Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1)

by Bradley West

  “Even if we don’t test it on anyone first, it’s still impossible to meet that deadline. At a minimum we’ll have to sample each batch and test it against live virus samples. Even if we produce the drug in outside facilities, we’ll still need dozens of techs to run the quality assurance protocols. There aren’t enough people here who have BSL-4 expertise for that to happen. To rush is a recipe for disaster.” Carla finished with her decontamination suit, save for the clear plastic helmet that a lab tech stood by to assist with. She stood up and motioned for her headgear.

  Holland’s face turned red. “Don’t you walk away from me! When you’re done with your shift, I want manpower and facilities requirements to produce and test one hundred liters within ten days. You’ll stay in this building until you certify the efficacy and quality of each batch.”

  “My team’s already exhausted. If you push any more, we’ll make mistakes and people will die.”

  “This is a national emergency of the highest priority. Two hours ago, I ordered your formula to be sent to two more BSL-4 labs. If we lose one or two labs and a few scientists, it’s a cheap price to pay for the preservation of our country.”

  “That sounds like fascist crap. I’d like to see the program rollout plan covering the entire population of three hundred and thirty million. How long will that take, or does the emergency end once ten thousand cronies get taken care of?” Carla latched down her helmet and motioned for the guard to open the first of two doors into the fishbowl where she’d hook up the pressure hoses that would circulate clean air. She was done with this hack, done with Livermore Labs and done with the United States government's executive branch.

  * * * * *

  Melvin awoke to the baby’s cries. Tyson’s diaper had leaked and soiled his box. The big man’s movement triggered the overhead lights. With the breast milk gone and Tyson not eating much anyway, he knew that he had to find baby formula that he’d accept. He looked around the bikers’ clubhouse and saw Muller still sprawled on a mattress while Katerina smoked a cigarette on the sofa. Melvin walked over to Katerina. “We need food, formula and fuel. I’ll watch the baby while you shop.”

  Katerina blew a smoke ring and picked up a sheet of paper listing her lab equipment requirements. She studied the list in lieu of a reply.

  Muller sat up on his filthy mattress. “Melvin! You don’t order anyone around, least of all our scientist. If she dies, we die. Get off your ass and see if Burns is alive. If he isn’t, steal a vehicle with gas, then get us some food. Leave the baby here.”

  “I don’t leave the baby here. If you think different, you deal with me.”

  Muller strode across the room toward Melvin. Spittle flew as Muller shouted at his underling. “You take orders from me, you stupid sonofabitch.”

  Melvin drew his Glock with a swift movement and aimed it at his boss’ enraged face. Muller stopped six feet short. “You almost forgot to socially distance and you need to put on your mask,” Melvin said. The repartee lost its oomph when Melvin’s extended right arm began to shake.

  “Put the weapon down.”

  Before Melvin could decide, Katerina spoke. “I found a biotech company run by a Cal professor that has the lab equipment I want. It’s thirty miles away in San Mateo. If you macho assholes can back off, I’ll show you where it is.”

  “First Melvin has to dispose of Burns’ body and steal a new vehicle,” Muller insisted.

  Melvin’s arm stiffened as he focused on Muller’s facial scar. “Here are the new rules: I’m in charge of the baby. No one touches Tyson but me. I don’t handle Burns without a monkey suit: Either you or Catwoman can pull that duty. And give me my goddamn cocaine.”

  “This isn’t over,” Muller said, but he handed the jar over, and Melvin pocketed it as he holstered his weapon.

  * * * * *

  Travis dialed his ex-wife’s home phone to check on the kids, though his ability to assist was limited. “Hello?” an unfamiliar male voice answered.

  “Who’s this? I’d like to speak with Sally.”

  “You must be Travis. What do you want?”

  “I want to know about the health of my kids and anything else that comes to mind. Put Sally on.”

  “The children are fine. Sally doesn’t want to speak to you. Don’t call again.”

  Travis’ blood pressure spiked, but before he could reply, he heard her voice. “It’s nothing,” the man said. “Just your asshole ex. He hung up.”

  “Give me the phone, Luke. I hope you didn’t say anything dumb.”

