KILLER T

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Friend,’ Harry said. ‘There’s no point running a story now anyway. Elvis Presley could land mid-strip in a UFO, take a crap and start singing “Viva Las Vegas”, and Killer-T would still be all anyone talked about.’

  ‘Focuses the mind when something could kill you,’ Charlie observed.

  ‘Helen Back’s FBI statement is probably under some sort of legal protection,’ Harry said. ‘I could get into trouble if I sent it to you. But the gist is simple.’

  ‘I’ve been running Mango’s lab,’ Charlie confessed.

  ‘This call isn’t encrypted,’ Harry warned.

  Charlie laughed. ‘If the FBI have been on my case for two weeks, they’ll have all they need to bust me. Mango’s so cautious about everything. I can’t believe she gossiped to a celeb like some star-struck teen.’

  ‘You’ve got money, right?’ Harry said. ‘As soon as quarantine ends, you need to get lawyered up, big time. Cut the best deal you can.’

  ‘I haven’t got much info to give them,’ Charlie said. ‘Shoulda learned my lesson and taken a job at the mall …’

  ‘Ambition is one thing we’ve always had in common,’ Harry noted.

  ‘But yours doesn’t get you into trouble,’ Charlie said, remembering how easily they’d always found stuff to talk about. ‘Can I ask a question, if you’re not too busy?’

  Harry laughed. ‘I’m holed up in this apartment with Matt until quarantine ends. There’s nowt on Netflix and I’ve jerked off twice already.’

  ‘I never figured out what I did to upset you,’ Charlie said. ‘I called. I sent a dozen messages. I even went old-skool and bought a card and a stamp and put it in the post. You were my best friend and you cut me dead.’

  Harry considered lying, but after two years his ego could handle the truth.

  ‘I was in love with you,’ Harry admitted. ‘There was a Trojan full of Brad’s sperm in your bathroom bin and the thought of being anywhere near when he was around made me feel like firing a bullet through my acne-splattered temple.’

  ‘Brad …’ Charlie gasped. ‘I didn’t realise you found out …’

  ‘Are you still seeing him?’

  Charlie laughed. ‘Brad had a girlfriend, and another girlfriend when he went to his uncle’s farm, and other girls at school he was hooking up with. After a few weeks, I realised I was never gonna be anything more than the girl across the hall.’

  ‘Seeing anyone now?’

  ‘Not really,’ Charlie said. ‘I guess I should have realised you were crushing on me, all the time you spent talking to me, and the gifts. But for over two years you were my only friend. That meant so much to me.’

  ‘The weekend before, I almost put my arm around you after we had lunch.’

  ‘I had a lot going on back then,’ Charlie said awkwardly. ‘How about your love life?’

  ‘Nothing significant,’ Harry said, as he realised Charlie probably had no idea about his mods. ‘My skin is better now. Went out with my friend Anita for a few months at the start of junior year.’

  ‘You must be a senior now, right? Is college sorted?’

  ‘NYU, Photography and Reportage,’ Harry said.

  ‘Living in New York will be so cool!’

  ‘I’ve been so involved with trashy stories on Vegas Local and Ellie’s super-lean business model. It’s two years since I got my good camera out and did proper photography. And eighteen seems too young to be a sell out.’

  ‘A bit,’ Charlie said, and her laugh made Harry feel great.

  ‘How about you? I’m assuming you’ve aced your SATs already.’

  ‘I got a thirty-six in the ACT in my sophomore year,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Harry said. ‘I knew you were smart, but that’s insane.’

  ‘Yay,’ Charlie chirped. ‘I’ll be the smartest kid in the whole damned jail.’

  ‘You should call a lawyer now,’ Harry said. ‘It could make a huge difference to your chances.’

  ‘I guess,’ Charlie said.

  ‘I’ve missed talking to you, Charlie.’

  ‘Same here,’ Charlie agreed. ‘If we don’t die horrifically from a virus that liquefies our internal organs and makes us drown slowly in our own blood, and I’m not in federal prison, we should totally do coffee.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Harry laughed.

  ‘I need to call Mango and let her know what’s going down,’ Charlie said. ‘But I’d like to thank you properly for tipping us off. I’ve got twenty-five doses of Killer-T vaccine, but no idea how to get one to you in Summerlin.’

