Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Amid the wall of white snow, an orange beacon of hope shined through: the glow from the windows of the home. Safety was in sight. Seeing the warm home gave Desmond the energy to push on, even though he wanted to simply collapse in the snow and give up.

  At the porch, he grabbed a timber column, panting, willing himself to cross to the door. He imagined it opening, the man inside seeing him, picking him up, and carrying him to the warmth of the fire. But Desmond knew that wouldn’t happen; the demon within the cabin wasn’t that kind of man. He was likely warming himself by the fire, hoping the boy he had never wanted was dead, buried in the snow-covered fields, gone for good.

  That thought steeled Desmond’s will to live. He pushed forward, threw the door open, dropped the object he had carried, and stared at the man sitting by the large stone fire, a bottle filled with amber liquid at his side.

  Without looking back, the monster called in a gruff, English accent, “Shut the bloody door, boy.”

  Desmond slammed the door, stripped his snow-coated jacket off, and rushed to the fire. The heat scorched him at first, and he drew back, collapsing on the wood floor as he pulled more of the frozen and soaked clothes off. Shivering, he stared at the man, silently asking, Why didn’t you come looking for me? Don’t you care at all?

  The man snorted dismissively, looked back at the fire, and gripped the bottle by the neck. He took a long pull, then handed it to Desmond.

  “Drink. It’s the only thing for it.”

  Desmond hesitated, then took the bottle and sipped from it. The liquid was like fire on the back of his throat, burning at first, then numbing as it went down. Despite the wretched taste, he felt warmer. And less pain. A second later, he took another sip of the whiskey.

  The memory faded, leaving the taste of liquor in his mouth.

  Lying in the flat in Berlin, freezing, Desmond realized exactly what he wanted at that moment: a tall bottle of whiskey. He imagined himself leaving the flat, descending the stairs, and buying the bottle. He imagined the first drink hitting his lips, how warm he’d feel then, how much more relaxed he’d be, how much better he’d sleep, how much better things would go tomorrow.

  But just as he was about to rise from the bed, his mind reminded him of something: drinking was something he didn’t do anymore. And he also recalled why: drinking had already taken too much from him. Though he couldn’t specifically remember it, he knew that years ago he had made a promise to himself not to let alcohol take anything else from him.

  Desmond knew then that he was the kind of person who kept his promises, especially the ones he made to himself. He wouldn’t seek warmth in a bottle that night—or any other night. He would bear the cold, and the pain in his body, and the painful memories in his mind. He would bear them all alone. He had done it before.

  Day 2

  900 Infected

  13 Dead

  Chapter 13

  After his morning ritual, Dr. Elim Kibet donned an impermeable gown, boot covers, a facemask, goggles, and two pairs of gloves. As he walked the corridor, he barely recognized the sleepy, rural hospital. It was bustling with activity now. Everyone who had stayed was pitching in.

  He opened a door and greeted his patient, the American named Lucas Turner. The young man had broken with the disease during the night. Despite his discomfort and ill health, Lucas was extremely polite. Elim knew the smell of chlorine emanating from his suit was overpowering to his patient, yet Lucas did not complain. He took the bottle of ORS Elim handed him and drank some, wincing as he swallowed.

  “I know,” Elim said. “It’s bad. But it will keep you alive.”

  Lucas only nodded.

  “I’ve sent another request for help. I’m optimistic that someone will come soon.”

  Lucas’s cheeks were flushed, and red rings had begun forming around his eyes. He spoke with a scratchy voice. “I was wondering if you would send an email to my parents. My phone’s dead.” He took a sheet of paper off the side table and held it up. It contained an email address and a short, handwritten message.

  Elim reached for it, but Lucas drew it back.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted to, like, put it in a plastic bag or… take a cell phone picture of it or something.”

  “Yes, that’s a very wise idea, Mr. Turner.”

  Elim stripped the outer glove off his right hand, drew his phone out of his pocket, and snapped a photo.

  Back at his desk, he composed an email to Lucas’s parents.

  Subject: A message from your son Lucas

  Dear Sir and Madam,

  I am a physician at Mandera Referral Hospital currently caring for your son. He asked me to pass this message along.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Elim Kibet

  ** Message from Lucas follows **

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Please don’t worry about me. I know you worry yourselves sick as it is.

  Since my last email, I’ve begun running a fever. They don’t know if I have what Steven had, but the doctors and nurses here are doing everything they can for me. I am in no pain.

  I want you to know that I love you and I appreciate all the opportunities you’ve given me. I feel very lucky. I’ve had the chance to work on a cause I believe in and see a part of the world few ever experience.

  I feel that my life has had purpose and meaning. I don’t want to be grim or worry you. I’ll see you soon.

  I love you both. Please don’t worry.

  Lucas

  Elim sent the email, then started making calls—to the Mandera County Commissioner, the County Health Director, National Disaster Operations Centre, and anyone else who would pick up.

  When he was done, he sat back in his chair and realized something: he was running a fever. He pulled his shirt up and froze. The bumps were small but unmistakable. The beginnings of a rash. He was infected with whatever had sickened and killed the American.

