“It’s clear: someone brought it there,” Dr. McKee said. “There is no other reasonable explanation. Understand, Dr. Bailey—ixodes insanus resides in an area of Peru inhabited exclusively by indigenous, uncontacted Indian tribes.”
“Tribes isolated from outside civilization,” Hannah said.
“Precisely. These tribes have dwelled there in the jungle for several hundred years. Many of the insects, creatures, and plant-life in this region have yet to be classified. We know about the Peruvian Frenzy Tick due solely to work I completed earlier in my career.”
“You were there?” someone on Hannah’s team asked.
“Indeed. It was a rare visit by outsiders, sponsored by an international health organization, and reluctantly allowed by the Peruvian government. I was there with colleagues and a guide for two weeks. We saw many unusual things. This rare species was the most remarkable of them all.” Dr. McKee’s blue eyes glimmered with something that approached awe. “We have the Australian paralysis tick, a species I’ve also studied, and which produces a neurotoxin that has damaging neurological effects, but there is nothing like this one I found in Peru.”
“Do the indigenous tribes have immunity?” Hannah asked.
“I’m afraid not. The tick is revered amongst them and its venom is applied to blow darts and used against enemies. The venom may take several days to have an effect on the target, but once it does, the infected individual becomes a grave threat to his tribe. He may attack without provocation. He may engage in obsessive behavior that can wreak havoc in a close-knit community ruled by belief in superstition and magic, where odd activity can incite a panic.
“I learned these things through an interpreter, of course,” he said. “But I did witness the tick’s venom in action—we tested it on a rhesus monkey. In hindsight, it was an incredibly foolish, rash decision. The infected animal tore my arm out of its socket and to this day, forty years later, I still haven’t regained a full range of motion.” Dr. McKee touched his left shoulder and gently massaged it. “Naturally, we euthanized the animal, which in itself was quite an ordeal, even with a team of several of us trying to pull it off.”
“Is there any treatment for someone infected by the venom?” Hannah asked.
“Regrettably, no,” McKee said. “Shortly after the expedition concluded, my research project lost its funding, and no follow up studies have been conducted. There is no anti-venom. A heavy dose of narcotics may blunt the worst effects of the venom, but then you’d have to get near enough to the patient to sedate them in the first place. No easy task.”
It wasn’t what Hannah had wanted to hear. She tried not to let her disappointment show. Her team was still expecting her to put on a brave front and lead them, though this latest turn was going to take them to a place that most likely none of them had ever experienced firsthand.
“A widespread infestation of ixodes insanus will have a catastrophic impact on a settled community,” Dr. McKee continued. “How many have been infected?”
“We’ve got about seventy confirmed cases,” Hannah said. “But we are still working to determine the full extent of the infestation. We extracted the tick from the nasal cavity of a member of our group who hadn’t shown any symptoms of infection.”
“The effects of the neurotoxin are not always immediately apparent,” McKee said. “It may take several days, a week, or perhaps longer. But this species loves to suckle the rich blood deep in the nose. That is its preferred feeding region in mammals—we hadn’t determined why. Once a larva finds a host—which it can do quite easily by attaching to the tips of grass or shrubbery and extending its legs until something brushes past it—it will enter the nasal cavity and begin to feed. Generally it will nourish itself on the blood for about a week, and it’s quite common for the host to have no awareness of the ectoparasite during this period. Once satiated, it injects the neurotoxin in the bloodstream, and then it detaches itself from the host. A slow flood of blood may trickle from the host’s nose at this time.”
“I’ve noticed,” Hannah said. “The blood doesn’t clot. The patients I’ve seen who are infected seem to have a persistent nose bleed.”
“The neurotoxin appears to have some anticoagulant properties,” Dr. McKee said. “Among its other effects.”
“We know the neurotoxin leads to obsessive, violent behavior, but how long do the symptoms persist? Do they eventually subside?”
“The damage to the brain is irreversible.” Dr. McKee blotted a film of perspiration from his bronzed forehead with a handkerchief. “We performed an autopsy on our rhesus monkey after we euthanized it. The structure of the brain’s frontal lobe had been compromised—perhaps changed is a more accurate term. I suspect, if the subject had survived, its behavior would have continued to devolve and the baser instincts would have held sway.”
“So they just keep falling lower and lower on the evolutionary ladder,” Hannah said.
“The neurotoxin’s effect on the frontal lobe will profoundly and permanently alter personality,” McKee said. “Your assessment of falling lower on the evolutionary ladder, behaving less like a civilized adult and more like a subhuman savage, is unfortunately quite accurate.”
Hannah and the other members of her team peppered Dr. McKee with more questions, and he freely shared what we knew, and promised to forward his research study notes, but Hannah ended the call feeling more pessimistic than she had ever felt before. There was no cure for the infected. They presented a grave danger to others. And death was inevitable.
She picked up her phone to call her boss.
It was time to commence the quarantine.
***
The mob of frenzied pursued them, but Jim left them behind, making a quick series of turns to throw the group off their tail and putting a significant amount of distance between them. Unless the infected communicated with one another via a psychic connection—the idea of such a thing didn’t seem as far-fetched to Deacon as it might have yesterday—Deacon was willing to believe they were in the clear.
