The Susquehanna Virus Series
Steve McEllistrem
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Minneapolis
FIRST EDITION AUGUST 2019
THE SUSQUEHANNA VIRUS SERIES. Copyright © 2019 by Steve McEllistrem, All rights reserved.
Published by Calumet Editions, Minneapolis, Minnesota 6800 France Avenue South, Suite 370, Edina, Minnesota, 55435
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Author website: www.mcellistrem.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
About the Author
Introduction
The Devereaux Dilemma Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thiry-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Devereaux Disaster Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thiry-Four
The Devereaux Decision Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Devereaux Deity Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
Steve McEllistrem is the author of seven novels and numerous nonfiction works. He has been a finalist for a Minnesota Book Award, two Midwest Book Awards, and four consecutive International Book Awards for Science Fiction – all for his “Susquehanna Virus” series, which consists of The Devereaux Dilemma, The Devereaux Disaster, The Devereaux Decision, and The Devereaux Deity. He has been a writer and editor for more than twenty-five years, and was also a long-time producer and host of Write On! Radio.
Introduction
The Susquehanna Virus series consists of four highly acclaimed sci fi thrillers – The Devereaux Dilemma, The Devereaux Disaster, The Devereaux Decision, and The Devereaux Deity – that examine our potential future. Biologically enhanced humans; nanotech-enhanced people; a killer virus created by terrorists who want to wipe out humanity; and a genius named Walt Devereaux who might be able to save Earth, with an assist from Jeremiah Jones, one of those enhanced humans: this series begins in a small town in Minnesota before leaping to the Moon, Mars and back to Earth again. Can Devereaux and Jeremiah save the world? And if they do, what will it look like?
Chapter One
“Exit 29,” the computer said in a breathy female voice as the car veered to the right. Jack Marschenko took the wheel, deactivating the autopilot. He swept through the intersection onto Seventy-Third Street, where the abrupt change in the road’s conditions tested the vehicle’s suspension, evidence of the District’s half-assed efforts to maintain the infrastructure in the poorer neighborhoods. Marschenko, having grown up here, knew the area well. At Eighty-third he swerved to avoid a large pothole without slowing.
He turned left on Eighty-Fifth Avenue, slowing as he drove past pawnbrokers, a tattoo parlor, quick-loan services, run-down apartments and hotels. He spotted a guy inside a dumpster, tossing out items he could use, then noticed a gang of hooded teenagers closing in on a solitary civilian. Marschenko shone his spotlight on them, forcing the gang to scatter. Unlocking the door to a housing complex, the man waved his thanks.
Marschenko sped off. Another innocent temporarily saved—the gang was probably stalking the next victim already, he thought. Can’t sa
ve everyone in this neighborhood. So why keep coming back here? For a strip-club waitress?
Yet as the image of Lily appeared in his mind, he found himself smiling. He’d planned an expensive dinner at Horatio’s. Then he’d take her back to her place and delve into her nether regions, bringing her to a shuddering climax. He reveled in her deep and honest laughter. God, her laugh was infectious. For the rest of the evening, she’d devote herself entirely to his needs. Marschenko’s body tensed in anticipation.
Up ahead he saw the large pink neon cat above the doorway of Kitty Kat’s Korner. The Korner shared a parking lot with Romy’s Bar. From the outside the two buildings looked much the same; inside they couldn’t be more different. The Korner boasted a high-class clientele and décor to match. Romy’s—a dark, dirty place—catered to alcoholics. His mom used to drink there.
Marschenko pulled into the lot and swung into an open spot next to a sleek sports car. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the car, leaving his Elite Ops helmet and Las-pistol on the passenger seat. He’d only be inside a few minutes, and the Korner barred weapons. He locked the car and set the alarm with a voice command, then visually swept the lot as his car windows became opaque. Eight rusted junkers belonging to patrons of Romy’s sat on the other side of the lot. Half a dozen luxury vehicles were parked near the Korner’s door. A slow night.