  ‘I don’t live with Kirsten any more. I’ve got my own place in a high rise on Sammy Davis Junior.’

  ‘North strip?’ Charlie asked brightly. ‘I’m at my foster parents’ on Rancho Circle, maybe a mile and a half away. I drove north to give Ed his vaccine earlier. I stuck to back streets and I didn’t get stopped.’

  Harry didn’t seem sure. ‘The fifteen is closed and I can count three … actually four checkpoints from right here on my balcony. But I might be able to run to you, after dark.’

  ‘I don’t want to put my foster family at any more risk than I have already,’ Charlie said. ‘They’ve all had jabs, but immunity will take a while to build up, and the Brits estimate the vaccine is only ninety-five per cent effective. So here’s what I’ll do:

  ‘I’m messaging you my address right now. But you’ll need to go down the alley between two wooden fences a couple of doors down. At the end of the alley there’s a scrap of land where the local kids ride bikes and hang. I’ll hide the doses there and message you a photo of the exact position.’

  ‘OK,’ Harry said, a touch wary.

  ‘And this way you can still get hold of the vaccine if the Feds come knocking. How many shots do you want?’

  ‘Me obviously,’ Harry said. ‘My housemate, Matt. Kirsten didn’t like the idea of being alone at her big house in Summerlin, so she’s with her toy boy. It’s a fair distance, but if I can run to Rancho Circle in the dark I can probably get to them too. Is four doses too much?’

  ‘I’ll give you five in case you think of someone else,’ Charlie said. ‘Ed and my foster family have had their shots; my best friend and my godson have their own supply. I’d hand the spares out to my neighbours, but I had a nightmare convincing Navid and Jan that I wasn’t trying to poison them.’

  ‘I guess I’d think twice if some random girl came to my door with a hypodermic needle,’ Harry said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s been awesome talking to you again, but I need to let Mango know.’

  ‘Keep my name out of it,’ Harry said. ‘Especially if you talk to a lawyer. I’m not sure what the laws are on distributing a confidential FBI witness statement, but it ain’t gonna be legal.’

  ‘No worries,’ Charlie said.

  ‘You keep safe,’ Harry said soothingly. ‘And try not to worry too much till you’ve had words with a decent lawyer.’

  51 BOUNCING BOYS

  The quarantine was barely twelve hours old, but Charlie’s foster brothers were already bouncing off the walls and fighting downstairs. Foster mom, Jan, was a sweetie and she bought Charlie mint tea and cookies, gave her a hug and told her that everyone in the house loved her.

  Charlie felt bad shooing her stepmom out, but she’d sent Mango a message straight after calling Harry, and Mango replied saying she was busy with the twins and would contact her on the encrypted tablet.

  ‘Thought you’d be catching zeds after the all-nighter,’ Mango said cheerfully as Charlie settled in a chair at her desk and angled the tablet so that Mango got to see her.

  ‘Running on adrenalin, I guess,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Did you make it to Ed?’ Mango asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s so great,’ Mango said. ‘My four all had a scream up about the injection, but kids’ immune systems work fast. If it’s like most vaccines, they’ll have good protection in eight to twelve hours.’

  ‘I called beca
use I have bad news,’ Charlie said. ‘I can’t tell you my source, but your friend Helen Back has given the FBI a statement …’

  ‘Ahh, that,’ Mango said weakly.

  Charlie gasped. ‘You knew already?’

  Mango made a big sigh, followed by a yawn. ‘Two Feds came into Radical Cakes, Thursday the week before last. They’d filmed me when I went to restock the RV. They knew about you, Juno and my contacts in LA. They had everything they needed to bust me on the spot.’

  ‘So why didn’t they?’ Charlie asked anxiously. ‘And why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘I apologise,’ Mango said. ‘I’ve known Helen for a long time. I was pissed when I saw her statement describing me as star struck, and blabbing. But if I’m honest that’s exactly what I did.’

  ‘If they had so much evidence, why didn’t they move on us?’

  ‘I have desirable skills,’ Mango explained. ‘The FBI and CDC budgets have increased massively over the past few years. But people with medical degrees and experience with synthetic biology are in desperately short supply.’

