The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  He smelled the jasmine perfume Dr. Poole wore. That was easy. Then he caught, behind the remnants of the meal he’d just eaten, the merest whiff of pasta, commingled with cooked garlic, onions, mozzarella cheese and basil coming through the vent from the kitchen. The filters should have prevented those odors from penetrating the room but he could smell them so some trace amount had obviously slipped past.

  He focused on his fingers, feeling the plastic beneath them, the slight imperfections in the otherwise smooth surface of the handrests. He squeezed gently and sensed he could break the plastic if he needed to, but there was no need for that now.

  And he felt something else, something beyond his senses, almost as if he could detect electro-magnetic impulses. His brain felt buffeted by waves of electricity, surging through machines all around him. Weird.

  He opened his eyes and saw Dr. Poole staring at him. “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Different,” he said. He noted the pores in her skin, the darkness under her eyes that she’d tried to cover with foundation, the minute chapping of her lips, a single dark hair emerging from one of her nostrils. “I’m noticing every little thing—the smallest details.”

  “Probably an overreaction to the inward focus from before,” Dr. Poole said. “Though that might be your normal state going forward.”

  “Can I go after Hathaway now?”

  “Your body is still absorbing the changes,” she replied as she studied her scanner, “although it’s doing so at a much faster rate than I anticipated. You should completely incorporate the changes in a few hours.”

  “We may not have a few hours. How is Curtik doing?”

  “We’ve stabilized him as best we can, but this is a new variant of a cyanide-curare poison. We haven’t seen it before. In fact, we wouldn’t even know this much if we hadn’t heard it from Zora.”

  “How did she know? Let me guess—God told her.”

  Dr. Poole nodded. “She said he gave her the formula.”

  “If you have the formula, can’t you concoct an antidote? Can’t you use my blood to stop it?”

  “We did manage to think of that on our own,” Dr. Poole said. “We used a sample you provided us last year, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect—which means, you’re likely susceptible to the poison as well. Apparently it attaches to certain receptors in the body. Everyone has them. Fowler, however, has been taking antibodies that shut down those particular receptors, so that’s why he didn’t have to worry about poisoning himself.”

  Dr. Poole held up a hand. “And before you say anything, yes. We took samples of the antibodies from Fowler’s blood. But he took multiple treatments over a period of months to immunize himself. Even if your body acclimated to the poison more quickly, it would likely still take too long to save Curtik. I also can’t recommend using your blood for Curtik now even if you could metabolize the poison.”

  “I understand. You’re a font of good news, Doctor.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more. We’ve been ordered to release Fowler and not to go after Hathaway, Wilson, Tompkins or Everest because President Hope has condoned what they’re doing. She says its necessary to provide protection against the deadlier strains of the virus.”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  Dr. Poole said, “You’re not surprised.”

  “We discussed the possibility.”

  “You and Devereaux?”

  “Yes. Where’s Ned?”

  “He and Hannah are with Fowler in interrogation room one.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor.”

  He found Ned questioning Fowler about the methods he and his co-conspirators were using to distribute the virus, prodding for more details. Hannah stood by the door. She looked Jeremiah over when he entered the room, as if attempting to learn whether he was still human. He shrugged.

  “I was told,” he said, “that we have to let Fowler go.”

  “That’s right,” Ned replied. “I’m just speaking with him to ascertain how much of the truth serum remains in his system. We don’t want to release him while he’s in such a suggestible state. Might be dangerous. Someone might tell him to step in front of a bus.”

  Jeremiah laughed. “Very conscientious of you. But I’m afraid the blowback would be too great. We’ll have to ensure his safety despite his actions.”

  “You know we can’t go after the others?”

  “No, you can’t,” Jeremiah said.

  Ned smiled. “I just retired again.”

  “How many times is that now?”

  “Forty-seven, forty-eight. And if the world would just stop getting itself into trouble, I could stay retired.”

  Hannah said, “I can quit too.”

  “No,” Ned and Jeremiah spoke at the same time.

  Jeremiah gestured to Ned, who continued: “This is a job for old men. Plus, we’ll need someone on the inside in case things go south.”

  “Even if we succeed,” Jeremiah added, “we’ll likely be hunted down as traitors. We have direct orders from the President not to get involved.”

  Lendra’s voice came over the intercom: “Is she right about the virus? The President? Is this really the only way to save people?”

  Jeremiah shrugged. He’d forgotten that Lendra would be watching everything they did in the interrogation room. “I don’t know. Devereaux didn’t think so the last time we discussed it.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “Sure. But what seems likely is that they either stumbled upon this strain and liked what it does to the population—so they decided to keep it and not pursue any other research—or they deliberately created this strain to accomplish both a humanitarian purpose and an insidious one.”

  “What does Devereaux say?” Ned asked.

  “He’s gone,” Lendra said. “Wanted to wrap up a few things before they shut him down.”

  “So that’s going to happen too,” Jeremiah said. “Perfect idiocy.”

  “I’d like to help,” Lendra said.

  “I would too,” Dr. Poole said over the intercom, obviously watching as well.