As Marschenko strolled through the lot, a shape lunged at him from between two cars, hitting him hard just above the knees. Marschenko fell to the ground, the man landing on top of his chest, straddling him, a knife pressed against Marschenko’s throat.
“Give me your cash card,” the man rasped. He wore dark camouflage clothing, his face blackened.
Marschenko reached for his wallet but the man’s weight on his chest made it difficult to move.
“I can’t get at it,” Marschenko said. “You’re too heavy.” He tried to sound terrified, hoping to put the mugger at ease. As the mugger shifted position slightly, his knife blade left Marschenko’s throat for an instant.
Marschenko swung his legs up, forcing the man off. Leaping to his feet, Marschenko barked out the emergency command that opened his car door. He reached in for his Las-pistol but the mugger scrambled up and darted across the lot before Marschenko could retrieve it, so Marschenko grabbed his helmet too.
Two of the Korner’s security guards ran out of the building but Marschenko waved them away. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Donning the spacious helmet, filled with communications and sensory software, Marschenko linked to Elite Ops HQ via satcom—allowing the night watch coordinator to see what he saw. He locked the Las-pistol into the port embedded into his left palm, enabling him to fire as quickly as he could think to do it, faster and more accurately than a man firing the same weapon conventionally.
The two security guards retreated into the safety of the building. Using the infrared feed on the helmet’s visor, Marschenko tracked the mugger’s heat signature. Sprinting across the parking lot, he followed the infrared trail. When he reached the street, he spotted the mugger up ahead. He suppressed the urge to kill the man. The poor bastard was probably just trying to feed his family. Adjusting the setting on his Las-pistol from medium to low, Marschenko fired a blue pulse as the man dodged around a corner. An agile mugger—Marschenko had to give him that. Adrenaline coursed through Marschenko’s body as he sprang forward.
The night watch coordinator spoke softly in his ear: “Do you require assistance, Jack?”
“Adrian, that you?” Marschenko replied.
“Yeah, you lucky dog. You got me tonight.”
“What the hell did you do to pull night watch duty?”
“Long story. Your friend looks like he’s been enhanced.”
“That’s what I was thinking. He moves too quickly to be a Natural.”
Marschenko reached the corner where the mugger dodged his first shot, noting the black mark on the building’s face left by the chem-laser. Still a half-block ahead, the mugger approached an open alleyway. Marschenko took aim and fired. Once more the mugger dodged around a corner. Marschenko sprinted after him, reached a dark alley and noticed with satisfaction that it ended with no outlet. Gotcha, he thought.
“Alley’s dark,” Marschenko said. “A code violation.”
“Got it,” Adrian replied. “Sending a citation now.”
For a second, Marschenko regretted verbalizing the infraction, knowing some struggling business owner was going to be fined. But the problem had to be fixed.
His helmet amplified the ambient light, illuminating the alley as if it were daytime. Despite the mugger’s camouflage clothing, Marschenko could see him clearly. The man moved left, then right, searching for a way out, then ducked behind a dumpster. Marschenko eased forward slowly and spotted the mugger cowering in a ball behind the dumpster. Maybe he wasn’t enhanced. Marschenko contemplated the best way to teach him a lesson, then took aim at the man’s buttocks.
Before he could get off his shot, an explosion knocked Marschenko off his feet. The smell of cherries infused the air. It had been a trap. He’d been lured here. As he sent a distress call, the knockout gas dragging him under, he heard Adrian’s voice slowly fading: “Jack, Jack, stay with me, Jack.”
* * *
Marschenko awoke to a sharp pain behind his eyes, the lingering odor of burnt cherries nauseating him. He shook his head to try to clear it. Big mistake.
He squinted against the glare of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Where the hell was he? A concrete room with no windows: maybe twenty feet square. A bank of electronic equipment stood against the far wall.
