Heather looked right at her. ‘I ain’t doing this for your benefit, bitch,’ she said. ‘I just don’t need you two crashing in on top of me when we get going.’