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

by Bradley West

  “That’s quite a turnaround. To be frank, I thought you’d prefer Canada without me.”

  “That’s not true. I know you adore our girls and you’ve given us a great life. I’m happy to be with you.”

  “You seem happiest when you’re anywhere but here, either out with the girls or your boyfriends.”

  Pat flushed. “Don’t you dare judge me! All you’ve done is work for over thirty years. You know how many meals I cooked for you, and then you ate dinner at your desk and didn’t come home till midnight? At least if you’d told me beforehand, I could’ve made something that I liked instead of some goddamn Italian dish night after night. It’s a wonder our girls didn’t turn out as fat as your mother.”

  “You drive a new Audi. You have more shoes than Imelda Marcos ever did. We live in a big house with a million-dollar view. None of that came cheap or easy. I know we’ve grown apart. Some of that is natural after thirty-one years of marriage, but I never cheated on you. Do you know how shameful it is when people I barely know at the country club ask me, ‘And how’s the wife?’ The same question eats away at me all the time: ‘Did Pat fuck him too?’ ”

  This was her cue to sit at the edge of the bed and sob. Sal placed a box of tissues by his wife and walked out. Truth be told, he’d rather Pat stayed behind: He’d be alone, but at least he wouldn’t be the group cuckold.

  He found Jaime and heard the bad news about food prices. “How much do you think we’ll spend on the second motorhome and transport truck?”

  “It will be pricey, but not as bad as the half mill you agreed to for the Winnebago forty-two-footer. I’ve budgeted the same amount in total for a late model, low mileage used RV that sleeps at least eight plus a provision truck. We can pick up the new ’Bago tomorrow, see what he has and, if there’s nothing better, we can close on a used Airstream that I checked out at another dealer. I can pick up a twenty-two-foot storage van any time in San Rafael: The owner texted that he’d give us the keys straight away if we pay cash. I just need to finalize the price.”

  “That gives us plenty in reserve. At a budget of three thousand calories a day per person, thirty people and three hundred days, calculate how much we’ll need to spend on food up to half a million dollars. Get Barb to help balance the diets. We’ll need the rest of the money for arms, tools and meds. Tonight on our way to Burlingame, we’ll pick up the panel truck. We can use it to move the chems and lab equipment we’re stealing. I’ll let Travis know so he can factor that into his plan.”

  “You have too much confidence in that man. He hasn’t seen action in a decade, and he nearly got Greg killed Friday night.”

  “That’s not how I saw it. Just focus on the RVs and the food.”

  Jaime said nothing and ground his teeth. His headache came back where the sniper’s bullet had creased his scalp.

  * * * * *

  Burns’ head was clear enough to realize that this fragile foursome could blow asunder at any time. His role was peacemaker, though he lacked the mental sharpness to persuade the others to do anything they were dead against. He sat at the table and ate a hamburger smeared with vile American mustard. Melvin’s Sig Sauer lay within easy reach, and he kept the former paratrooper in view.

  Muller and Katerina had become an item while he was away. They were leaning against one another on the sofa, trading the laptop back and forth and speaking in low tones without facemasks as they compared handwritten notes and monitored the TV.

  And it was the TV’s remorseless stream of dire news that kept the motley crew from destroying one another. Muller’s fuel and food acquisitions, Burns’ miraculous recovery, Katerina’s laboratory research, Melvin’s warehouse finds and the audacious plan to sell Covid-20 cures on the dark web gave the four of them hope, something in short supply.

  Burns approached Melvin who sat on a mattress and watched a sleepy Tyson. The baby seemed no worse off after his second blood extraction, and had swallowed a half-bottle’s worth of formula. Burns squatted and said in a low voice, “I’m too weak to come along tonight. I might even be contagious. I need you to make certain everything goes as planned and keep Muller from disappearing with my scientist and Maggio’s daughter. Here’s your pistol back. I give you my word that I’ll look after the baby. All I ask is that you do not confront them yet. Their time will come later.”

  Melvin didn’t raise his gaze from Tyson. “I’ll do as you say so long as that man stays outta my face, but if something happens to the baby, I’ll come for you too.”

