Extinction Red Line (The Extinction Cycle Book 0)

by Tom Abrahams

  “The teeth are similar to the black piranha,” the vet had said. “That species, the Serrasalmus rhombeus, has among the most forceful bites. It’s not just the teeth. There’s a mechanic to the way the jaw muscles are attached closely to the tip of the jaw. This slows the speed of the bite but provides tremendous force. That strong jaw and the finely serrated teeth allow the fish, or in this case the subject here, a unique ability to tear flesh.”

  The pathologist had shaken his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he’d said. “Where did you say you found this man? What was the chemical weapon to which he was exposed?”

  Gibson had frowned. “I didn’t say.”

  The vet had looked up from the body. “I’ve heard rumors about this,” he’d said. “Some experimental super-soldier experiment that went wrong in Vietnam. It changed the men into monsters.”

  Gibson had grunted. “Huh,” he’d said. “I hadn’t heard that one.”

  Starling and Gibson had exchanged knowing glances. The young scientist had been standing in the corner of the examination room, having told his boss he didn’t want to get too close. He’d seen enough of the mutant.

  “Yeah,” the vet had added. “I don’t know much else. But it sounded worse than Tuskegee or MKULTRA.”

  “It does sound awful,” Gibson had said. “Can we get on with the procedure? I’m anxious to see the histopathology.”

  “We need fingerprints and photographs of the outside of the body first,” the pathologist had said. “That’s standard pro—”

  Gibson had shaken his head. “No photographs. No fingerprints.”

  “But—”

  Gibson’s eyes had narrowed. He’d spoken more forcefully. “No photographs. No fingerprints.”

  The pathologist had lowered his mask. “X-rays?” he’d asked, like a child wanting seconds of dessert despite knowing his parents would say no.

  “No.”

  “We’ll proceed to the blood and urine draw, then,” the pathologist had said sheepishly. He’d raised his surgical mask and plucked a syringe from the table next to him. He’d drawn several samples before injecting another syringe into the bladder to draw urine.

  “We’ll be taking those,” said Gibson. “All of them.”

  The pathologist and vet had obliged and began with the body cavity examination. Using a scalpel, the pathologist made a large Y-shaped incision from each shoulder and across the chest. He’d then sliced straight down to the pubic bone.

  “Holy mother of—” The pathologist had caught himself as he’d pulled back the skin and exposed the rib cage. It didn’t look like a human rib cage.

  Gibson had stepped forward, toward the table. “What?”

  “The ribs,” the veterinarian had said. “They’re flared, like an ape.”

  “Or a Neanderthal,” Gibson had said. “The cage is large like an early, prehistoric human.”

  “Or an ape,” the vet had repeated.

  “The pelvis is flared too.” The pathologist had been speaking quickly as he’d taken rib shears to split the cage and examine the underlying organs. “And it’s much larger.”

  “So are the lungs,” the vet had said. “The capacity must be at least thirty percent greater than the average person. Add to the that the musculature, this man or whatever it was, must have been remarkably strong, had incredible endurance, and was—”

  “A killing machine,” the pathologist had added. “This was a killing machine.”

  The men had quietly finished the rest of the examination, weighing the organs, rechecking the eyes, and removing the brain to weigh it. In addition to the unmarked vials of blood and urine, they’d taken skin and organ samples and provided those to Gibson and Starling. Both men had been as white as the dead patient on the table by the time they’d finished.

  Sitting in Gibson’s office hours later, Starling seemed unsurprised by the fictional sf-503 in front of him. He looked up at his boss. “I have the blood results.”

  Gibson’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “You didn’t ask, Major.”

  “So?”

  Starling sighed. “So, after looking at the samples microscopically, I can tell you why it didn’t work.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  Starling shrugged. “It didn’t work because the attachment didn’t occur as I hypothesized.”

  Gibson’s brow sagged. He frowned. “So you were wrong.”

  “Not exactly,” said the scientist. “From what I could determine, and again this is preliminary, the attachment failed because we introduced it simultaneously with the VX-99.”

  Gibson pinched his eyes and shook his head. “How else would we do it? We have to inject simultaneously.”

  “No,” said Starling. “That’s not entirely true. We would have to inject the cocktail to a subject that already had VX-99 in his system. The cellular mutations would already have had to take place. The hormones do carry the cocktail. But if the VX-99 isn’t already there, if the cells haven’t previously accepted their fate, so to speak, there’s no VX mutation to which the cocktail can attach.”

  “I see.”

  “Which means we’d need to inject someone with VX-99 and then wait for the changes to occur,” said Starling. “Then, and only then, could we truly test the theory.”

  “That’s a problem,” said Gibson.

  “Other than the obvious ethical violations, why?”

  “We don’t have any more VX-99.”

  “What do you mean? It’s all gone?”

  “We stopped synthesizing it in 1968,” said Gibson. “The VX-99 you’ve been using for your experiments was what we had left. That final test, with the deserter, was the last of it.”

  Starling jumped to his feet. “Why would you use the last of it? That’s crazy. Without any more pure VX-99, we can’t do anything. We’re finished.”

