The Seventh Plague

by James Rollins

  Well, Dad, you’ve accomplished that in spades.

  Her father was mentioned on many of the broadcasted updates, often showing his smiling face, his features tanned and sun-wrinkled. Snatches of old video were sometimes played, the footage shot around the time the survey team had vanished. Seeing those images, hearing his voice again, pained her, but she could not look away. One photo showed the entire vanished party, including a stern, determined-looking Rory.

  The picture reminded her that more was at stake than just her father’s legacy.

  For the thousandth time, she prayed her brother was still alive.

  A harsh laugh drew her attention to the window. Kowalski leaned there, watching the street below. His neck was crooked as he cradled a cell phone to his ear.

  “Maria,” he said, “I might be on the same continent, but I don’t have time to check on Baako. I’m sure the big kid is fine. He’s probably making all sorts of new jungle friends.”

  Jane eavesdropped on the conversation, glad for the distraction. From prior talks over the past days, she’d gotten to know the big guy better. He had a girlfriend who was in Germany, working with her sister at some lab. He had been visiting them when he had been called to London.

  His partner, Seichan, was out in the hotel hallway, keeping guard.

  A weight fell heavily onto the sofa. She turned to find Derek rubbing his eyes. He propped his shoeless feet onto the coffee table. She noted a hole in the toe of his left sock. For some reason, she found it inordinately charming, a testament to Derek’s absentmindedness concerning the everyday details of life, like buying new socks.

  He caught her staring and curled his toes to better hide the hole, then grinned at her. “As you recall, we didn’t have much time for packing.”

  A small laugh escaped her, catching her by surprise.

  Derek’s smile broadened. “At least I’m wearing socks.”

  She drew her bare feet closer, tucking them under her.

  He gave a scolding shake of his head. “Simply shameless, Ms. McCabe.”

  A sharp voice drew both their attentions to the television. A robed man was yelling in Arabic, jabbing a finger at the newscaster. He was a local imam, clearly fired up.

  “What’s he saying?” Kowalski asked.

  Jane translated. “He’s insisting that everyone should ignore the health ministry’s warning to avoid public places. Instead, he wants them to gather for services at the city’s mosques. He’s even telling them to bring the sick to be prayed over rather than seeking medical help. It’s insane. Thousands more would be infected.”

  Derek sat straighter. “He believes this is a punishment from God. Only by beseeching forgiveness can people be saved.”

  Jane listened closer. “He’s now claiming he’s prayed with one of the sick and heard the man speaking in tongues and experiencing visions of locusts darkening the skies, of people dying beside blood-red rivers, and of lightning ripping apart the heavens.”

  Derek shook his head. “I didn’t think it would be long before someone tried to tie this epidemic to the biblical plagues.”

  Jane heard her father’s name mentioned. “Quiet.”

  As she listened, her blood grew colder.

  Derek slid across the couch and put an arm around her. “Just turn it off. The guy’s clearly a nutcase.”

  “What did he say?” Kowalski pressed.

  Derek took the television remote and muted the sound.

  Jane fell deeper into the sofa’s cushions. “He said that my father was the vessel for God’s wrath. He went out into the desert, looking for proof of Exodus, and returned carrying the very plagues of that time to punish this world for its infamy.”

  Derek faced her. “Jane, that blathering idiot is a fearmonger, a bloody opportunist. He’s only glomming on to this angle because of your father’s well-publicized positions. You know his theories were mentioned in the news when his team vanished. Back then, these same religious nuts claimed they went missing because Harold dared to seek the truth of Exodus through science instead of faith. Now they’re spinning it the other way to suit their own ends.”

  The hotel door burst open, making them all jump.

  Seichan stalked in, cupping a hand over her radio earpiece. “Gray’s on his way up.”

  Kowalski frowned. “Are we leaving already?”

  “Not yet. Monk and Dr. Kano are with him. They want to go over something first.”

  Derek stood up. “What?”

  Seichan’s eyes settled on Jane. “Something about a new set of plagues.”

  Jane’s gaze shifted to the silent television screen. The imam was up on his feet now, red-faced and shouting at the newscaster. Her father’s photo hovered to the side. She wanted to believe Derek’s dismissal of the imam’s words, but one worry fought against it.

  She stared at the blustering figure on the screen.

  What if he’s right?

  10

  June 2, 2:07 P.M. EET

  Cairo, Egypt

  Gray noted the tension as soon as he entered the hotel room. Jane McCabe stood with her arms hugging her chest. Derek hovered near her with concern. Kowalski and Seichan were whispering together, both staring toward a muted television.

  As Monk and Ileara crowded into the room behind him, Jane unfolded her arms and took a step forward. “What’s this about a new plague?”

  Gray turned to his two companions. “Catch them up first and let me know when you’re done.”

  He strode toward the neighboring bedroom, needing a moment of privacy. He checked his watch and slipped out his satellite phone. It should be a little after eight in the morning in D.C. He owed his brother a return call.

  Once in the bedroom, he partially closed the door, then dialed his brother’s cell. It rang several times before a bleary voice answered.

  “Wh . . . who is this?”

  “Kenny, it’s Gray.”

