Pestilence Boxed Set [Books 1 & 2]

by Craig McDonough

  Mike shuffled up as silently as he could with his ankles cuffed until he was at Tilford’s shoulder with Grace just in front. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “Just listen. Whoever these people are, CIA, NSA, whoever… they’ve decided we’re a liability, and its time for us to disappear.”

  “What, do you mean to kill us?” Tilford kept his head looking straight ahead but asked his question from the side of his mouth.

  “I said just listen! And yes, that’s exactly what I mean. We’ll have to go along; there’s nothing we can do in here.” Mike took a quick peak at the nearby guards from the corners of his eyes. “We have a better chance once we’re out a here. There will be fewer and—”

  “You there, get back. Back, I said!” A black shirt strutted forward and grabbed Mike by the scruff of his red and black flannel shirt and pulled him backward a few steps. “You were told—no talking!” The guard was five inches shorter and about sixty pounds lighter than Mike Weaver, but he carried a 9mm pistol, a nightstick, and a stun gun. The guard had the edge.

  They were marched single file to the van, where two bench seats could be seen.

  Grace and Tilford went to the back, and Mike saw a chance and took it, jumping into the front of them. Steve was next and sat next to Mike.

  “Move to the backseat,” Mike whispered, not wanting to rile any of the guards further.

  “What, why…” Even in the dim light of the van, the reporter saw the glare from the chopper pilot and decided not to pursue his protest.

  With Steve filling the last position in the rear seat, Richard took the spot next to Mike.

  “Be ready,” Mike whispered through pursed lips.

  “What?”

  Mike didn’t answer as the door was slid shut. The second mistake had been made; they weren’t secured in seats.

  “Oh my God…” Grace breathed heavily in the back.

  “What’s wrong, Grace, w-what is it?” Tilford’s his tone didn’t mask his fear. Images of the naked woman with the blood—filled eyes, of CEO Gerard’s attackers, and of course Nurse Childs’s transformation into a hideous balloon-titted monster flooded his mind. “Grace, please tell me you’re okay, that you’re not about to…”

  “No, I’m all right.” She understood Tilford’s fear. Being shut inside a van with someone who may be infected with the flu and about to turn into a crazed bloodsucker would induce panic. “I’m just dying to go, I can’t hold on much longer.”

  “Oh sweet Jesus!” Steve said in disgust. “We’re about to get a bullet to the back of our head in a ditch somewhere and you’re worried about pissing your pants?”

  Grace wanted to smack the cold shit out of the loudmouth in with her cuffed hands; she would have too if Mike hadn’t intervened.

  “Shut up. If you want to get out of this alive, just shut the fuck up!” He told Steve. “Grace, we can use this as a diversion if you can hold on until we get five minutes down the road?”

  Grace was quick to catch on to Mike’s plan. “Okay, okay, I’ll do my best.” She gritted her teeth, crossed her legs and squeezed tight.

  “Damn, Grace, why did you have to mention that?” Tilford wedged his hands into his groin.

  Grace gave her doctor friend a small grin over his discomfort, and for the moment at least, her mind was relieved from the thought of their coming execution.

  When Calgleef neared the airport side entrance, which was for airport maintenance personnel only, the headlights of a car flashed twice. The occupant—he assumed—of that car got out and waved a flashlight along the road and toward the open chain-link fence.

  “Thank you. Can you—” Calgleef put his window down and started to ask.

  “Your plane is waiting straight ahead, then to your left, sir.” The man dressed in coveralls like airport staff cut him off.

  Calgleef wasted no further time and drove on. In the rearview mirror he watched the sharp spoken man with the flashlight close and lock the gate behind him. Time was not a luxury for him or others it appeared.

  The CDC executive jet was a good distance from the terminal, and prying eyes, there was a black SUV at the bottom of the stairway. Another man dressed like airport staff but with an orange reflective jacket waved the two light wands in his hands to get Calgleef’s attention. After stopping where the man indicated, the CDC director got out of the van and went directly to the stairs and up into the plane. He didn’t say anything, not after the guy at the gate demonstrated that conversation was not on this flight list.

  “Over here, Dr. Calgleef, over here,” A voice that was familiar called the moment he stepped into the cabin. “Sit, we have much to discuss.” The voice belonged to his NSA contact that he’d only spoken to on the phone, but he recognized it instantly. The authority his NSA contact displayed concerned him. Where once he was almost subordinate to Calgleef he now appeared to be in command.

  While Calgleef took his seat the NSA agent ordered some coffee, from the attendant, who Calgleef assumed was also from the NSA. Once the attendant left the agent began he filling the director in.

  “The hospital wasn’t devoid of all life as first thought,” he told Calgleef as if reading a report of company finances. “A substantial group of infected individuals attacked and—we assume—killed your retrieval team—”

  “Killed them? How, my team was armed.” A shocked Calgleef demanded.

  “Keep your voice down please, Dr. Calgleef.”

  “Yes, of course, my apologies.” People with loud voices or who expressed surprise publicly must be an intelligence agent’s nightmare, Calgleef surmised.