  The hospital administrator appeared in his door, and Elim quickly jerked his shirt down.

  “We’ve got company, Elim.”

  They walked to the main entrance and held their hands up to shade their eyes. Three large trucks had pulled up outside. They had just arrived—a cloud of brown dust they had kicked up was now engulfing the vehicles, preventing Elim from seeing any markings or identification.

  Figures emerged from the dust cloud. They were dressed in protective suits, but they carried military rifles. They formed up around the hospital and waited. Ten seconds later, a second wave of figures in PPE stepped out of the cloud and walked directly toward Elim.

  Off the Horn of Africa, the cargo vessel Kentaro Maru was slowly making its way down the coast of Somalia toward Kenya. It kept its distance from the shore, and out of the reach of pirates, though it was well equipped to repel such attacks.

  In his cabin, Conner McClain sat at a desk, watching the drone footage of the trucks rolling up to Mandera Referral Hospital.

  Behind him, the door opened and footsteps echoed on the floor.

  He didn’t turn to see his guest, who stood and watched the video for a moment.

  “You think they’ll take the boy back to America?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “We’ve located Desmond Hughes. He’s still in Berlin. We’ll have him within a few hours.”

  “Be very careful. Underestimating him will be the last thing you ever do.”

  When the door closed, Conner opened his email and sent a series of messages. It was time to begin phase two.

  On another screen, a map and statistics showed infection rates around the world.

  As expected, they were climbing.

  Chapter 14

  Spiegel Online

  Breaking News Alert

  The Berlin Police are asking for help in finding Desmond Hughes, an American man wanted for murder as well as assaulting two police officers. Hughes, pictured above, was last seen near the Brandenburg Gate. If you have any information, call a special police hotline immediately at (030) 4664-8.
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  At around 7:30 yesterday morning two uniformed police officers and a hotel security guard were sent to investigate a disturbance at Hughes’s hotel room. Shortly after entering the suite, Hughes assaulted the uniformed officers and held the hotel employee at gunpoint. He proceeded to rob all three men, steal a police handgun and ID card, and flee the scene in a taxi, which police have now located. The driver described Hughes as a quiet man who claimed to be a tourist interested in the city’s layout and routes in and out. Authorities believe Hughes is still in Berlin and is considered armed and extremely dangerous.

  Hours ago, law enforcement in America launched a raid on Hughes’s lavish home outside San Francisco, California. They’ve told the press only that the home had been recently burglarized and ransacked.

  Chapter 15

  Desmond had barely slept. The anticipation of talking to the source—and the hope that he might finally learn what had happened to him—had consumed his thoughts.

  At first light, he took out his phone to do some research in preparation for the day. He wondered if whoever had sent Gunter Thorne to his hotel room would be prowling the streets, looking for him. He knew the Berlin police were. One or both groups might already know about his meeting with the mysterious man he had called—the person who had been corresponding with him via the Google Voice line. That meant that today would be a contest of cleverness—and, if they found him, physical might. Desmond wanted to be prepared. It took him hours to put the pieces in place, but by noon he was finished and on his way to the heart of Berlin, where his elaborate game would unfold.

  He wore dark sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down nearly to his eyebrows. Among the tourists and locals, he blended in well. He walked along the tree-lined thoroughfare of Unter Den Linden, his pace casual, his gaze straight ahead. Behind the dark glasses his eyes scanned everyone who passed him, every vehicle.

  At the end of Unter Den Linden lay Pariser Platz, an open-air pedestrian square closed off to automobile traffic, and beyond that was the Tiergarten, a lush green park crisscrossed with walking trails. The US and French embassies lined the square, and the UK embassy was close by. If Desmond was cornered by the police or the group who had sent Gunter Thorne to his hotel room, he would retreat to one of the embassies—but only as a last resort.

  Desmond stood for a minute, looking across the square at Berlin’s most visited and recognizable monument, the pre-eminent symbol of German history: the Brandenburg Gate. His research last night had been fascinating. The gate had been constructed in the 1780s by Frederick William II, the king of Prussia, Germany’s predecessor state. Conceived as the entrance to Unter den Linden—which led at the time to the Prussian palace at the end of the street—the sandstone monument had been modeled after the Propylaea in Athens. It featured twelve carved columns—six on the front side, six on the rear—and was massive: 66 feet tall, 213 feet wide.

  During World War II, the buildings in Pariser Platz had been leveled, and the Brandenburg Gate was significantly damaged. It sat unrepaired until 1957, and even after its restoration it was rarely visited, as it was enclosed by the Berlin Wall, preventing residents of both the east and west from reaching it. Second only to the wall itself, the gate came to stand as a symbol of a divided country and capital.

  It was before this gate’s towering pillars that President Ronald Reagan stood in 1987 and said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.” But it was the Germans themselves who tore it down—on November 9, 1989, after East Germany announced that its citizens could visit West Germany. And a month and a half after that, on December 22, 1989, West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl walked through Brandenburg Gate to meet East German Prime Minister Hans Modrow, formalizing the unification of Germany after almost forty-five years of division.