  “You sure know how to pick ’em, don’t you?” Travis said when Sally came on the line.

  “Including you, I’m on an oh-for-three streak. How are things?”

  “It’s bad, so bad that I’ve decided to leave the country. How are the children? How are you?”

  “As well as can be expected. Everyone’s fine. Luke built a bunker out back and stocked it with food . . . we’ll survive.” She lowered her voice. “He’s a jerk and the kids don’t like him, but right now he’s all I got.”

  “If he lays a hand on you or the kids, I’ll—”

  “No, no, nothing like that. He’s just insecure, competing with a war hero and living in a big house he didn’t pay for. That sort of thing.”

  “Once I’m settled in Canada, I’ll send you the location and a ham radio frequency I’ll monitor. Does your bunker have a battery-powered shortwave radio? Don’t count on the internet or even electricity if the virus keeps up at this rate.”

  “I don’t know about the radio. I can check.”

  “If you don’t have one, tell Luke to get one plus fifty spare batteries. Depending on what happens, I can come back for the kids and you. In the meantime, that bunker could be your salvation, so stick with him.”

  “He’s back: I have to hang up.” Then in a louder voice, “And don’t call me again.” The line died.

  Travis didn’t have time for reflection. He’d sorted through the sat photos and alarm schematics and decided that Bettadapur’s Scientific Instruments provided the easiest pickings. He’d only have Maung available tonight as Arkar was on duty. Travis wasn’t confident he could fulfill Carla’s wish list with just one helper. He called Sal.

  * * * * *

  Muller’s attempt to persuade Melvin to wear Muller’s decontamination coveralls had failed. “I’m not so dumb as you think. If you want to see if Burns is still alive, you go out there and look.”

  Muller shrugged, but his bottled-up rage simmered. He took a seat, pulled off his shoes and unzipped his suit when the tarps parted, and a ghost walked in. Neither Muller nor Melvin spoke, but Muller pulled his facemask up.

  Katerina found her voice. “Fraser! You’re up! How are you feeling?”

  “Like a bucket of spew. Do we have water?” Burns tottered into the kitchen area; Muller and Melvin backed away.

  “You can drink the tap water,” Katerina said. “There’s beer in the fridge, but no food other than pepperoni sticks.”

  “I’m not hungry, just thirsty.” Burns lifted his hood and downed three dirty beer glasses of Oakland municipal water. “I ache all over, but my fever broke. Where are we? What’s happened?”

  “You’re in Oakland at a bikers’ warehouse,” Katerina said. “I gave you some of the baby’s blood, and it seems the antibodies saved you. Last night we thought you were dead meat.”

  “I need the toilet and then I must have a lie-down, but first I have to shed this suit.”

  “I’ll clean the Tahoe,” Melvin said to Muller. “It’ll be safer than whatever we’d boost off the street. You being the expert driver and all, you can find us food and gas.”

  Muller gave him the death ray stare. “You need to watch your mouth.”

  Melvin ignored Muller and spoke to Burns. “You can take off the suit, but put on a mask. I’ll set up a mattress for you over in the corner. Wipe off everything you touch, including the toilet seat.”

  * * * * *

  Muller fumed as he drove the disi
nfected Tahoe onto the deserted street as Melvin shut the garage door. What, Melvin calling the shots? Not on my fucking watch. He and Melvin were overdue for a heart-to-heart.

  In daylight, downtown Oakland was eerie, depopulated with pockets of destruction and blocks where everything was intact. Where were the people? The fuel? The food? Muller found a gas station where a pair of men lingered by the pumps, waiting to rob anyone foolish enough to pull in. He parked on the curb, pulled his Walther and had a red dot on the lead man’s forehead. “Stop, shut up and listen. You can make a hundred bucks each, or you can die. What’ll it be?”

  “Easy, easy,” the smaller man said, glancing at the crimson spec on his partner’s forehead. “We don’t want trouble. Whaddya we gotta do?”

  “You earn a hundred when I pull up to a pump, and another hundred when my tank’s full of premium gas. You fuck with me and I’ll drop you both.”