  “Oh, hey.” His brother coughed to clear his throat. “What time is it?”

  Gray felt a familiar twinge of irritation. “Never mind the time. You asked me to call you. What’s wrong? Is Dad okay?”

  “Yeah . . . no. Hell, I don’t know.”

  His grip tightened on the phone. “Kenny, just tell me what’s going on.”

  “I was at the nursing home yesterday. Dad’s under an isolation order. You have to wear gloves, a mask, and gown before entering. Real pain in the ass.”

  Gray rolled his eyes. Cry me a river already.

  “Dad’s got some kind of new infection. Resistant staph or something.”

  Concerned, Gray sat down on the bed. “Staph? Are you talking about MRSA?”

  “Huh?”

  “Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Doctors are afraid it might go septic. So they put him on a bunch of new antibiotics. May mean Dad has to stay even longer.”

  Great . . . just great.

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “He’s in and out when I visit. Something to do with his blood pressure. They’re also watching a spot that might blow up into a bedsore.”

  Gray fought a pang of guilt for not being there. He pictured the frail figure of his father in the bed, hooked up to machines and IV lines. He could only imagine the anxiety the old man must be experiencing, lost in that fog, unable to understand what was happening to him.

  His father’s last words still haunted him.

  Promise me.

  Gray suspected his dad wasn’t talking about a pledge to return and see him before he passed. Instead, the old man’s earlier words had stayed with Gray.

  I’m ready to go.

  The statement had been accompanied by a silent plea shining in his father’s eyes, asking for help, for Gray to make the hard decision when the time came.

  But can I do it?

  “That’s all I got,” Kenny said, winding up the call. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  “Thanks . . . thanks for being ther
e, Kenny.”

  There was a long pause. When his brother finally responded, his voice was softer, drained of its usual bitterness. “You got it. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

  Kenny hung up, and Gray lowered the phone. He sat for a few breaths, hearing the murmur of the others in the next room. With a sigh, he hauled to his feet. He turned to find a figure shadowing the room’s doorway, hovering at the threshold as if reluctant to intrude.

  “Everything all right?” Seichan asked.

  He pocketed his phone. “Not really, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

  At least, not yet.

  Promise me.

  She came forward, slipped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his chest in sympathy. He pulled her closer and tightened his embrace, knowing she was struggling with her own ghosts out of the past. Still, they took advantage of this brief respite to share this moment together.

  Finally, a shout rose from the next room.

  “Gray!” Monk called. “You’re going to want to hear this next part.”

  Seichan leaned back, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Or we can simply leave. Right now. When I canvassed the hotel, I spotted a fire escape.”

  Despite her attempt at levity, he read something deeper in her eyes, a seriousness that underlay her words. He found himself considering it. What would it be like to turn his back on everything and be truly free, to take that fire escape and never look back?

  But before he could contemplate this further, Seichan broke their embrace. She turned away quickly, as if perhaps fearing he would see the depth of her own desire.

  “Duty calls,” she said and headed toward the door.

  Gray followed, drawn by his responsibilities, both here and back home.

  Promise me.

  2:22 P.M.

  Derek kept close to Jane, sensing the cloud of despair building around her.

  For the past several minutes, they had listened as Monk and Ileara updated them on the status of the growing pandemic, but in all that gloom there had been one bright spot, concerning Jane’s father.

  “So you think it’s possible he was attempting to protect us by undergoing the mummification process?” Jane asked, hope and relief in her voice.

  “I do.” Ileara touched Jane’s shoulder. “Unfortunately with his body gone, we can’t confirm it.”

  “Still, it could be one of the reasons why the medical lab in London was firebombed,” Monk said. “To cover this detail up.”

  Jane swallowed. “But you mentioned something about other plagues on the horizon.”

  “Yes, the other shoe that’s yet to drop.” Monk waved to Gray and Seichan as they joined them from the neighboring room. “You’re just in time.”

  Gray nodded to Ileara. “Tell us what you meant.”

  The woman scrunched up her face, clearly struggling with how to explain. “Are any of you familiar with the term gene drive?” After getting blank stares, she continued. “How about Zika then?”

  Gray frowned. “You mean the virus that swept through South America and now threatens the U.S.?”

  “Exactly.”

  Even Derek knew about this disease. It caused tragic birth defects, including microcephaly in newborns. He remembered seeing photos of those poor children.

  “Some countries, including the U.S., are considering combating the spread of this disease by employing gene drive technology, specifically targeting the mosquitoes that carry the virus.”

  “How?” Jane asked. “What is gene drive technology?”

  “It’s when scientists add or modify genes in such a manner that the change is inheritable across an entire population. In Florida, scientists are proposing releasing genetically altered swarms of Aedes aegypti—the mosquitoes that carry Zika—into the wild. When these altered pests breed with ordinary mosquitoes, the next generation of females are born sterile, while fertile males continue to carry this damaging gene forward into the succeeding generations. From estimates, Aedes aegypti could be extinct in Florida within a year, eradicating the threat of Zika at the same time.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Derek said. “Are you proposing this gene drive technology as a way to fight this new pandemic?”