  “As you should. I can change a nappy, but I don’t know how to prepare a bottle. You need to show me.”

  “I could, but we’re out of formula. I have to go find some.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I’ll drive around until I see a baby or a window with baby things, then I’ll break in and take half their shit.”

  “Half?”

  “It’s a pandemic. You don’t want to leave a mother with nuthin’.” Melvin stood up, took the keys off the table, and left without a word.

  * * * * *

  Travis didn’t like abandoning Carla in the lab, but her escape wasn’t scheduled until the following night and there wasn’t anything to do other than check her office window every hour. At eight, he defied the lockdown and drove to Maung’s home.

  Maung, his wife, Chesa, and their son and daughter lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a complex that hadn’t been painted since Kennedy was president. Yet the ever-smiling Maung had come a long way. After the Burma junta sent him to the U.S. to look after relatives and properties in Northern California, he and Arkar had jumped ship two years ago to join Ryder’s new security company. Maung had just finished his fifth year in the States and the family had new green cards. The idea that Maung might get into trouble for killing a man two nights back never crossed his mind. Burma and the U.S. had much in common: Each place ran on connections. In Burma, the generals were charge while in the U.S. all faith was placed in Travis Ryder. In 2016, Maung and Arkar had slain more than a half-dozen men in Ryder’s service and never even had been questioned by a policeman. Friday’s deaths of two more evil doers fell under the same cloak of immunity.

  When Travis knocked on his door, Maung and his duffel bag awaited.

  “Not so fast,” Travis said. “We don’t meet until eleven and there may be a few cops out on the road. Let’s review the plan and wait a bit.”

  “No problem. Have you eaten?”

  Travis hadn’t, and he knew Chesa to be a master of Burmese cuisine. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Maung barked out instructions, and his pretty fourteen-year-old daughter Kyaw bounded out of the bedroom she shared with twelve-year-old Schway. Chesa poked her head out of the kitchen to wave a shy hello, her English still not good despite years in country. Kyaw scooted past to help her mother.

  Travis noted that everyone wore a facemask even in the house. If America-born U.S. residents had responded to the outbreak of Covid-19 like immigrants, Covid-20 might not even exist. Then again, the newspapers reported that Covid-20 had originated on the India subcontinent, so who the hell knew?

  * * * * *

  Melvin was at wits’ end after a forty-minute drive down debris-filled residential streets, empty of people yet redolent of misery. He slowed for a stop sign and watched as a half-dozen rats chewed on an arm that was poking out from under a plastic sheet. It was grim shit, but then he saw something that gave him hope: a dirty diaper, and a tiny one at that, two driveways down from the corpse. He pulled over and checked his gear: A .40-cal automatic and a stack of hundred-dollar bills, take yo’ pick.

  Melvin hammered on the front door and an infant shrieked. He heard adult voices and figured that every house in this neighborhood would be armed. A firm kick with the flat of his boot and he was in, weapon up and safety off. A woman screamed from the back of the house, but trouble came from the side. A man planted his shoulder in Melvin’s left ribcage, and the two of them tumbled to the floor. In an insta
nt, the homeowner swarmed the bigger man and rained fists on his face and neck. For the first two seconds, Melvin was numb with surprise, then hormones flooded his system. Time slowed, just like it did when it was showtime back in Afghanistan.

  Melvin shielded his face with his left arm and jabbed the Sig into his assailant’s torso with his right. “Stop!” The man persisted, but his blows irritated more than damaged. Goddammit. He really didn’t want to kill anyone today, other than Muller and that bitch. He pulled back the pistol and smashed the barrel across the man’s face. The punches ceased as the man’s hands flew to his broken nose. “Don’t move!”

  Melvin looked up to see the terrified young mother clutch her newborn to her blouse. Perfect. This would work out just fine. A gunshot pierced the shell of his right ear and crashed into the doorjamb. Fuck. He rolled right under the next round, popped up and fired into the old man’s belly. Grandpa collapsed and his revolver clattered to the kitchen floor. Behind him stood Grandma with an iron skillet that she dropped as she went to her husband’s aid. Melvin walked over and pocketed the battered Saturday night special. He motioned to Broken Nose to tend to the wounded man. The gun was an ancient piece of crap: If it had shot true, he’d have been dead. As it was, the top of his ear was in tatters, blood streamed down his neck and soaked into his tee shirt, and the side of his head throbbed.