  “Be cool! You can pay us the two hundred when we’re done. Point that laser somewhere else, brah.”

  Two hundred dollars for forty-two gallons of gas was a bargain, and Muller didn’t even have to pump it himself. The next stop was someplace with food, but the supermarkets were all looted. The restaurants would be the same or guarded by their owners. He drove up San Pablo Avenue on nearly empty streets, ran lights at random and ignored the odd squad car. On 58th Street, his answer stared him in the face: McClatchy High School, shuttered but otherwise intact. He used a tire iron to pop the padlock on the gate and parked around back. The same tire iron plus his Leatherman made short work of the wire mesh glass on the paired main back doors. Within five minutes, he’d found the cafeteria and made quick work of that lock too.

  What the McClatchy menu lacked in variety and nutrition, it made up for in volume: Frozen chicken nuggets, fish sticks, hamburger patties, hot dogs and pizzas sat in boxes stacked on racks in a walk-in freezer. They’d be good for a meal or two, but what he really needed was canned goods and other nonperishables. He’d stacked two cases of soup, a case of tuna fish and a carton of mayo next to the sweating frozen foods when a flashlight beam hit him in the face.

  “What in the fuck are you doin’?” the security guard called out in an old man’s voice. “Put your hands where I can see ’em and move slow.”

  Muller blinked as he faced his accuser. Behind the light was a silhouette of a single man. The light was in his right hand, which meant that Muller ran only a ten percent chance of being shot by a lefty. The smart move was to get the drop on gramps and tie him up. But Muller had taken enough shit for one day. He pulled his weapon and shot twice while the security guard switched hands and fumbled at his holster. The geriatric fell to the floor. Muller walked over and confirmed the guard was incapacitated and unarmed. The two shots had struck high in the chest: He still had his marksmen’s eye even though he hadn’t been at the range in months. Just to make certain, he popped the oldster in the head and retrieved his spent brass. He took the two bunches of keys off the guard’s belt and found a car key fob.

  Muller dragged the body into the freezer but didn’t bother to wipe up the blood trail. He loaded his arms with the cartons and staggered back to the Tahoe. An old Honda Civic was parked next to the SUV. He drove the Civic four blocks away and left the doors unlocked and the keys on the seat. He jogged back to the high school and drove off in the Tahoe, the broken padlock on the school’s front gates reassembled for show.

  chapter twenty-one

  SCAVENGER HUNT

  Sunday, July 12: Oakland, Kentfield and Livermore, California, afternoon

  Lindy’s infant formula brand was Tyson’s drink of last resort: that he had gulped it down spoke to his half-starved condition. He fell asleep soon afterward. The former paratrooper felt his heart melt when he saw the prominent ribs on the little fellow. Katerina gestured to him and he walked over to the sofa to examine a company floorplan. She had managed to pull up the layout of Forester Labs, a San Mateo–based biotech company chaired by the same academic megalomaniac who’d reported her for illicit medical experiments on undergraduates.

  “They conduct their research on the second floor. That’s where the plasmapheresis equipment will be, the machines that separate plasma from whole blood. There will be different machines for discontinuous flow centrifugation and plasma filtration, and we need one of each. The machines may be heavy: You’ll need the hand truck from the warehouse.”

  “Will everything fit into the back of the SUV?”

  “Should do. I only need three or four of the bigger ones, plus a dozen smaller machines and pieces. If you pack well it will fit no problem.”

  “What about security?”

  “Here it is on Google Street View. Notice anything?”

  Melvin bent over to take a closer look. There was a chain link fence topped with razor wire, a prominent sign and guardhouse . . . and a rottweiler. “Fucking guard dog.”

  “Correct. I presume you don’t want the noise from shooting it. If Rolf comes back with meat, I can salt it with a couple of 80s. Those’ll put down an elephant.”

  Eighties? The little bitch was a walking pill mill. “I doubt Muller will bring any formula. If I have to go out for that, I’ll look for dogfood or meat, too.”

  “That would be great. By the way, I watch how you care for the baby. You have a knack.”

  “I don’t have any kids. I juss don’t want little people to suffer.”