“Good work, Jim,” he said. “I think we’ve lost them.”
“What the hell happened back in there, chief?”
Deacon glanced behind him. Emily had crawled into one of the seats and curled into fetal position. She stared blankly out the window, her eyes red from crying. She clasped a silver pendant in her hands.
“We found her friend,” Deacon said softly. “It didn’t go well.”
“I’d say,” Jim said. “You go in alone and come out being chased by a whole band of those wild-eyed maniacs.”
“I’m pregnant,” Emily blurted. “Zack is—was—the father. I wanted to tell him . . . I needed to tell him.”
She tightened further into a ball, as if wished to withdraw entirely into herself.
“I’m sorry,” Deacon said. He didn’t know what else he could say. There were no words that could ease the young woman’s heartache.
“Yeah, me, too.” Jim said. “What’s going on here, it’s an affront against humanity. A crime. Someone needs to pay for this.”
“When we get to HQ we can start making that happen,” Deacon said.
But as Jim drove them closer to their security headquarters and Deacon got a good look at the building, concern wormed through the pit of his stomach.
The doors were wide open; they were held open with a garbage can. As if someone had needed to make several frantic trips in and out.
They had three security specialists on duty at that evening hour: one was manning the gates, another patrolled the community as directed; the other was supposed to be on site at HQ watching the surveillance feed. What was going on?
“I don’t like this.” Deacon drew his pistol. “We’ve got trouble again.”
“I’ll take point.” Jim parked. He pulled his shotgun out of the rack.
“Wait inside,” Deacon said to Emily. She only nodded dully, as if she barely heard what he’d said.
They climbed out of the SUV. Light spilled out of the building’s front d
oors. Moving carefully, they crept inside the building.
Shards of broken glass and potting soil from an overturned plant littered the floor.
“South Haven Security!” Jim announced. “If anyone is here, identify yourself!”
A thudding sound came from behind the front desk. Deacon found Carver Taylor, one of his regular night-shift guys, gagged with duct tape and bound at both wrists and ankles with plastic handcuffs. He lay on the tile floor in a mess of paper and glass splinters.
Carver’s brown eyes widened when he saw Deacon had discovered him. He shouted against his gag.
“The hell is this?” Jim asked.
“Go check the armory,” Deacon told Jim.
Deacon removed the duct-tape from the man’s mouth and sliced away the restraints with a pocketknife. Groaning, Carver sat up. He gulped in deep breaths and massaged his abraded wrists.
“Oh, thank God you’re here, man,” Carver said. He was trembling, his uniform soaked with perspiration. He was only a kid, in his early twenties, working the night shift and going to college at Georgia State during the day. He was the nephew of one of Deacon’s old buddies from the Atlanta police department. If something had happened to him Deacon would have felt terrible.
“I’m glad you’re all right.” Deacon put one hand on the man’s shoulder, to steady him. “Tell me what happened.”
“A group of them, three guys, they had on dust masks over their mouths,” Carver said, touching his lips. “One of them had a shotgun. They didn’t hurt me, but they tore up the place, and they took my keys, too.”
Stepping over the mess on the floor, Deacon made his way to the bank of security monitors: his primary purpose for wanting to come there.
All of the displays were dark. Many of them had been smashed.
Someone had ripped the guts of the surveillance camera system’s receiver out of the console, too.
Deacon’s jaws clenched. This setback was going to complicate matters.
Jim rushed around the corner. “All of our weapons, ammo, vests, everything. Gone, chief. What the fuck happened here?”
“We were raided,” Deacon said.
“The frenzied, you think?”
“Nope. This was a deliberate act. These guys knew exactly what they were doing. They don’t want us spying on them and they took our weapons just because it was a good idea. Makes sense to me.”
“But everything was behind lock and key,” Jim said.
Deacon nodded toward Carver. “He had the key.”
“Perfect,” Jim said. “It’s been bad enough dealing with those maniacs out there. Now we’re fighting each other?”
“They seemed like regular folk, not trained robbers or anything,” Carver said. He had gotten to his feet. “I don’t agree with what they did, but there are a lot of scared people out there, now that the government is here.”
“Anarchy is no excuse,” Jim said. “People need to co-operate with one another. Now more than ever.”
“Let’s take an inventory of whatever we still have left,” Deacon said. “We’ll need two-way radios, Tasers, whatever we can find that they didn’t loot.”
“I’m on it,” Carver said.
“What’s the plan now?” Jim asked. “If we can’t access the surveillance footage, we’ve got no way to find out what happened at the Screen on the Green last week, no way to find out how that bug got here.”
“We aren’t the only ones who monitor the video feed,” Deacon said.
“Crap.” Jim scowled. “You’ve gotta go see him again?”
“No doubt, Mr. Falcon will be happy to see me,” Deacon said.
***
Emily didn’t know what she was doing there.
She was curled in the backseat of the SUV, which had been parked in front of the building that served as the headquarters of the South Haven security team. It was full night. Pale yellow light glowed at the windows of the building and poured out of the propped-open front doors.