  Two minutes later he was out of the house with a trash bag containing formula, diapers, and baby powder. He’d left behind one thousand dollars, three distraught adults, one wailing infant and a fifty-year-old man bleeding out on the linoleum. He told them to call 911, but they all knew that no one would come, and if they did, the hospitals were already full. Why, oh why, did that man have to die, Lord? Plain and simple: so that Tyson might live.

  On the short walk to the SUV, he saw doors open up and down the street. He displayed the Sig and said in a loud voice, “Get back in your houses! Anyone shoots at me, and I kill your families!” Doors slammed all around as he drove off with his holed ear on fire.

  * * * * *

  The needle sat at ninety on I-580 westbound when Travis and Maung blew by a parked patrol car hidden behind an overpass. The cop hit the siren and lights, and they pulled over rather than escalate matters. Travis’ jacked-up Ram 2500 sat high enough above the ground to shield the trove of weapons, burglary tools and night warfare gizmos on the back seat from the patrolman’s view, so cooperating seemed like the right play.

  “License and registration, sir,” the officer said from behind a respirator mask that Darth Vader would have envied. Travis complied while Maung sat mute with a Glock dangling in his right hand.

  “There’s a lockdown in effect, sir. Why are you on the road?”

  “My company provides security for the bioresearch facility in Lawrence Livermore Laboratories. A piece of laboratory equipment malfunctioned that’s vital to production of Covid-20 treatments. It must be replaced ASAP. We’re headed to a scientific instruments supplier in Burlingame to meet the owner and pick up a new one.”

  “What’s the name of the supplier and what’s the equipment you’re collecting?”

  “Bettadapur’s Scientific Instruments on California Drive. I’m picking up a—” Travis paused to look at Carla’s shopping list— “a refrigerated blood PRP centrifuge.”

  “Sounds like you could use a police escort, Mr. Ryder.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir. We don’t meet the owner until eleven and should be there ahead of time.”

  “All right, I’ll call in your plates and alert the local authorities not to stop you. Keep it below seventy.”

  “Thank you, officer. That would be great.” Shit, shit, shit.

  chapter twenty-two

  ALL IS LOST

  Sunday, July 12: Oakland, San Mateo County and Kentfield, California, night

  Melvin’s mood darkened when he parted the tarps into the Twisted Souls’ clubhouse and saw Muller and Katerina’s smug looks. Muller sized him up and quipped, “Holyfield, it looks like Tyson won the rematch.”

  Laugh all you want, but vengeance is mine. Melvin sorted out his bounty, satisfied that Tyson was set for the next two weeks. In his absence, Burns had sterilized bottles, and someone had molded two lacrosse balls’ worth of raw hamburger spiked with Oxy tablets.

  “Tyson was fussing,” Burns said. “I changed him, and he settled. Katerina shot a video of me talking about my recovery and is editing it.”

  From across the room, Muller switched to his boss voice. “We leave at nine. Pack for trouble.”

  Katerina watched Melvin stiffen and turn to face Muller before he walked to the toilet. As he passed out of their sightlines, Katerina and Muller shared a look. Her fingers felt her bruised neck beneath her scarf: She could still feel the power in those hands.

  Melvin washed and patched his ear as best as he could in the tarnished mirror. He took out the bottle of coke and dabbed magic powder over the wound: The bleeding stopped, and the pain abated. He felt a rush as cocaine’s better-known properties kicked in.

  On his burner, one of two potential recruits replied affirmatively to Muller’s text: Warren “Smiley” Shuckies was alive and well, and would be delighted to perform unspecified heavy lifting for a thou per day. Muller texted the warehouse’s 28th Street address and suggested that Shuckies arrive around 02:00. If he was challenged by a large black man who answered to Melvin, kill him as quietly as possible.

