The Seventh Plague

by James Rollins

  “True, and you’ll find it quite common here. The park truly sees few visitors, so many of the animals have not developed a natural fear of humans. Last month, a woman woke in the tent with a blue monkey cuddled up next to her, which is quite amazing considering the species was once considered extinct here in the park. But give nature a chance, and it will surprise you.”

  Kowalski scowled at the troop across the river. “If one of those wakes up next to me, surprise won’t be the word. More like shi—”

  Gray cut him off and pointed up. “Let’s keep going.”

  They scaled the last quarter without any mishaps. Up top, the river snaked into a dark forest that looked even more impenetrable. Birdcalls and screeches echoed from its depths.

  Derek eyed the path ahead. “The jungle looks primeval, like we’re traveling back in time.”

  “In some ways, we are.” Noah pulled out a machete, ready to hack a path if necessary, and set off along the river’s edge.

  Roho kept close, his tail swishing nervously.

  “This region of Rwanda is part of the East African Rift Valley, a great crevice that hugs around the western side of Lake Victoria, like a big crescent moon curving from Lake Tanganyika to the south and ending at the edge of the Nile basin.”

  Derek mumbled to Jane, “If Livingstone ever followed that path, he would have come straight through here.”

  Noah continued, pointing his machete. “These are some of the oldest mountains in Africa, made of Precambrian basement rock.” He glanced back at them. “Basically the very crust of the continent. And these forests have been around for nearly as long.”

  Gray searched the jungle, appreciating the living history surrounding him.

  Almost in reverence, the group continued in silence for the next mile, walking in single file, their line of helmet lamps an illuminated caterpillar worming its way deeper into the mysteries here.

  Roho became a tad braver. He began to venture from Noah’s side, sniffing here, squatting there, but he always circled back to get a reassuring pat or a kind word.

  Noah smiled like a proud papa, maybe a bit sadly knowing he would eventually have to say good-bye. On one pass, Noah bent down and nuzzled his friend.

  “Ndagukunda, Roho. Ndagukunda,” he whispered in the lion’s ear, which earned the man an appreciative rumble back.

  Gray didn’t know a lick of Kinyarwanda, but he suspected Ndagukunda meant I love you.

  And clearly that sentiment flowed both ways.

  After a time, the trail opened enough for Gray to walk next to Noah. “So how did you end up working here at the park?”

  Gray meant it to be a casual inquiry, but from Noah’s pained expression it was a touchy subject. He didn’t shy from answering, though. “When I was a young man, I lived in Kigali.”

  “Your capital.”

  “Yes, I joined our national army when I was sixteen. I was very proud, even earning the rank of corporal by 1994.”

  Gray began to understand the pain he heard in his voice. In July of that year, one of the worst acts of genocide occurred in Rwanda, as a tribal war broke out. The Hutu-run government sought to purge the Tutsi. By some estimates, a million people were slaughtered over the course of a hundred days.

  Noah sighed, looking out at the jungle. “I was Hutu.”

  He didn’t say anything else.

  Roho came back around, as if sensing his master’s distress, circling and rubbing. Noah ignored him, lost in memories he must continually fight to keep buried.

  After several quiet minutes, he finally spoke. “It is better here. Animals teach you much. Teach you how to live . . .”

  His voice trailed off, but Gray could finish it on his own.

  . . . when you don’t deserve to.

  Gray fell back, allowing the man to continue ahead. Clearly Noah had sought to rediscover himself here by caring for the defenseless to make up for what he had failed to do in the past.

  Again they marched in silence, putting one foot in front of the other. They slowly crossed into a section of forest where the river had overrun its banks and flooded the forests to either side. It reminded Gray of regions of the Amazon that would seasonally inundate, changing woods into swamps. But this region looked stable, an eternally drowned forest in the middle of the mountains.

  Noah used his machete to cut branches to make walking sticks for them all. “Careful of snakes.” He demonstrated poking ahead of them. “And for patches of quicksand.”