  “Well, you’ll make a great father, that’s for certain.” Katerina fixed him with a smile.

  Melvin nodded and retreated to the warehouse. Since when did that bitch give a shit about newborns or anyone but herself? He was dragging two hand trucks when he heard the baby let out a muffled cry. He burst in to see Katerina leaning over Tyson’s box. She straightened with a start and the baby began to scream as her hand left his mouth. She shielded her other hand, but Melvin was on her a second later and saw a syringe full of blood.

  “Let me explain! I was—”

  His hands were on her throat with such force that he lifted her onto her tiptoes. She dropped the syringe and clawed at his face, then twisted and kicked.

  “Let her go!” a voice shouted over Tyson’s wails. “Hands in the air and on your knees, Robinson. Now!”

  Melvin considered using Katerina as a shield while he drew and fired, but Muller had him. He reluctantly released her and turned around.

  Fraser Burns stumbled into view, still wrapped in a filthy sheet. “What in the bloody hell is going on?” he asked from behind his mask.

  Muller had eyes only for Melvin. “Get down on your knees, lie flat on the floor, palms on the ground. You know the drill.”

  “Fuck you. She took blood from the baby. That’s bullshit: the baby’s too small. He’s already half-starved to death.”

  Katerina stopped massaging her bruised throat and squatted to retrieve the syringe. Her voice had deepened and hoarsened. “You idiot! If that had broken, I’d have had to take another five CCs. I’ll need an antibody count to use as a baseline against his mother once we capture her. A switch is feasible only if her blood chemistry is similar.”

  “Melvin, be reasonable,” Burns said. “Why don’t you hand me your pistol and tend to Tyson? My brain may be fuzzy, but I’m certain none of us gets rich if we kill each other before we’ve collected any money.”

  If Muller hadn’t just shot that security guard, he’d have executed this insubordinate halfwit, but his bloodlust and insecurity were in check for now. Robinson used to be more valuable alive than dead, but that balance had tipped into negative territory.

  * * * * *

  After he’d scrubbed Greg’s blood off the F150’s backseat, Jaime had worked the phone for an hour. The first priority was to locate six months’ worth of shelf-stable food for thirty people. He wasn’t the only Bay Area bidder for bulk staples. The prices were astronomical: ten dollars for a six-ounce can of tuna? Eighty dollars for ten pounds of white rice? There were discounts for bulk purchases, but the prices were still exorbitant, and n
othing was reserved without payment upfront. Jaime’s hand tired from scribbling pages of prices and quantities from the various vendors. Jaime said he’d check with his boss and either pay cash or wire funds once they’d confirmed the amounts.

  “Don’t take too long,” advised every person he spoke with.

  Two rooms away, Sal had gotten the good news that Wells Fargo had confirmed that the two-million-dollar home equity cash could be collected Monday afternoon after four. He shut the lights off and lay on his bed to center his mind. Instead, he agonized over who to include in the 3M and decided to favor friends over experts. Yesterday he’d emailed a cancelation of today’s recruitment barbecue. That was the bad news; the good news was that nearly everyone replied that they wanted to join up anyway, a few of them insisting in terms that bordered on the threatening.

  The stress had spiked his heart rate and reminded him that his current anti-tachycardia prescription would only cover him for the next month. Once he was in Canada, he’d either learn to live without it, or he’d die. That was true for everyone who needed long-term treatment. He made a mental note to collect a list of the meds the 3M convoy needed.

  Pat entered the room and shut the door.

  “I’m awake,” Sal said. “You can turn the lights on.”

  Pat switched on the overhead light and stood with hands positioned to cover her bruises. “We should talk,” she said at last.

  Sal propped his back on a pillow lodged against the headboard. “If this is an appeal to stay behind until Tyson’s rescued, you do what you want.”

  “No, it’s not that. I asked Barb to join me on the trip to Canada, and to persuade Steph and Greg to join us too. Today’s TV is full of riots and dead people. The president has declared martial law, but Congress hasn’t authorized it so the military has stayed on their bases. It’s chaos and the Supreme Court is hearing arguments. We all need to leave, even you and Jaime.”