  ‘So you have to go to work for the Feds?’

  ‘Not just that,’ Mango said. ‘The feds will take everything we’ve earned except one vehicle and one small home. We lose the cake business, all our savings and we must make full disclosure on every patient we’ve treated. Veryan must serve twelve to eighteen months in a minimum-security federal prison on money-laundering charges.’

  ‘What about me and Juno?’

  ‘I’ve tried really hard to help you …’ Mango said, before halting.

  Charlie shuddered. ‘Tried really hard, but what?’

  ‘You’re not an adult, so you can’t become an FBI employee. And with your past history, with the explosives …’

  Charlie growled. ‘So you get off, and I go to prison? Again!’

  ‘You’re seventeen,’ Mango soothed. ‘You worked in a lab. You didn’t make Z-drugs or purple wasps, just designer embryos and high quality gene mods for people who wanted them.’

  ‘Have they given a number?’ Charlie snapped.

  ‘One to two years for Juno. Three to five for you, because of your record.’

  Could be worse, but it doesn’t include breaking quarantine at Care4Kids …

  Charlie closed her eyes and bunched a fist. ‘Why do I always get shafted? You’re treating me no better than the Janssens did.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Mango said.

  ‘No,’ Charlie hissed, wanting to yell but aware of her foster family in adjoining rooms. ‘What’s not fair is you blab to your celebrity friends and I go to jail. I’ve saved money. I’m getting my own lawyer. A damned good one.’

  ‘What have you got to offer?’ Mango asked stiffly. ‘You have nothing the feds don’t know already.’

  ‘But it all works nicely for you,’ Charlie said acidly.

  ‘I’m a mom. I get to keep my kids in a modest home and spend a minimum of eight years doing low-paid work in an FBI lab. You can blow ten grand on a lawyer, but you won’t get a better deal. And I’m not even supposed to be talking about this with you.

  ‘I’m closing the lab. You won’t be hearing from me again, and if you make contact I’ll pass the message to my lawyer. Goodbye, Charlie. I like you, and wish our friendship could have ended better.’

  Mango closed the call window. Seconds later the tablet cut to black and a message popped on to the screen:

  This device has been deauthorised and is now locked.

  To reinstate access, contact your system administrator.

  52 ZOMBIE SMASH

  Vegas Local

  * * *

  SUNDAY’S HOT STORIES

  LAS VEGAS – First Killer-T deaths confirmed at emergency clinic. Police warn of severe penalties for quarantine violation.

  Deaths include 16yo violin prodigy. Toll expected to rise sharply as Las Vegas cases reach 150.

  FULL STORY

  CARSON CITY – SynthLab Inc. admits production delay.

  The private contractor charged with rapid production of 3.3 million anti-virus doses for the State of Nevada has admitted a refrigeration fault will result in longer than expected lead times for vaccine production.

  The Nevada Rapid Vaccine Production Target calls for 15,000 doses of vaccine to be prepared for emergency workers within ten hours. However, a worker inside SynthLab’s Carson City facility has claimed that precursor compounds had spoiled inside damaged refrigeration units, and that vaccine production had still not begun fifteen hours after the British released the manufacturing process.

  FULL STORY

  Matt sprawled on a sofa, dressed in tie-dyed polo and camo shorts. Banners scrolled on a twenty-four-hour news channel, but the volume was off and he was studying a glossy book titled Sara Channing’s Photo Bombs.

  ‘I’ve never seen this before,’ Matt said, raising the book as Harry strode in, wearing a black running shirt and boxer briefs.

  The open page was a picture taken with a Congolese sniper, sixty feet up a tree.

  ‘Your ma was hardcore,’ Matt told Harry. ‘It says she spent two nights up in the tree with this guy while he shot and killed at least six people. And they had to stay in position, not even coming down to use the toilet.’

  ‘She was young too,’ Harry said, still loving the shiner Lana had given his best friend.

  ‘How come I’ve never seen this book before?’ Matt asked.

  ‘That’s the first edition,’ Harry said. ‘They released an expanded edition after mum died, with more photos and a foreword by some BBC newsreader who Kirsten reckons my mum couldn’t stand. But the original is worth a bit to photo-book collectors, so don’t go getting the pages all sticky when you see the topless tribeswomen.’