  As Desmond watched the midday sun shine down on the monument, casting shadows on the crowds bustling through Pariser Platz, he hoped the gate’s history was a good omen—and that the day’s events would set him on his own course to freedom.

  A few hundred feet away, a man named Garin Meyer stepped out of a taxi and made his way to the center of Pariser Platz. He wore a navy peacoat, jeans, a ball cap, and aviator sunglasses. He took a spiral-bound notebook from his backpack, flipped it open, and held it to his chest, revealing a page with block letters:

  LOOKING GLASS TOURS

  He stood still for several minutes, then began looking around, growing increasingly nervous.

  In a white cargo van parked near Pariser Platz, two men wearing headphones hunched over a bank of computer screens, watching video feeds of the man holding the sign.

  “Units One and Two, subject looks antsy. Be prepared to pursue and capture if he takes flight.”

  Clicks echoed over the open comm line, acknowledging the directive.

  “Unit Three, confirm you’ve attached the tracking dot to the subject.”

  Another click echoed on the line.

  They would know exactly where Garin Meyer went, and if they were successful, he would soon lead them to Desmond Hughes.

  A runner in fluorescent spandex stopped in front of Garin, tied his shoe, then handed him a business card and darted off.

  Garin read the card, stuffed the notebook into his backpack, and jogged across the square. He ducked inside a canvas-covered rickshaw, which took off, racing along Pariser Platz and onto the pedestrian trails in the Tiergarten.

  “Subject is on the move,” Unit Two announced over the open comm line.

  A second later, he added, “He’s switched. Subject is now in a rickshaw with a blue top.”

  The men in the cargo van could hear the field agents panting as they ran.

  “I’ve lost him,” Unit Two said.

  “Units Three and Four, report.”

  “Unit Three. I’ve got him. He switched again outside the rose garden.”

  A long pause, then, “He’s pulling away.”

  “Unit Six,” a woman said. “I’ve got him. Passing the Bismarck Memorial.”

  She panted as her footfalls grew faster, then stopped. “Subject has exited the rickshaw. Be advised, a similarly dressed man has jumped into the rickshaw: peacoat and jeans. The shoes, sunglasses, and hat are different. Actual subject is moving on foot.”

  One of the men in the van spoke over the open line, “Confirmed, tracking dot is moving on foot.”

  The woman’s breathing slowed. “He’s entering the English Garden, moving toward the teahouse. Please advise.”

  “Observe and follow, Unit Six,” the agent in the van said. “Units Five and Seven, converge on the teahouse. Be advised meeting may be taking place there. Be on the lookout for Hughes and prepare to apprehend.”

  The teahouse inside the Teirgarten’s English Garden was packed with tourists. Garin squeezed past them and entered the men’s restroom. The last rickshaw driver had given him another card:

  In the restroom, seek the Looking Glass and await instructions.

  Garin wasn’t sure what it meant, but inside the bathroom, he found a paper sign taped to the second stall:

  Out of Order

  Looking Glass Sanitation

  He slowly pushed the door open.

  Outside the teahouse, Unit Six watched Garin Meyer exit and race to a cab. She moved quickly, speaking into her mic. “Subject has exited the building, entering a cab with plate number B WT 393.”

  The lead agent in the van said, “Tracking confirmed. Units Five and Seven, pursue. Air One, do you have eyes on the cab?”

  “Affirmative, Alpha Leader, target is painted. We’re following.”

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, Units Five and Seven put their motorcycles in gear and followed a few cars behind, careful not to attract attention. Twenty minutes later, the subject exited the cab and entered a small cafe on Reichsstraße, a few blocks from the Olympic stadium built for the 1936 games. He sat at a small table in the back and took out his cell phone.

  Outside, the two units on motorcycles waited, as did the helicopter unit. Thir
ty minutes later, one of the agents in the van said, “You think Hughes got spooked?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You want to make the call?”

  “No. Let’s wait a few more minutes.”

  They were both dreading the call—and the consequences. Conner McClain would not be happy.

  The subject rose and walked to the bathroom. When he didn’t emerge after five minutes, the lead agent said, “Units Five and Seven, take the subject into custody. Repeat, enter the cafe and take the subject into custody. Ground Two, bring the van around for extract.”

  The two agents entered the cafe, marched to the bathroom, and burst in, handguns drawn.

  The bathroom was empty.

  In the van off Pariser Platz, the two agents shared a nervous glance. The lead agent took out his mobile phone and dialed.

  Off the Horn of Africa, on board the Kentaro Maru, Conner McClain answered with a single word. “Report.”

  “We lost him.”

  Conner sighed and leaned back from the long desk. He stared at the screen on the wall. It showed a map, with red spreading out from major cities across the world.

  “Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “Desmond Hughes is smarter than you are. He’s smarter than I am. He’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. Our only chance of catching him is to do something he’s not willing to do—something he would never consider. Now tell me how you’re going to find him. Quickly.”