  “You take us to the best places, Gray,” Kowalski groused.

  They set off again, moving more slowly. Their lights reflected off the dark water, making it harder to see what lurked below. But it was rarely deeper than midcalf, the depth rising and falling with the landscape. Islands dotted the swamp around them, and occasional bright pairs of round eyes stared at them from high branches.

  “Bush babies,” Noah said. “Small nocturnal primates.”

  They continued onward. After another twenty minutes of hiking, Jane reached forward and lightly touched Gray’s shoulder. “Look over to your right. Are those lights or are my eyes playing tricks?”

  He turned to where she pointed. Far in the drowned forest, he could make out faint glimmers, softly glowing patches. They shimmered in a kaleidoscope of hues.

  Curious, he waved to the others. “Turn off your lamps.”

  As the lights were doused, the effect grew more dramatic. It spread deeper and wider than it had first appeared. Some patches were iridescent, others a soft glimmer. It was phosphorescent and incandescent. There were streaks and whorls and splatters. It was like Jackson Pollock had come out here with a paintbrush and a palette of luminescent paint.

  “What’s causing it?” Derek whispered.

  Jane frowned. “Maybe a glowing moss or fungus.”

  But in so many colors?

  It made no sense.

  Gray turned to Noah. “Have you seen anything like that?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  Apparently neither had another member of their party. Roho, ever curious, bounded toward the phenomenon. His paws splashed loudly through the shallow water.

  “Roho, no!” Noah headed after him, fumbling in his pocket for the control to the shock collar.

  Gray clicked on his lamp and followed, drawing the others with him. He had heard tales of fiery will-o’-the-wisps luring the unwary into swamps and bog. He prayed they weren’t falling for the same trap.

  Ahead, Noah tried to get Roho to obey, holding out his controller, pressing the button. But the cub continued his playful pursuit.

  As they neared the patch of painted forest, Noah must have raised the collar’s charge. Roho let out a small yelp, bouncing off his paws and finally coming to a stop.

  Noah hurried to the lion’s side, quickly reassuring the cub, who did figure eights around the man’s legs. “Babarira, Roho,” he apologized. “Babarira.”

  Gray and the others gathered around the pair. Now that he was closer, standing at its edge, he saw the effect was stunning. It was an ethereal starscape trapped under the canopy, glowing softly, reflected in the water.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jane whispered.

  And the forest responded to her admiration.

  From its farthest depths rose a low murmur, a chatter of many voices, the words too faint to make clear.

  The eerie noise shivered all the hairs over Gray’s body. He remembered Noah saying how these forests were said to be haunted.

  Seichan grabbed his arm. “We need to get out of here.”

  He stepped back—but the painted forest had already begun to move.

  24

  June 3, 2:38 P.M. EDT

  Ellesmere Island, Canada

  If I wasn’t so scared, I’d be dizzy.

  Still hidden in the cargo hold, Painter felt the Boeing C-17 Globemaster bank for another slow turn above the storm.

  After the turbulent, teeth-rattling ride through the cloud layer, the aircraft had reached the calm
er air above the storm and had been circling for more than an hour. The crew was likely coordinating and preparing for the release of the eighteen quarter-ton canisters of Pestis fulmen, but with the tempest below and the geomagnetic storm above, communication between Aurora Station and the Globemaster had to be challenging.

  Or maybe everyone was being extra careful.

  With his cheek near the biohazard label on the crate next to him, he appreciated such caution.

  He had used the passing time to figure out how many others were aboard the airship. He had to be careful, sneaking between the containers.

  He spotted two men in black coveralls—Anton’s crew—both carrying the same assault rifle Painter had slung over his own shoulder. While waiting, he had made sure the two extra magazines he had stolen from the guards at the communication shack were fully loaded. He also timed the security men’s movements. Unfortunately they rotated regularly and refused to gather in one spot together.

  Too bad.

