by C. J. Lyons
I forced my eyes open to confirm my suspicions. The light from the window had faded as if the sun was already setting—hadn’t it been bright morning just a few minutes ago?
Rolling my gaze up, I saw a trapeze bar hanging above me. How had I missed that? But...my neuro deficits still made no anatomic sense. Then I glanced to my right. Just as I had imagined them, a row of pill bottles appeared, neatly arranged on the bedside table.
Before I could think more about the sudden changes in my environment—a product of my imagination or a result of my brain not attending to visual cues when I’d first awakened?—Louise entered, followed by Flynn close on her heels.
Louise appeared flustered, rushing to my side and raising my wrist to take my pulse. Usually, the worse a situation was, the calmer she got—although more talkative. Louise liked to talk things through. Today she was dressed in black except for her white lab coat. Which was strange on two counts: Louise never, ever wore black, and why would she be wearing a lab coat outside of the hospital?
“Tell me about the cure,” I said, yanking my wrist away. Or trying to and failing. Funny, because a minute ago that arm had felt stronger.
She released my hand. It flopped against my chest.
Ryder’s pendant. It was gone.
That’s when I knew.
“What was the cure?” I persisted. I focused on Louise’s brown complexion, her Indian heritage. When she turned her face toward me, I saw intricately fashioned earrings—her favorite ones. I could have sworn they weren’t there when she came in. A strange mix of emotions stirred through me, but I kept concentrating.
“A modified form of gene therapy,” she finally answered. Only, instead of her normal, Oxford-born and raised British tones, her accent was very much Indian.
I slumped back, closed my eyes, finally understanding.
“Angie!” one of them called. I wasn’t sure if it was Louise or Flynn—their voices blended together so I couldn’t tell them apart. I didn’t care. I was busy ignoring them, ignoring everything. Including my own panic.
Because I was still in Daniel’s mind. And if I didn’t find a way to escape his control, I might be trapped here forever.
Chapter 21
DEVON FAST-FORWARDED THROUGH most of the video on Tommaso’s camera, skipping over the technical research and discussions with Leo on refining their PXA protocol. Tommaso continued to mention Patient Zero occasionally, but never by name.
Instead, he talked about the blood-brain barrier and DNA viruses that could cross it and gene-splicing. He insisted that Leo replicate their initial success with more research subjects—something Leo was only too happy to do since it gave him a chance to play with his PXA torture of innocent victims until Tommaso was ready to dissect their brains to see if the prions had taken hold.
More interesting than the medical research was the timing. The date stamps and time codes on the videos suggested that Tommaso had been working with Leo for at least a year, perfecting both their use of PXA and their method to transmit the fatal insomnia prions. Their first successful transmission of the disease was in March—before Angela had her first symptoms. And since it wasn’t her brain Devon had watched dissected in living color, she couldn’t be their first patient, this mysterious Patient Zero.
Worse, it seemed that Leo’s victims were all simply precursors to using the prions on what Tommaso called his cohort. Devon quickly realized “cohort” was a euphemism for the children from the Tower, the ones Tommaso was meant to be saving, not condemning to death.
If the man hadn’t been dead already... Devon pushed back from the desk abruptly, making Ozzie sit up and give an inquiring whine. God, how he would love to hit something, someone. He remembered the way Tommaso had died, killing himself by biting off his own tongue, drowning in his own blood.
Coward. He’d gotten off too easy. Devon should have given the doctor a taste of his own medicine. Used Leo’s PXA torture and let Angela rummage through his brain, taking the knowledge they needed.
He slapped his hand against the concrete wall, the sting clearing his mind. Heaving in a breath, he turned back to the screen where Tommaso’s handsome face was frozen in eternal excitement, flushed by success as he sliced into another victim’s brain. Closing down the camera, Devon reached for Tommaso’s phone.
No records of any calls made or received. But dozens of audio files. He opened the most recent, dated yesterday, only hours before Tommaso’s death.