  “We haven’t been able to ascertain that as yet, but it might be time for a full state of emergency to be declared. We may not want to know what the exact nature of their deaths was, as autopsies would be required, which means more people in the loop and more people to keep watch over. You follow?”

  Calgleef also knew at that moment, this man from NSA—or wherever, he was beginning to doubt if his contact had ever told him the truth—knew of the entire scheme and was probably more of a Thorncroft man than he was, but he played the game well.

  “How will you do that if my armed team was killed? How would you—”

  “Just leave that to me, Dr. Calgleef.”

  The less I know, the better, I’ll bet, is what he is saying. Calgleef was able to grasp the hidden threat.

  The door of the cabin was pulled shut behind them by a man in coveralls who looked like airport maintenance, and it was clear to Calgleef that the NSA had wasted no expense on this—if indeed they were the NSA. The whine of the engines picked up, as the plane taxied toward the runway. The two men put down their coffees and fastened their seat belts as instructed and prepared for the journey to Atlanta.

  “Your idea to use the vaccine on your officer and her rescuers was probably a valid one—except we didn’t get the vaccine, did we?” The agent explained.

  Calgleef, saw a quiet menace and a cold distance in the eyes of the shadowy government man. The NSA agent sat back in the comfortable chair opposite Calgleef, hardly standard airline seats. The jet had recently been remodeled and afforded more luxury.

  “Those five, as you know, are loose ends, and they have to be dealt with. But,” the agent leaned forward, loosening his red silk tie as he did, “that’s another matter you don’t need to concern yourself with, you follow?”

  Calgleef noted how his contact had gone from cordial, when he’d dealt with him on the phone, to almost arrogant in person.

  “There’ll be some questions, no doubt, and some will be answered sufficiently, but there will always be some speculation particularly on the Internet—that’s to be expected. It won’t necessarily do any harm. The public’s fear of catching a deadly disease will outweigh any concerns over the integrity of the vaccine or its manufacturers, you follow?”

  Calgleef didn’t have to guess what his contact’s favorite turn of phrase was; he repeated it almost every time he spoke.

  Calgleef left the re
st of his coffee. He didn’t want the NSA spook to see his hand shaking. As they winged their way back to Atlanta, the Director of the CDC went over and over in his head all the possible ramifications and wondered how the scheme could possibly go ahead after the hospital disaster. When he looked at his NSA contact sitting back relaxed in his seat and dozing, he couldn’t help but ask if all the events of today might also have been planned.

  No one could be that calm if they weren’t fully prepared for what had transpired since the early hours of the day.

  And to be this prepared—it had to be a contingency plan, it had too! Calgleef watched the man, who he now thought of as his controller and not his contact, who had started to snore.

  The agent’s sleep, as well as his unruffled character, weren’t about to last.

  17

  Seventeen

  The two guards who arrived to transport Grace and the others were different from their black shirt guards at the warehouse. They wore dark blue shirts and pants with black workman’s boots and resembled US Postal employees more than anything, plus they only wore disposable surgical masks over their faces. Either there was no disease to be concerned with, or they just hadn’t been informed of the full dangers. One guard slid the door open and got into the single seat that faced toward the back of the van, directly at the prisoners. Once settled he thumped his fist twice on the panel that divided the driver’s cabin and the “personnel” section. The gears cranked and the van lurched off. The sudden movement of the van put pressure on the bladders of the two doctors in the back seat.

  “What’s with you two?” The guard had noticed their uncomfortable looks when he shone his flashlight on them.

  “Uh, it just these cuffs are hurting my wrists,” Tilford answered him.

  “Well, that won’t bother you much longer.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Mike was quick to ask but didn’t make any sudden moves. He didn’t want to put the guard on edge.

  Leaning nonchalantly back into his chair, the guard displayed an air of confidence or even arrogance; he didn’t appear concerned with any of these of the prisoners. They weren’t a danger to him, bound hand and foot as they were. This is exactly what Mike was hoping for, and the more relaxed and confidant the guard was the better his chances. The guard was in his mid-thirties, of stocky build with a boot camp haircut. But he was no recruit, his cold matter-of-fact voice and uncaring stare told Mike that much. The guard wore a shoulder holster over the top of his blue double-pocket shirt. A medium-sized 9mm pistol rested in a horizontal position, which suited Mike just fine.

  The warehouse that had been their home for the last few hours was accessible by only one road and it hadn’t seen any maintenance for years. Every time the van bounced over a pothole, Grace and Tilford grimaced and pushed their thighs in close. Mike couldn’t see their reaction but just hear their subdued groans. When Mike felt the van slow appreciably to take a tight turn, he knew this was their chance.

  “Now, Grace, now!” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  Grace took her cue like a seasoned actress on Broadway.

  “Guard, guard, I-I-I have to use the bathroom I have to—” Unlike n actress the desperation in her voice wasn’t make believe.

  “Well, you just have to squeeze your muffin pie a bit longer.” A sneer formed on the guard’s face. He enjoyed the schoolyard reference he made. “Hell, we’ll be there soon and I’ll even help you take your pants down for you.” He leaned forward, his upper lip curled in a snarl and a glint appeared in his eye.