  Gibson chuckled. “First, I find your sympathy for my immoral program to be disingenuous, Dr. Starling. Second, your test was our last shot at this regardless. It didn’t matter. We’re shut down.”

  Starling rubbed his chin before running his hands through his hair. He grasped at the ends of the strands as if to pull them out. “You’re right,” he said. “Ethically and morally I’m glad we’re finished. Especially after what we did to that man today. But scientifically, I’m conflicted. I want to solve the problem. I want to prove the hypothesis. Now I’ll never get that chance.”

  “That was a refreshingly honest answer from the naïvely moral policeman,” said Gibson. “You can stick around a few days to clean out your belongings, delete files, and destroy samples. I’ll give you a good recommendation. You can go get a job working for the Centers for Disease Control or some benevolent foundation somewhere.”

  Starling nodded. “Thank you. I guess it’s too bad all of those Marines killed each other in Vietnam. If they hadn’t, you’d have your live sample and you’d have an endless supply of VX-99.”

  The scientist rapped his knuckles on the desk before stuffing his hands back into his lab coat. He spun around with a nod and left Gibson alone in his office. Gibson slid the autopsy into a manila file folder, unlocked his desk drawer, and slipped the file inside.

  He picked up the phone and called his wife, dimming the desk lamp as he did. The phone rang once before she picked up.

  The major pressed the receiver close to his lips. “Hi, honey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. It’s been a long day here. I’ll be home shortly.”

  His wife asked if he wanted her to warm a plate in their new microwave oven. It had been an anniversary gift.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m not one hundred percent convinced those radioactive things are safe.”

  She giggled at him and told him to drive carefully. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he said. “Give the boy a kiss for me.”

  Gibson hung up the phone, his hand lingering on the receiver as he thought about the last thing Starling had
said before leaving his office.

  — 20 —

  Hanoi, Vietnam

  April 21, 1980

  Jimmy Linh sat at the desk in his hotel room. His fingers rested on the keys of a small portable typewriter he’d lugged in his suitcase. He was almost finished with his article.

  The Ma Trang is not a ghost. It is flesh and blood. And it’s both blood and flesh it seeks in a place where legends are apparently real.

  “That’s good stuff,” he said to himself. He winced against the pain in his shoulder. The quartet of gashes was long but not deep enough for stitches. He’d taken a shower and cleaned the wound. As soon as a nearby pharmacy opened, he’d gotten bandages, some Neosporin, and a large bottle of aspirin.

  He checked the article one more time and picked up the phone next to the typewriter. He followed the instructions on the phone and, using his notes, dialed an international number. It rang a dozen times. He was about to hang up when he heard a groggy voice on the other end.

  “Hullo? Who is this?”

  “Gertrude,” said Linh, “it’s me, Jimmy Linh.”

  “Jimmy who?”

  “Jimmy Linh. The new reporter,” he said. “I’m calling you from Vietnam.”

  She cleared her throat. “Jimmy Linh? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Jimmy paused. He bit his lip. He shouldn’t have called her at home.

  “That wasn’t rhetorical, Jimmy Linh the new reporter. What time is it?”

  “I think it’s three o’clock in London.”

  Gertrude sighed and grunted. “All right, Jimmy,” she said, her voice still laced with sleep. “What is it that’s so important you called me at my flat at three o’clock in the morning on bloody Monday?”

  “I found the Ma Trang.”

  “The what?”

  “The White Ghost. The reason I came here. I found it.”

  She chuckled. “You found it.”

  “Yes. I have an article and a roll of film I’ll have flown to you.”

  She chuckled again. “You have an article and film. Jimmy Linh the new reporter has an article and film of this mythical beast.”

  “Yes. I can read it to you. And it’s not mythical. It’s real.”

  “Go ahead,” said Gertrude. “Read away.”

  “Okay,” Jimmy said. “I wrote it quickly, so if you have notes, then—”

  “Just read it, Jimmy.”

  “It’s not often, if ever, a man looks into the eyes of a killer, smells its hot breath, feels the sting of its claws, and lives to tell about it,” Jimmy said, his hands trembling as he held the freshly typed article. “In the sweaty jungles of a country still reeling from decades of war, I saw the monster firsthand. I can tell you its breath was rank with rot, and its claws sliced through my skin like hot butter. Its name is Ma Trang, Vietnamese for the White Ghost, and it has terrorized the mountains and valleys along the Da River for more than a decade.

  “The legend of the Ma Trang says the creature is the ghost of an American serviceman who died in that country’s military action, which ended in 1975. The Ma Trang is seeking its revenge. It hunts them. It kills them. It eats them. It has been stalking prey for as long as twelve years, according to those with whom we spoke.

  “The Ma Trang, according to local reports, is responsible for the deaths or disappearances of hundreds, if not thousands, of people along a path that runs from Son La southeast into the mountains near Hòa Bình. It was in that small village of Hòa Bình that we met a family whose lives the monster destroyed and where I met the beast myself.”

  “Stop,” said Gertrude. “You don’t need to read any more.”

  A punch of nausea hit Linh in the gut. “Why? Is it not good?”