  A few moments ago, Painter had almost been caught by one of the aircraft’s flight crew. The man had needed to relieve himself, but the plane’s single restroom was in use, so he came back to the rear hold to avail himself of a relief tube, basically a funnel that piped outside. The man had stood near enough to Painter that he could have tapped the guy on the shoulder. Still, the close call had allowed Painter to note the holstered sidearm. He estimated there had to be at least two people in the flight crew, plus a loadmaster for helping with the cargo.

  The final members aboard the aircraft were six scientists, a worrisome mix of men and women. From their excessive chatter, they were clearly civilians, which was problematic, as they could very well be innocent of any malicious intent, just enthusiastic researchers.

  If Painter burst out with his gun blazing, he might be able to take out the two armed guards, but he could end up with the scientists caught in the crossfire. And what would it get him in the end? At the first sign of a problem, the flight crew would simply button up the cockpit and leave Painter pounding on the bulletproof door in frustration. Plus the loadmaster inside could activate the automatic air-delivery system from the flight deck.

  His plan was far simpler.

  At the front of the row of pallets were two red emergency shutdown buttons, one on each side of the hold. They would cut power to the hydraulic plows up there, each designed to push their row of nine pallets across rollers and dump the load out the rear hatch. The plan had only two hiccups. First, the cutoff switches only worked once everything was powered and in motion, which meant he could not act until the very last moment. Second, even if he hit the switch, the loadmaster could still override and get things moving again.

  So Painter needed the time between the first hiccup and the second to convince everybody on board to stop what they were doing.

  To accomplish that, he needed one other thing.

  Hostages.

  A commotion stirred the scientists around a makeshift station. A monitor showed a scintillation map of the storm surging through the ionosphere. They made appreciative comments about its turbulence, speaking in cryptic scientific code.

  “Look at the plasma spike. Definitely an HSS.”

  “It could be a co-rotating interaction region.”

  “A CIR? No, the G-scale is through the roof.”

  With no windows in the hold, Painter could only imagine the view of the aurora borealis at this height. Above the cloud layer, the midday sun still shone, but from its low arc this time of year, an aurora of this magnitude was likely still visible. He wished he could see it.

  Regrettably, a genie heard him.

  A low moan of hydraulics rose all around him. He glanced over a shoulder as the back of the plane began to open. Daylight blazed into the dim hold through a ship-wide crack.

  Giddy shouts rose from the front, along with some clapping.

  Painter tucked himself more tightly between two pallets. Winds roared outside but failed to enter the hold due to the giant ship’s draft as it flew onward. The aircraft bobbled a bit due to the sudden drag from the opening doors, but the pilot proved his skill at keeping the wings even and steadying their flight.

  At the moment, the plane headed toward the low sun, which allowed Painter a view to the dark blue sky behind their tail. Scintillating waves of green and red washed across the heavens, dancing and weaving. Momentarily mesmerized, Painter failed to immediately recognize a change in timbre of the hydraulics, but a grind of a motor drew him immediately around.

  One of the plows had been engaged.

  Painter had suspected they would eject one row at a time, lessening the chance that the cascade of blooming weather balloons would tangle.

  Unfortunately, the row of nine crates he was hiding among was going overboard first.

  With everything starting, Painter took one last look, fixing the position of everyone in the hold—then ducked out of hiding and ran low between the towering crates and the curve of the plane’s hull.

  He reached the red shutdown button and slapped it with his palm.

  The plow, which had been closing down on his row along the port side, halted with a disappointed sigh of its hydraulics.

  All eyes turned to him, shocked, as if he had appeared out of thin air.

  It was time to threaten his hostages.

  He lunged behind the first portside crate and sheltered behind it. Staying out of view, he pointed his assault rifle at the row of crates along the starboard hull and centered his sights on one of the biohazard labels.

  He hollered to those gathered at the front. “No one moves, or I start shooting my hostages!”

  Let’s see how much they value their lives—and any future male children.