  Matt laughed. ‘What made you get it out?’

  ‘Puts our current situation in perspective,’ Harry said, shrugging. ‘Speaking of, you mostly wear black. Is there a long-sleeve black shirt I can borrow?’

  ‘Several,’ Matt said. ‘Not sure if they’ll stretch over your freakishly mutated body, but you’re welcome to try.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Harry said.

  ‘You’re really going out there?’

  ‘I often ask what my mum would do in certain situations,’ Harry said. ‘But I took one look at the photos in that book and I knew exactly what she’d do.’

  Harry found a slate-grey shirt in Matt’s closet that was only a little tight. Back in his own room, he put on black jogging bottoms and pushed his feet into Nike running shoes, on which he’d meticulously blacked out all the reflective parts with a Sharpie. Then he turned to the gear laid out on the bed.

  He’d decided to take his cell in case of emergency, but would leave it switched off. The cops could easily track the location of a phone, and during a quarantine they might be hunting any device with a signal that moved around.

  Then there was the camera gear. Harry felt ashamed when he got his Nikon out and found the battery dead and that the most recent pictures on the memory card were taken on a Queensbridge trip to Washington, DC over a year earlier.

  The deserted city might provide interesting photo opportunities, and Harry hoped that if he got busted and used the excuse that he was out taking photos for Vegas Local he’d get off with nothing more serious than a warning and a ride home in a cop car.

  ‘Best-a luck, guv’nor,’ Matt said, mocking Harry’s London accent.

  Harry pulled a black pack with his camera gear up his arm, then put on a black baseball cap, the darkest pair of blue nitrile gloves he’d been able to find, and a yellow virus mask, over which he’d crudely stitched a rectangle cut out of an old black tank top.

  The elevator came fast, because nobody else was using it. Only a couple of emergency lights were on in the lobby, but Harry dipped his face because there was CCTV. He’d not expected to find anyone behind the concierge desk and the revolving doors didn’t budge either. He could get out by pushing the bar on the fire door to the side. But he wouldn’t get back in that w
ay and he decided to iron out that niggle by going downstairs to the basement parking.

  There were more parked cars than usual, though since many apartments were second homes it was still barely half full. Harry’s building had installed full-height barriers on the vehicle entrances after zombies baseball-batted and robbed an elderly couple getting out of their car, so he had to grab an electronic remote control out of his Porsche to operate the rattling exit gate.

  With his phone off, Harry had to memorise the route and the silence got eerie as he reached the point where he needed to cross the Interstate. Apart from The Strip and a few streets downtown, Vegas wasn’t a walking city. The only way for pedestrians to cross the freeway was a network of run-for-your-life foot crossings over on and off-ramps and a stretch of graffitied footbridge.

  Ignoring the yellow pedestrian arrows, Harry scrambled up twenty feet of gravel embankment to the barrier at the edge of the freeway. The I-15 through the centre of Las Vegas had six lanes in each direction, plus extra lanes for cars peeling on and off.

  Harry cracked a childlike grin when he stepped on to the hard shoulder, catching a whiff of rubber in the warm evening air as he stared at fourteen lanes of nothing. Turning back gave a vista over the west side of the Vegas strip. The giant casinos’ rear video screens usually enticed visitors arriving from California with ads for their latest shows and restaurants. But tonight they were either dark, or said stuff like Casino closed – We wish our guests the best of health and a safe journey home. Most of the casino lights were off, but some rooms had lights on inside, and Harry got a tingle, imagining lonely souls who hadn’t got home before the airport closed.

  Velcro ripped as Harry pulled his Nikon out of the pack. The controls felt clumsy through gloves and his mask made it hard to get the viewfinder close to his eye. He photographed the rows of casino signs, then jogged to the central reservation, where he switched the camera into low-light mode and took several shots down the empty freeway.

  The roar of a military truck sandwiched between a pair of cop cars blew up from behind an overpass, blue and reds flashing, but no need for sirens. Harry was out of practice with the camera, but he kept low, set a slow exposure and rested the camera on the central barrier so that the skimming cars turned into streaks of light.