“I know I should tell her everything,” the voice of a dead man came through the phone’s speakers. “After the failure of the Atlanta cohort, mine is the last remaining. Everything rests on this. But I feel strongly that my approach is the better one, even if it means disobeying her orders. Therefore, I’ve decided to keep my data secret until I can report my final findings. If I’m successful, and thanks to Patient Zero, I believe I will be, then our family is saved.”
Devon noted the hint of pride in Tommaso’s voice. He understood about saving the ones you loved, protecting family. But at what cost? Over a dozen innocent women tortured and killed? Not to mention twenty-one children now facing horrible deaths?
He scanned through the earlier recordings—mainly Tommaso rambling, debating whether or not to report his full findings to “her,” whoever she was, obviously Tommaso’s boss. Interspersed with Tommaso’s research findings on his experimental subjects—the kids in the Tower, Tommaso had been monitoring their symptoms for months—were occasional personal commentaries on ways to use Patient Zero to infect more cohorts.
Then Devon came to a recording that stopped him cold. It was dated October, a month after the children began showing symptoms. “No evidence yet that any of the cohort is a Vessel, but it’s too early to be certain. Even if none of them exhibit the gift, the cohort is too small to declare this a failure. Rather, I believe we should expand our subject pool by tenfold, really test Patient Zero’s unique mutation and ability to infect others. It would require a great deal more of the original genetic material—stem cells, preferably—and a large, self-contained cohort. Perhaps a private school that we could sequester? A missionary school in an isolated third world country would be ideal.”
It took everything Devon had not to hurl the phone across the room. Tommaso was discussing kidnapping an entire school to use for his experiments? And there was still no reason why.
How did spreading fatal insomnia into a larger group of children “save” Tommaso’s family? What could anyone gain by an epidemic of prion diseases?
The only answer Devon could come up with was the same one he’d proposed to Angela earlier: profiting from an artificial epidemic by controlling the cure.
But Tommaso had yet to mention any cure—or any treatment at all, for that matter. He seemed solely focused on creating and spreading the disease. Perhaps his mysterious boss had another group developing the treatment? Devon kept listening.
“With a larger study group, we could do more extensive refinement of the PXA protocols, see if we can manufacture Vessels independent of the family’s genome. My goal is to not only be able to provide a pool of Vessels for the family’s use for generations to come, but also to increase their effectiveness so that they can be used more than once before they expire. Leo Kingston’s PXA compound is a good start, but further testing is required.”
Tommaso paused, then his voice returned, less clinical, more curious, as if exploring an exciting area of potential research. “Even better would be the use of the subjects who show no indication of being Vessels as test subjects for a possible cure. Within two generations, we could not only rid the family of the Scourge, we could also use our new, artificial Scourge as a weapon against any population we wish to target. Infect their children and hold them hostage, ransom them for the cure.”
Devon shook his head, not all that surprised that all this pain and death was driven by greed. It’d been the same with the Russian mob, the street gang he’d been jumped into as a boy, even Kingston Enterprises. Nothing trumped
money and power. Not even the lives of innocent children.
“However,” Tommaso continued, “before we could implement this new profit stream, we would need to complete development of my proposed cure. And for that, I’m afraid, we will definitely need Patient Zero. They’re the key not only to the prion dispersal and creation of a new generation of Vessels, but also to the cure.”
Devon froze, staring at the screen. He hit pause, then rewound, repeated that last part. The part where Tommaso said that there was a possible cure. If he could find and deliver Patient Zero.
Chapter 22
THE ELEVATOR CAGE swung, banging against the rear wall as Ryder and Grey crouched down. It wasn’t easy with their hands cuffed behind their backs, but finally they were braced back to back against the cage’s wire mesh rear wall.
“Hold my coat up,” Ryder told Grey.
The special agent complied, bunching up wads of fabric. “You have a spare key, don’t you?”