Looking down, Marschenko saw that he was seated on a toilet. He was bound at the wrists and ankles, and tethered to rings embedded in the floor and the overhead beams by a plastic webbing—a virtually indestructible stretch polymer that allowed movement and prevented him from hurting himself. With no lock to pick, the only way to free himself was with a Las-knife or power saw. He still wore his T-shirt and shorts. His pants were folded neatly on a shelf opposite him, and his helmet lay on the floor in the center of the room, next to his Las-pistol. A small green light on the Las-pistol blinked slowly, indicating the weapon was still charged.
A faint scratching sounded behind him. Marschenko turned, saw nothing. Probably a mouse. Mice didn’t bother him. Rats did. He stood awkwardly, his legs straddling the toilet, and moved toward the helmet and Las-pistol. He came up four feet short. Damn!
He sat back down and looked around. The electronic equipment on the far wall was sophisticated stuff. Apart from that and a large TV, the room contained only a desk and chair. Directly across from him, stairs vanished into darkness above. Marschenko activated his subdural transmitter and broadcast an SOS. He got no response, sent the message again. Nothing but silence. Not even static. Whoever had taken him must have put a dampening field over the room. It might take a while for the Elite Ops to find him.
A door opened and shut at the top of the stairs, then someone purposefully descended. Marschenko counted fourteen steps. Dark shoes came into view, followed by tailored blue trousers and a form-fitting black shirt. The man was of average height, his tightly knit frame muscular in his expensive clothes. He wore no rings, had no visible tattoos. His dark hair was closely cropped, his nose bent in the middle where it had been broken. Crow’s-feet surrounded the eyes, while the forehead was lined with the beginnings of middle age. Creases of sorrow made his face oddly compassionate. Yet when he stopped a few feet in front of Marschenko, his intense hazel eyes looked fierce. And he moved with a feline grace that reminded Marschenko of a panther.
“This light too bright for you?” The man spoke softly.
“Yeah,” Marschenko croaked, then coughed to clear his throat. “Who are you?”
The man stepped back toward the wall and dimmed the bulb. “My name is Jeremiah Jones. You met my son Joshua a few year
s ago.”
Marschenko’s stomach clenched. “Thanks,” he said, keeping the fear out of his voice. “What did you use to…?”
“Stun grenade,” Jones said.
“Stun grenade! You could have taken yourself out with that.”
“That’s why I was curled up in a ball, Jack. Yeah, I know your name. I’ve read your file. I’ve been tracking you for the past month. I’m surprised at how easy it was to take you. I’d have thought you’d be on alert after I broke into Carlton Security’s archives and retrieved the vid-footage. Or didn’t they tell you about that?”
“I have friends. They’ll be coming to look for me.”
“They won’t find you, Jack.”
“What do you want?”
“You kidnapped my son,” Jones said, his voice cracking slightly. “Where is he?”
Marschenko stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were just doing your job.” Now the voice was strong, back in control.
Marschenko said nothing.
“Classified, top secret and all that.”
“That’s right,” Marschenko agreed.
Jones moved back to the stairs. He sat on the third step, relaxed, in no hurry at all.
“Who are you? You’ve been enhanced.”
Jones didn’t respond.
“You move like an animal. Are you a pseudo? That’s illegal.”
Jones got up from the stairs. “I want you to tell me where Joshua is.”
“I assume you’re going to torture me,” Marschenko said. “You won’t get anything from me.”
Jones leaned back and crossed his arms. “I don’t need to torture you, Jack. You’re going to talk eventually. I know you—how you hate being alone. Your mother used to lock you in the cellar, didn’t she? All by yourself. No one to talk to. And I know what they’ve been pumping into you. You’re due for another dose of time-release capsules tomorrow. That’s going to be a painful withdrawal, especially cold turkey. You really think you could hold out?”
Jones looked resolute, hard, feral. The brown-green eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. How could Marschenko ever have thought he was compassionate?
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