  Apparently his threat failed to reach the loadmaster on the flight deck. The second steel plow groaned and began pushing toward the opposite row, about to roll his hostages away. The loadmaster must have noted the red light on his board for the first row and decided to eject the second instead to keep to the schedule, which would also give him time to investigate the reason for the interruption.

  Regrettably, that didn’t work for Painter’s schedule.

  Pinned down, he had no way to reach the cutoff on the starboard side of the hold, so the plow continued unimpeded. The sledge reached the first pallet and shoved it into the next and the whole deadly parade began to roll toward the open aft doors.

  Painter waited until the plow drew abreast of his position. He aimed his rifle at the hydraulic lines, hoping to sever one or two and force the plow to a halt. He squeezed his trigger for a cautious spurt, fearful of ricochets in the enclosed space.

  Two rounds ruptured a line, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

  At least, not for the plow.

  One of the guards, mistaking his shots for an attack, panicked and opened fire toward Painter’s position. As he was still safely sheltered, none of the rounds hit him, but it might have been better if they had.

  At such short range, the shots pierced the aluminum case of the Pestis vessel, passing fully through and over Painter’s head. The rounds lost enough momentum to only ping off the next container.

  Still, the damage was done.

  Fountains of crimson poured out, showering Painter. From the screams of alarm and terror, he imagined the same was spilling from the holes out front. But the disaster wasn’t done.

  Painter heard a sharp hissing overhead.

  Oh no . . .

  As he glanced up, the weather balloon exploded out of its sealed package on top, bursting like an air bag during a car crash. A bullet must have struck its inflation tank. It blasted to the roof of the hold, shaking and whipping, trying to escape. The balloon then did what it had been designed to do and flew toward the open hatch. The damaged, leaking container got yanked off its pallet and dragged with it.

  Painter dove out of its way, crashing headlong into the hull.

  The quarter-ton crate came within inches of cracking his head open.

  Othe
r crates in line were knocked over, but their combined drag finally captured their wayward companion. The balloon ripped and deflated, falling over the rest of the row, tangling everything up.

  On the starboard side of the hold, the plow continued its duty, oblivious to the chaos on the portside.

  Painter watched as one crate after the other was dumped overboard. They fell leadenly away, but then moments later, white mushrooms bloomed against the blue skies, backlit by the shimmering aurora borealis.

  Nine balloons rose heavenward, swinging their deadly cargo beneath.

  Helpless, Painter remained slumped against the side hull.

  A loud voice rose from up front. “What the hell happened?”

  Painter turned, guessing the shocked man was the plane’s loadmaster, come to check on his handiwork. Rifles pointed accusingly at Painter.

  Soaked to the skin like Carrie on prom night, he shrugged. “You think you’re having a bad day.”

  3:39 P.M.

  Hang in there . . .

  Kat crouched over Safia, holding a cold compress to her forehead. After the first seizure, Kat had moved the half-conscious woman out of the Sno-Cat and over to one of the Inuit’s hide tents. Despite outward appearances, the nomadic dwelling on Lake Hazen had a camp cot and piles of fur blankets and was heated by a camp stove vented to the outside.

  The three Inuit ice fishermen—Tagak, Joseph, and Natan—had offered their help, but Kat feared exposing them, so had them stay back. Still, she had accepted the use of their tent and a first-aid kit, which contained a welcome bottle of aspirin, both for her and Safia.

  She had downed three, hoping not to get sick.

  She made Rory do the same. He hovered behind her, pacing the small space. She had realized keeping him bound was a waste of a useful resource, especially when it came to hauling Safia here.

  Besides, where could he go? She still had the Sno-Cat’s keys, and the Inuits’ only means of transportation were snowshoes and a dogsled. And an hour ago, Natan had taken off with his tethered team toward Alert, intending to get help.

  Lake Hazen had a small makeshift airstrip. It was one of the park’s three spots where you could land a plane. This early in the season, it was snowed over and so far unused, but hopefully Camp Alert could dispatch help here.