  “No.” Ileara looked around the room. “On the contrary. I think what we may be facing here is a natural version of this gene drive technology, but in this case, we are the target of extinction rather than the mosquito.”

  Ileara twisted around and pulled out her laptop. “Let me show you.” As she powered up her computer, she continued. “I told you before how Archaea microbes evolved alongside viruses, and that this particular specimen is crammed full of a slew of different viral particles, which it releases when it infects a patient.”

  “Think of it as a Trojan horse,” Monk said. “Once it enters the castle, it unleashes what is hidden inside.”

  “Luckily most of the viruses are proving to be harmless, except for one, which happens to be in the same flavivirus family as Zika. It’s proven to be a particularly nasty fellow.”

  “What does it do?” Gray asked.

  “It attacks cells undergoing meiosis,” she explained. “Most of our body heals and grows through mitosis, where a cell divides to produce two identical daughter cells. But meiosis occurs in ovaries and testicles to produce gametes. Sperm cells and eggs. Which carry only half of the mother cell’s genetic code.”

  Derek didn’t like the sound of this. “What damage does this virus do?”

  “It’s very specific, targeting a single chromosome.” Ileara stepped back from her computer. “Humans—and most mammals for that matter—have gene pairs that determine our sex. XX for females, and XY for males.”

  She pointed to her laptop. “Here is a volumetric rendering of those two genes in a healthy individual. As you can see, the X chromosome is significantly larger and more robust than its diminutive Y companion.”

  Ileara tapped the smaller image on the screen. “The virus in question targets only the Y chromosome. We don’t know why. It might be a weaker target. It might be pure chance. Either way, on this next rendering, you can see how much damage it does.”

  On the screen, a large section of the chromosome was now missing.

  “It looks like an oven glove,” Kowalski noted.

  “I suppose it does,” Ileara said.

  The large man grunted, apparently satisfied with his contribution to the discussion.

  Ileara continued, “The damaged section has been analyzed by geneticists. They believe that males who survive this disease will have sperm cells that carry this defective Y chromosome, which would have an impact on any children he sires. Baby girls should be fine, as they would be carrying the normal XX complement, but any boys, if not stillborn, would be born with the damaged Y chromosomes and likely die within months.”

  Derek began to understand the threat. “That means, even if we survive this Archaean pandemic, we could still be doomed as a species because of this virus.”

  Jane took a step back from the desk, her face gone notably paler.

  “What is it?” Derek asked.

  “It’s the tenth plague,” she mumbled.

  He frowned. “What do you—?”

  She crossed to a table strewn with books, picked up her father’s Bible, and flipped to a tabbed page. She read a passage from the Book of Exodus. “ ‘And all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the firstborn of the maidservant that is behind the mill; and all the firstborn of beasts.’ ”

  She lowered the book. “Even the firstborn of beasts,” she repeated. “Dr. Kano, you mentioned that this microbe was likely to infect not just humans but also most animals.”

  “Correct. Anything with an electrical nervous system.”

  “So this virus could be the scientific explanation for the tenth plague,” Jane said. “One that strikes both people and beasts. Back in ancient Egypt, the change in the
Nile would have taken months to wash out of the watershed, while this secondary genetic damage could have lasted even longer. I can easily see how all these deaths of male offspring—both human and animal—could have been transformed and folded into the story of the plagues, its final curse.”

  Ileara nodded, looking as if she had expected Jane to come to this conclusion.

  “And Professor McCabe had his own theory about the rest of the plagues,” Derek added, drawing everyone’s attention. “I spent many long nights challenging Harold about the truth behind the Bible’s ten plagues. He proposed a theory for explaining them that’s not dissimilar to what we’re talking about.”

  “What was his theory?” Gray asked.

  Jane answered before he could. “He believed it all started when some environmental change turned the Nile red. There are certainly plenty of reports of bodies of water spontaneously changing color. Due to algal blooms, bacterial overgrowth, even heavy metal contaminations.”

  Ileara agreed. “And one of the most dramatic of those changes occurs seasonally right here in the Middle East. Lake Urmia in Iran turns to a bright crimson every summer due to an overgrowth of Halobacteriaceae.” She turned to Gray, lifting one brow for emphasis. “Which happens to be an Archaea microbe.”

  “Like the pathogen we’re facing.” Gray’s eyes pinched. “So there’s precedent for this happening in the region.”

  “And not just here,” Ileara said pointedly. “There’s another Archaea microbe that turns your Great Salt Lake in Utah a blushing pink at times.”

  “Okay,” Gray conceded, “but how does this lead to the other nine plagues?”

  Derek answered, “If the Nile—the lifeblood of the region—turned toxic, the subsequent plagues could be explained without needing the hand of God.”

  He crossed and opened the professor’s journal to where Harold had jotted down the ten plagues. He ran his finger down the list, while sharing the professor’s thoughts on the subject.

  “The next three plagues—frogs, lice, and flies—could have been triggered after the waters turned red. Frogs would have flooded out of the poisoned waters of the Nile, where they subsequently died. Their sudden drop in population would have led the frogs’ prey—mosquitoes, flies, and lice—to explode in numbers.”