  Muller saw he had a handful of messages from Stephanie Ferguson, too. Tyson’s mother provided an address in Kentfield and said she had a million dollars ready to exchange for her baby’s safe return. Muller considered the offer and replied in the affirmative, suggesting either tonight or Monday night. He said he would meet her one on one: the baby for the money, no tricks. Stephanie replied that either night was fine, but tonight if possible.

  Melvin was fussing over Tyson when he looked up to see a phone in Muller’s hand. “You made us ditch the phones. What the fuck?”

  “It’s the burner phone tied to the Maggios. I disabled the GPS and every other way it can be traced. Stephanie texted her father’s address. Who knows, maybe I arrange a reunion. Would that make you feel better, Evander?”

  Melvin didn’t dignify the jibe with a reply, but Muller’s brazen challenge signaled that an escalation in hostilities was imminent. The coke buzz led him to fantasize about shooting Muller in the head, but he was a religious man—or at least he used to be before he joined Black Ice.

  Try as he might, Melvin couldn’t shed the image of the abuela on the kitchen floor, tearfully imploring Jesus to save her husband. He was better than the lowlifes in this room: He was a soldier. Melvin said nothing and turned his attention to food prep: A bottle for Tyson and a double portion of chicken and rice that he shared with Burns.

  After dinner and two baby bottles left in Burns’ care, they loaded up and drove off. Less than two miles away, aspiring young brigands had barricaded the I-880 on-and-off-ramps, with the intent of robbing people desperate to escape town. Muller stopped thirty yards in front of the lit tires and other trash, then nodded at Melvin. The two stepped out of the Tahoe and stood behind the open doors for cover. Muller didn’t want gunfire that might attract the law, so he started with a bluff. “ATF! Unblock the road and get the fuck out of here before we arrest you all!”

  Melvin adlibbed his line. “We’ve got better things to do, but when we return, we better not see any of your black asses.”

  The gangsters had plenty of firepower, but apparently, they had better things to do as well—no need to risk your life in a gunfight when there were plenty of unarmed drivers to shake down. Muller got back into the SUV with Melvin and accelerated around the obstacles and onto the highway.

  The rest of the drive was like a long video game, the objective being not to hit, much less stop for, people in need of rides. Gas-starved empty vehicles were scattered along the shoulder. Muller flashed the high beams and drove hard, nearly running down a half-dozen panicked people wh
o had strayed onto the main road from the emergency lane. Katerina found it all funny, perhaps ignorant of what would happen if the Tahoe struck a two-hundred-pound man at eighty miles per hour and his body came through the windshield. Melvin was happy to be in the backseat.

  Katerina suffered from several pathologies, but she could plan a proper lab raid. There weren’t any security guards on duty, though the rottweilers whined and scratched in their kennel with frustrated bloodlust. Melvin scaled the ten-foot-high chain link fence topped with razor wire. Once inside, he jimmied the guardhouse door and opened the front gate. They’d agreed earlier that they’d risk an armed response in return for prime parking. The second floor was a cornucopia of medical gear, with the only hiccup being the need to lug everything down the stairs since they’d cut the electricity. Katerina bounded around with her lists and a flashlight, and within forty minutes, they were ready to go.

  “Let’s detour through Kentfield and scope Mother Stephanie’s hideout,” Muller said. “When we’re five minutes out, I’ll send her a text to confirm she gets her baby back tonight. That should keep her security detail off balance.”

  “Excellent,” Katerina said.

  Melvin suspected that they’d kill him once they had Stephanie, the last piece of the puzzle. He’d play along and make his move when they had their guards down, but he couldn’t sound too eager. “What about the Golden Gate Bridge? Is that closed?”

  “The news said it’s open in both directions for emergency vehicles,” Katerina said.

  “And what if she wants a picture of her baby?”

  “She already asked,” Muller said. “I bluffed her by texting that our burners don’t have cameras. She never replied.”

  * * * * *

  On the drive down the 101 South, Jaime gained a feel for the twenty-two-foot-long box truck. He stayed in the fast lane, pushed hard and ran red lights to keep pedestrians at bay. People walked along the shoulder or stood next to their stranded vehicles, holding up their thumbs or signs offering to trade money or sexual favors for a ride.