  “Sorry, all,” Jeremiah said. “This is one of those times where deniability might just save you from the President’s wrath. Besides, this is a stealth mission. We’ll need some truth serum to get them to talk.”

  Ned held up a small bag. “I already got all the hypo-pads we’ll need. Some are loaded with knockout drugs, some with truth serum.”

  “Good. If Hathaway has a cure for Curtik, how long will it take to formulate it?”

  “That’s difficult to estimate,” Dr. Poole said. “It might take only minutes. It might take hours. It might take weeks to build up Curtik’s resistance to the poison.”

  “I assume it would help if Devereaux could assist you with an antitoxin.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please contact him and ask him to try to stave off any efforts to shut him down until we get Hathaway.”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s go. Is the jet-copter on the roof?”

  Ned nodded.

  “Where will you be taking Hathaway?” Lendra asked. “Never mind. Deniability.”

  Jeremiah clapped Ned on the shoulder and preceded him down the hall to the stairs that led to the roof. As he walked he realized that he no longer feared flying. Something had changed since the transfusion. He felt no rage either—just a calmness that he’d never experienced before. He knew he would complete his mission, capture Hathaway and the others, and bring them to justice.

  It was almost a vision—the future laid out before him. He couldn’t see the details but he sensed he would succeed. That felt reassuring.

  He’d never felt that level of confidence before. Was that a byproduct of the surgery as well? If so, it felt good. It felt right. This was really a simple mission, after all. Grab them, force them to tel
l the truth and release them. Let the world figure out what to do with them.

  And then what?

  He couldn’t see anything beyond that. It would be nice to see Sophie again, and Curtik. But he didn’t feel the attachment to them he’d felt even a few minutes ago. He saw them now as distant progeny—great, great grandchildren maybe. How odd. He wished them well. He wanted to save Curtik’s life. But his desire to help them seemed more like an emotion he ought to be feeling rather than something he actually felt.

  Chapter 31

  The jet-copter came in on stealth mode in the bright sunlight of early afternoon, landing on the helipad just east of the gated community where Hathaway resided. The Elite Ops had tracked their approach, tried to contact them as they neared, but Jeremiah had programmed the jet-copter to stay incommunicado. He wondered if the Elite Ops would send someone to investigate. It might depend on how many troopers were protecting Hathaway.

  As he changed into his camo fatigues, he told Ned how the Elite Ops would defend Hathaway and explained that he only wanted to obtain the truth, nothing more. He explained how they were going to complete the mission, telling Ned he was to be the face of the attack, the visible threat, while Jeremiah would slip in unnoticed.

  “I’m afraid most of the risk falls on you,” Jeremiah finished.

  “And how is that different than usual?” Ned asked.

  “I know. All hail King Ned.”

  As the jet-copter door opened, Jeremiah took a hypo-pad infused with knockout drugs and pressed it to Ned’s neck. He caught Ned and lowered him to the floor. “Not this time, old friend.”

  “What are you doing?” Lendra asked via the jet-copter’s comm system.

  “Ned tried to stop me,” Jeremiah replied. “but I overpowered him.”

  “You can’t fight them alone,” Lendra said.

  “I don’t plan to fight them,” said Jeremiah.

  He grabbed a handful of hypo-pads—most loaded with knockout drugs, but a few with truth serum—put a small drone camera inside his camos, then pulled the hood over his head, set the face screen in place and activated the sensors that would make him invisible. He’d modified the camos with a scatterer and dampening field, so he couldn’t be detected by scanners. The downside was that he couldn’t use any electronic technology while wearing them. Nor could he carry any weapons outside his suit. They’d be spotted immediately.

  He caught swirls of movement from his arms and legs and wondered if there was something wrong with the camos or if his enhanced vision enabled him to see beyond the normal human spectrum. Only one way to find out.

  He slipped past the security guards at the gate unobserved and jogged down a quiet street toward Hathaway’s mansion, every movement bringing a feeling of joy, almost ecstasy, the sense that he was only tapping the surface of his abilities. He didn’t need drones to tell him where the Elite Ops would set up to defend the place.

  They would know the moment he took out the first trooper. But they were already on high alert. Good. He wanted them prepared. He wanted to test himself against the best they could offer.

  A tall fence surrounded Hathaway’s mansion and an armed Elite Ops trooper stood by the gate—Las-rifle at the ready—his helmet moving left and right as he scanned for trouble. Jeremiah sidled closer, coming to a stop less then five feet away. He could feel the electro-magnetism emanating from the trooper’s power pack. The trooper sensed something wrong, for he stopped moving his head, but his helmet was aimed a few degrees to Jeremiah’s left. Jeremiah moved his arm up and down, noting the swirl of movement, and at the same time listening for subvocal transmissions. He heard nothing. So the trooper apparently hadn’t noticed the movement of his arms.

  Good.

  He felt for the activation point on one of the hypo-pads, then sprang forward and slapped it between the trooper’s helmet and chest protector, attaching it to his neck. The trooper fired the Las-rifle as he fell.

  Jeremiah left him where he lay and entered the grounds. Moving to the side of the gate, he stared up at the mansion. Surprisingly, the house wasn’t that large—only a few thousand square feet—but the windows shimmered in the sunlight, indicating they were fortified against laser strikes and other attacks. No doubt every entry had been designed to be impenetrable. A few drones circled the property but he saw no other security measures.