  BHAM! In the dim light a dark flash was seen from where Mike sat, the double-handed fist to the guard’s jaw was clearly heard. The guard’s head hit the back of the divider and creating a loud hollow sound. Mike didn’t hesitate and hit him again, again and then once more for good measure.

  “What are you doing? You’re killing him, you’re killing him!” Steve cried in shock. Reporting on violence of this nature was his thing, being in the thick of it wasn’t.

  “What do you think they were going to do with us, you dropkick?” Mike used an Australian slang-term he was fond of using for people who had little natural smarts.

  The van screeched to a halt. The driver had heard the commotion in back. Whether the guard was unconscious or dead it didn’t matter to Mike; he had his life to save and that of the others—and maybe the safety of the country too. Mike reached down, he yanked the pistol from the spring-loaded holster. He quickly checked the guard’s pockets and found another magazine.

  “Get back from the door and be quiet!” he said in a tense whisper as he heard the keys twisting in the sliding door’s lock. Mike knelt on the floor and raised the pistol level with the bottom of his chin. The door to the van slid back. The smell of dust from the dirt road and the damp night air rushed in.

  “What the hell is—” A double tap from the 9mm put an end to the driver’s inquisitiveness.

  “Oh my God,” Steve jumped out of his seat. The shots reverberated within the van.

  “Jesus!” Richard added as he slammed his palms over his ears.

  While those two compared religious deities, Mike vaulted out of the van. They hadn’t been held that long, but the air was already like freedom to him, he could smell the grass, now damp from the night air he could see the stars int he sky. he never knew how important these few things were—until you begin to think you may not see them again—ever! He didn’t have time to take in all the delights of the Iowa night there was work to do. He grabbed the driver by the ankles and dragged his still twitching body to a ditch beside the road.

  “Okay, quickly out!” he ordered, no more whispering; it was time to get things done.

  “I have to—”

  “Over there but not too far from the car,” he told Grace, as he unlocked her cuffs with the keys he liberated from the driver.

  Tilford was next to have his cuffs removed then headed for first tree ahead of him. Soon the aroma of night was joined by the sulfur-sweet smell of urine. Steve and Richard, both still shaking visibly, also took the opportunity to relieve themselves; it had been a long time for all of them. Mike went back into the van and pulled the unconscious guard out and dragged him over to the ditch and dropped him next to the driver.

  “Is he… is he dead too?” Steve asked, his voice displayed fear. Whether it was over the situation or the ease in which Mike seemed prepared to kill, or both, it was hard to tell.

  “Not yet,” Mike raised the pistol and pumped another two shots into the back of the guard’s head. “Now he is.”

  “My God man, you—” Tilford—back by the van—heard the remark, then the shots.

  “Isaac,” Grace grabbed her compatriot. “They were going to do the same to us. Probably rape me before hand. It’s cold and callous but necessary.” She held his his upper arms.

  Tilford thought for a moment or two before he nodded.

  “Yes, yes I understand. I do. It’s just not my world, not my world,”

  Richard and Steve stared at the man who they’d only ever thought of as their chopper pilot. Now, they’d seen him dispatch two men without so much as a blink of the eye.

  “Let’s get going. We don’t have time for this.” Mike was sure the driver would be in regular contact via radio with his superiors, and when he didn’t check in at the appropriate time a search would be launched immediately.

  “He’s right, we have to get moving,” Grace added. Now relieved of her overflow, she looked ready to take part in the decision-making process once more, not that she’d been out of it. It just felt that way.

  “Aha, just as I suspected.” Mike picked up a satellite phone off the seat next to the driver’s then threw it to the ground.

  “What the hell are you doing? Have you gone mad?” Steve confronted Mike, who now stomped on the phone. He’d wanted to speak up but not in the confines of the van. Too close for comfort. “We can use that to call—”

  “Call who, a mortuary service to order your pine box? These ar
e agency men and that sat phone has a built-in tracker. When they don’t call at a pre—determined time, they’ll search for this vehicle… And they’ll know right where to go.”

  “Why wouldn’t the van have a radio?”

  “Radio signals can be intercepted far easier, Grace.” Mike told her.

  Grace understood, as well as the need to destroy the phone. Besides, they didn’t know where they were, and who would they call?

  “If they launch a search then we’ll get about ten or fifteen minutes of use with this van at best,” she said, walking over and looking inside, “so let’s get on our way!”

  “Right, you three get in the back,” Mike said to the men, he wanted Grace in the front with him. Not because she was attractive, though that didn’t hurt, but because she was more level headed and practical than the others.

  Mike tucked the pistol into his dark green cargo pants and hopped into the driver’s seat. Grace slid the door shut to the rear section, then got into the passenger seat.

  “Sorry for the brutal display, but there was no choice, I—”

  “I understand. I had to shoot a few inside the hospital to guarantee our escape and I’m sure you saw what occurred on the rooftop?”

  “Well, I saw you shooting at something.”