  Gertrude laughed. “No,” she said. “You silly fool. It’s fantastic.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Is it true?”

  Linh wasn’t sure what she meant. He was a reporter. Of course it was true. Why wouldn’t it be true?

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s all true.”

  “And you really have pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said, suddenly invigorated. “Put the film in a container and the article in an envelope. I’ll see to it a courier picks it up from you directly within the hour. We’ll develop the film, tweak the prose a bit, and have it in Tuesday’s edition. Excellent work, Jimmy Linh. Truly outstanding. Take the day to sleep, spend tomorrow in Hanoi on me, and then come back on Wednesday ready to work. I’ll have travel rebook you a late flight out on the twenty-third.”

  “Thank you,” Linh said. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You’ve already awoken me at three in the morning.”

  “Why did you ask if what I wrote was true?”

  Gertrude laughed so hard, Linh had to pull the receiver away from his ear. “Oh, silly new reporter, Jimmy Linh. You wouldn’t believe how many reporters write things that aren’t.”

  Jimmy thanked her again and hung up. He could barely contain himself. His heart was pounding; his palms were sweaty. It was like he’d just gone out on a first date. That reminded him.

  He reached into his satchel, still damp from the rain, and pulled out his notepad. Not thinking about the time, he dialed the number scrawled in flowery handwriting. It rang only twice.

  “Hello?”

  Linh took a deep breath. “Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Jimmy Linh, from the train.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Good morning. Or should I say good night? What time is it?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but it’s no problem. It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Nice to hear you,” Linh said then slapped his forehead with his palm. What a stupid thing to say.

  “Not to be rude,” she said, “but why are you calling me so early, Jimmy?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have called. I’m in Vietnam. The time difference. I didn’t consider it before dialing.”

  “Vietnam? How interesting.”

  “Quite,” he said. “You’ll be able to read about it tomorrow in the paper.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Reflector.”

  “Very good.”

  There was an awkward silence before Linh gained enough courage. “Would you like to have dinner?”

  Molly giggled. “In Vietnam?”

  Linh’s face flushed. He rubbed his palms on his thighs. “No. I’m sorry. In London. Thursday night?”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Very well then,” said Linh. “That’s wonderful news.”

  She giggled again and then yawned. “Yes, it is.”

  “I should let you get back to sleep,” he said. “I’ll ring you when I land.”

  They hung up and Linh wondered why he’d been so nervous. She’d approached him and not the other way around. The date was a sure thing. Still, Linh was a rookie at more than just his job. Asking a woman on a date was almost as daunting, he thought, as facing the Ma Trang. Almost.

  There was a knock at his door. Linh jumped from his seat and peeped through the eyelet. It was a courier.

  “Just a moment,” Linh said in Vietnamese. “I’ll be right with you.” He gathered the article and the film canister and put them into an envelope. He addressed the envelope to Gertrude Wombley and carried it over to the door.

  He gave the courier the package, signed it over, and watched his big break leave in the hands of a stranger. He prayed it would find its way to Gertrude and he’d get his big headline. Since he’d last slept, he’d plodded through a mudslide, interviewed a grieving mother and her two grandchildren, nearly died at the hands of a monster, written a masterpiece of modern journalism, and booked a date with a pretty woman.

  It was a good day.

  — 21 —

  Frederick, Maryland

  April 22, 1980

  The computer sounded an alert, a
single short tone that told Major Rick Gibson he had a new message. He walked across his dimly lit office to his desk and sat in front of the monitor. He bit his lip as his eyes focused on the display. He’d not yet told command about the VX-99 cocktail failure. He was waiting as long as he could and hoped they’d be patient.

  EYES ONLY, CLASSIFIED

  PROJECT BESERKR USAMRIID TRIALS

  Dial into secure call ASAP.

  Subject: Operation Burn Bright Rumint

  Rumint? Operation Burn Bright Rumint?

  Rumint was military shorthand for rumor/intelligence. It primarily meant gossip. Gibson reread the message a second and third time. He had no idea what command wanted to discuss.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and picked up his phone with the other. The operator connected him to a secure line and then to command.

  A brusk voice answered the call. “Gibson? This you?”

  “Roger that, General. I received the message.”

  General Anthony Reed huffed. “We have a real situation on our hands. I need you to tell me you knew nothing about it.”

  Gibson swallowed hard. “Go ahead.”

  Had they learned about the failed trial? Had Starling ratted him out?

  “There’s a report in a British newspaper that has pretty firm evidence we’ve got an MIA hunting people in Vietnam.”

  Gibson swallowed again. He dipped a finger inside his collar and tugged. “Hunting? How do you mean, sir?”

  “You have a fax machine?”

  “Roger.”

  “Probably better if I send you a fax,” said the general. “That way you can see the picture yourself.”

  “The…picture?”

  “I’m sending it now,” said General Reed. “What it looks like is that one of your VX-99 super freaks didn’t die after all. He survived and he’s been killing people for, well, since he became whatever the hell he is.”

  The fax machine in Gibson’s office rang, it picked up, and it started printing the document. “You’re saying this was in a British newspaper?”