  A side door looked promising—solid plas-steel with no windows—and he moved toward it. He could just make out the indentations in the grass where the Elite Ops trafficked in and out, and he sensed high power usage behind the door. He waited beside the door. How long until the Elite Ops sent someone to investigate? Would they stay put and call for reinforcements or send someone to check on their fellow trooper? He was betting on the latter. Within a minute, two Elite Ops troopers emerged from the house and advanced toward the gate, Las-rifles swinging side to side.

  Jeremiah’s hand stopped the closing door for just a moment as he slid inside to a control room where an Elite Ops trooper stood on duty. It had taken him less than a second to enter the room but the trooper nevertheless pointed his Las-rifle toward the door, likely wondering why it had taken that extra second to shut.

  The smell of decaying flesh permeated the air—a noxious gas released by the trooper designed to bring about a crippling fear. Jeremiah ignored it. Electrical impulses flooded the room from a variety of machines, sending and receiving messages across the ether. He couldn’t see or hear them, but he sensed them, like a deer or cow could sense magnetic north. A fog descended on the room from vents in the ceiling. Probably some new trick of the Elite Ops, though he had no idea what it was.

  Moving silently, slowly, Jeremiah eased toward the trooper. He had to give the man credit. The trooper kept his Las-rifle moving in a slow arc as his helmeted head swiveled back and forth. He clearly suspected someone was in the room with him. Major Payne might have warned him about Jeremiah’s camos.

  When Jeremiah was three feet away, he reached out and placed another hypo-pad on the trooper’s neck. The trooper fell, again managing to get off a quick shot that hit the ceiling. A red pulse—so they were shooting to kill.

  This felt too easy. Was that because of his enhancements?

  As he took a step forward he noticed that his camos appeared orange in spots where the fog had touched them. The color brightened as it spread down his camos, turning him into a luminescent target. He removed the face cover and mask, then shed his camos, keeping the hypo-pads in one hand. At least he wasn’t orange anymore.

  “We can see you, Jeremiah,” Major Payne said. The voice sounded like it was coming from the supine trooper. “We don’t want to hurt you but we have orders to protect Mr. Hathaway. Please leave.”

  “I need information,” Jeremiah replied. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  He thought about his dungeon, a self-hypnotic trick he’d created to isolate himself from his emotions. He no longer needed that trick. Instead he focused on his breathing, his vision, his hearing and sense of smell. The world became only as large as his immediate surroundings.

  Opening the door to the rest of the house, he stepped inside, muscles coiled, ready to spring. Even as he took in the large, two-story living room with a balustrade above, he caught movement to his left. Spinning, darting sideways, springing forward, he stayed ahead of the slow movement of the trooper, who was attempting to get a bead on him. He ripped the Las-rifle out of the trooper’s hands as he slapped a hypo-pad on his neck.

  Hearing the whine of an Elite Ops power pack above and behind him, he jumped for the stairs, bounding up them four at a time, cutting right when he reached the second level, moving so fast he found himself literally bouncing off the wall, using that for leverage as he sprinted toward the trooper, who fired a red pulse at the spot he’d just vacated. He still had a dozen feet to cover.

  The trooper fired a continuous red pulse, widening the setting and sprayin
g the hallway. Jeremiah twisted, contorting his body as he neared, but the pulse struck his stomach, hitting him with an explosion of energy that ought to have knocked him out.

  He managed to shrug it off, reaching the trooper, yanking the Las-rifle from the man’s hands and clapping a hypo-pad to the side of his neck. The trooper dropped.

  Jeremiah spun about and saw no one. Standing still, he listened for the telltale whine of an Elite Ops power pack. Nothing. He moved down the hall toward what ought to be the master bedroom and opened the door, waiting for a second before passing inside, into a quiet and empty room.

  He stared at the lush burgundy carpeting, noting the indentations of footsteps headed for the walk-in closet. Sidling forward, he glanced inside and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Suits hung from hangers, covering the back wall. But he noticed dust motes floating in the air more heavily there, as if the air had been recently disturbed. And behind the wall he sensed much more electrical power than there should have been.

  A panic room—just like Fowler’s.

  Retreating to the hallway, Jeremiah grabbed the downed trooper’s Las-rifle and returned to the master suite. He adjusted the dispersal range to its minimum width, forming a tight beam, and fired a long burst, cutting a hole through the suits, the sheetrock and the metal wall that kept Hathaway from him.

  A fire started but the sprinkler system kicked in, spraying all around him, the sizzle of steam filling the air as the water hit the laser pulse. Cursing came from inside the panic room as he continued cutting an opening in the wall. As he completed the cut and kicked the wall, knocking the section he’d sliced away into the room, he sensed a laser pulse coming and fell backwards and sideways as the pulse struck him.

  He felt as if he were suffocating, burning up and unable to breathe, and yet he knew he had to move or die. He sprang to his feet, dodging left, throwing himself horizontally against the wall as he sprinted toward the Elite Ops trooper who had fired.