Ryder strained to stretch his arms far enough to give Grey room to pull the bulky fabric of his overcoat up and through the cuffs. “Patrolman’s trick. Something they don’t teach Feds, I’m guessing.”
“Hate to break this to you, but we don’t even carry our own cuffs. We leave that kind of thing to the locals.” Grey leaned forward, holding the coat out of the way as Ryder bent his arms into his waist so he could retrieve the small plastic key clipped to a button behind his belt loop. “Don’t suppose you have a spare weapon as well?”
Ryder knew a few especially paranoid types who carried small knives hidden inside their belt buckles, but he wasn’t one of them. At least not before tonight. “No, sorry.”
The air inside the mine was warmer than outside, but still cold enough to numb Ryder’s fingers. He almost fumbled the key as he tugged it free. But he held on. “Got it.”
Grey shoved the fabric of the coat back through Ryder’s cuffs. Then he raised his own cuffed wrists as high as possible, bracing them on his back, so Ryder could work the key. “They didn’t double-lock them, so that helps.”
Ryder grunted. This was a lot easier when he could see what he was doing. “Hold still.”
“Any ideas on getting out of this pendulum of doom? Or past Tyrone’s men once we do? I counted seven of them.”
“We don’t need to get past the guards. All we need is to get access to a radio or phone.”
“Still means getting out of this cage.” Both men were silent as the key slipped free from the lock, forcing Ryder to reposition himself to get a better angle and start over. “What does Tyrone think you know, anyway? Didn’t act like he was on a fishing expedition.”
Ryder focused on the key, holding it in his numb fingers and relocating the proper hole on Grey’s cuffs. There. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not.”
The key was in the lock. Now he just had to turn it without dropping it. Easier said than done.
“Think it’s a coincidence that both Rossi and Lazaretto worked at Good Samaritan and they both went missing after Tyrone’s lab blew up?”
“Of course not,” Ryder snapped as he strained to torque his arms. “Almost there.”
“Maybe Tyrone has those plans not because he’s going to blow up the hospital. Maybe the hospital is Ground Zero of a biothreat. Two doctors—that equals a lot of patients they could infect if they’re working with Tyrone.”
The lock clicked open. Grey ratcheted one cuff free. Then Ryder felt Grey’s hands connect with his.
“Got it?” he asked before releasing the precious handcuff key. Even with Grey’s hands free, they were still working in total darkness, by feel alone.
“Got it.” Grey slid the key from Ryder’s numb fingers and removed the remaining cuff from his other wrist.
Ryder relaxed, leaned forward to let the other man reach his cuffs. “Rossi’s not working with Tyrone, I can promise you that. Besides, she’s sick herself.”
“Sick? How? Could Tyrone have infected her?”
“I don’t know. But you were right. It’s a prion disease. Fatal insomnia.”
“That’s what Lazaretto works with. Maybe he’s the one working for Tyrone. Where’s Rossi now? I should put her into protective custody, interview her.”
“She’s safe,” Ryder answered. “What’s taking so long back there?”
“Idiots put your cuffs on inside out.” Meaning instead of the locking mechanisms facing out where Grey could easily access them, Tyrone’s men had put the cuffs on so the lock holes faced Ryder. Grey had to not only unlock them in the dark, blind, but also do it by reversing the usual motions and while working between Ryder’s back and the cuffs.
Ryder leaned forward and raised his arms as high as possible to give Grey more room to work.
Grey’s hand pressed against Ryder’s back, steadying him. “Fatal insomnia? That doesn’t sound good. Not if it’s like other prion diseases like mad cow. Have to admit, they’re the perfect bioweapon. I mean, the public would go nuts if they thought a disease like that was set loose.”
“Rossi says it’s not contagious—at least not through the air, like the flu or a cold.”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have to be. Not to cause a panic, I mean. All you’d need is a few cases that the government and medical community couldn’t explain, some bad publicity, a viral video—hell, with that, my twelve-year-old nephew could whip up enough Internet frenzy to bring down the nation.”
Grey paused for a moment. “Actually, it’s amazing how little it really would take to create a fake epidemic. I’m surprised no one has done it before now.” He swore. “Damn plastic key. I think you bent it. It doesn’t want to fit.”
The button-sized keys were meant for only one-time use. “Keep trying.”
“All right, but hold still.”
“It might be too late to stop Tyrone. Rossi said there were some sick kids as well. All with fatal insomnia.”
Grey’s hands paused for a moment as he considered the ramifications. “Shit. You’re right, Tyrone’s way ahead of us. How’d they get it? The insomnia, I mean.”
“She didn’t know. But Lazaretto was their doctor as well.”
“We need to find that guy. And Rossi. They’re the key.”
“Speaking of which?”
“I’m trying. Wait. Got it. Hold still while I—”
The sound of plastic snapping cracked through the darkness.
“Damn it. It broke when I was turning it.”
“Is there enough left that you can—”
“No. It broke flush with the lock.” Which meant even a regular key wouldn’t work—not until they pried the broken one out. “Sorry.”
So was Ryder. But there was no time to waste on failed plans. “Guess I get to wait here while you get the cavalry.”
Alone in the dark. Helpless. Worse, unable to do anything to warn Rossi.
Chapter 23
MY STOMACH LURCHED as I fell, my body spinning out of control. I kept my eyes closed, resisting any temptation to open them—whatever I saw would be the product of Daniel’s manipulation. No. I would not open them again until I regained control. If not of my environment—after all, I was trespassing inside his mind—then at least of my body.
Of course, my body did not actually exist here. But it was a starting point. Something I could focus on.
Still, I kept falling. My limbs flailed in every direction as I struggled to take control. Slowly, the fall became a leap as I imagined my arms and legs pumping, coordinated. Instead of hurtling through the air, I envisioned hurtling across a field. I re-created the feel of a footfall, pushing off spongy grass, launching my weight forward into a sprint. And I ran and ran. I didn’t stop, kept going until I felt Ryder’s pendant bouncing with each stride.
I clutched at it, fingers curving around its polished surface. It felt warm. Real. Instinctively, I realized it was my key to escape, a lifeline back to reality.
Finally, my body mine again, I opened my eyes.
I stood in an office.
Across from me, sitting behind an impressive mahogany desk, was Daniel. He tipped his expensive-appearing chair back and stared at me, clearly unhappy.
“Tell me what I need to know,” I said, returning his stare without flinching.
There were no chairs on this side of the desk, despite the fact that the office spread out behind me with the expanse of a throne room. Exactly the effect he was going for. I reached into my mind for my favorite chair—an overstuffed, well-loved, plaid chair from Ryder’s living room that had become “my” chair to curl up in—and suddenly I was sitting in it.
I couldn’t see Daniel beyond the desk looming over me—but neither could he see me. The desk vanished, and he stood over me, a glower coloring his features. The windows behind him were suddenly slashed by rain and sleet.
“I need you to stay,” he said. I said nothing. “Stay, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Was that a hint of desperation in his voice?
“I can’t. You know that.” I stood, twisting my hand, and the chair spun away, erased from existence. “I’m sorry.” It was the truth. Because of my fugues and what I’d seen in the minds of the others, I understood what he faced better than anyone. Then I realized. “You saw. What’s coming—what the others went through before they died.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he thundered. “Not to me.” Lightning crashed against the window behind him, but it barely shook. As if Daniel’s power was spent. “I’m in control. It’s my life. I decide—” His voice faded.
I glanced behind me and realized what had stopped him. A void blacker than black, devouring all light and life.
“We don’t have much time. Tell me. I can’t save you, but I can save your granddaughter.”
I remembered the Latin phrase carved into his headboard—or rather, I didn’t remember it, he did.
Omnes nominis defendere. “Above all, defend the family,” I translated.