She barely remembered the drive there.
Ever since Zack had died in her arms, nothing had made any sense, life had been moving at a gelid pace, and she couldn’t make any sense of what was going on, and had no idea what she would do next.
In the back most room of her mind, she understood that she was going through shock. But that logical aspect of her couldn’t fight through the fog that had engulfed her brain.
Before she realized what she was doing, she had slipped out of the vehicle. The next thing she knew, she was at the doorway of the building.
The men were talking about various things. They didn’t notice her. Something bad had happened, she realized, and they were planning their next move.
Unnoticed, she drifted away from the door.
She didn’t get back in the big Ford. She didn’t know where she wanted to go, but she didn’t want to ride around with them anymore.
She began walking. It was raining. The cool water soaked through her clothes, and her sneakers got wet as she slogged through puddles. But she continued on.
She still had Zack’s blood on her shirt, in spite of the pouring rain. The crimson stain was right above her heart.
She had slipped on the necklace she’d taken from Zack, too. The silver locket was cool against her skin.
Absently flicking damp hair out of her face, she kept walking. Damp grass squished underneath her shoes.
Eventually, the grass ended and gave way to wood chips.
She blinked, wiped water out of her eyes. She had reached the South Haven playground. It was an enormous space, lit by several ornately designed lamps, and lavishly appointed with all sorts of play equipment: various slides, a rock climbing wall, monkey bars . . . a set of swings.
Three children were on the swings: little girls, no older than six, all of them wearing identical frilly dresses. The girls swooped in large, rhythmic arcs, and their swings were closely synchronized, as if they were a team executing a stunt.
Triplets, Emily thought, and it was the first clear thought she’d had in a while.
She scanned the park benches—all of them were empty—and didn’t see an adult nearby. How had three little girls wound up alone in the park at night, at such a dangerous time for anyone to be outdoors?
Emily headed toward them.
“Hi!” she said, and her voice came out weak; her throat was still clogged from so much crying earlier. She cleared her throat and called out with a wave: “Hello there!”
The girls kept swinging, but almost as one, their heads swiveled in Emily’s direction.
Emily walked closer. Although it was rainy, and dark, the glow of a nearby streetlamp revealed their faces. Lesions spotted their skin. Rings of inflammation encircled their eyes.
Emily’s heart twisted. They were clearly infected, but they were only children. She couldn’t bring herself to turn away without trying to help them. Maybe she could get the girls to Dr. Bailey and her team could do something to heal them.
“Is your mommy at home?” she asked. “Maybe your daddy?”
The girls didn’t answer. They swung, swung, swung.
Emily drew closer. “Come with me, sweethearts. I can take you to someone that can help you. Okay?”
The girls screamed.
“No!”
“No!”
“No!”
Their screeching was so high-pitched that Emily wanted to clap her hands over her ears. The girls suddenly launched themselves off the swings at the top of their arc, and dresses rippling, hurtled through the air and landed on the ground with a spray of woodchips.
Emily dragged in a breath. Their behavior had rattled her, but she reminded herself that they were only children, and could do her no harm.
The girls stood, and clustered together arm in arm.
“Let me help you, okay, sweethearts?” Emily said. “It’ll be okay. I can take you to some people that will help you feel better. Promise.”
“. . . said . . . Mommy . . .”
“. . . neve
r . . . ever . . .”
“. . . strangers . . . follow . . .”
“Yes, and that’s good, but you’re sick, and I promise to help—”
They shrieked again.
Their unified screams were like a spike splitting Emily’s head in half. She put her hands over her ears and backed away from the triplets.
I tried, but I can’t force these children to come with me, she thought. I’m not going to abduct them against their will.
Across the park, perhaps a hundred yards away, a large group had appeared on the edge of the grass. They must have been alerted by the screaming of the girls.
It looked like the roving mob from Poseidon Park. Except the group had increased in size. Before, there had been maybe twenty individuals. Emily didn’t wait to do a full headcount, but at a rough estimate there were over thirty of them. Most of them were naked; those not nude were in various stages of undress.
Emily spun, and ran.
Chapter 23
Emily had vanished.
Deacon had been so busy plotting his next step that he didn’t realize she had run away until he went out to the SUV to ask her if she wanted to come in and grab a bite to eat from the fridge in their HQ lounge before they headed out again. But she had left without telling anyone and leaving any clue where she had gone.
Deacon spat on the ground. The young lady was heartbroken, not thinking clearly, probably had wandered away in a fog of grief and shock. He felt partially responsible for what had happened, though he had only wanted to protect her and would have done the same thing again if given an opportunity.
He scanned the surrounding area, and found no sign of her. She could have gone back home; she could have gone anywhere. Given the present circumstances, he didn’t have time to search for her. He’d have to assume that she understood the risks of wandering South Haven alone, and would take precautions to avoid trouble.
Nevertheless, it bugged him. He couldn’t shake the sense that he had failed her, and that his failure had led to this sad outcome.
The two-way radio he wore clipped to his belt crackled. It was Dr. Bailey.
Hearing her voice instantly lifted his mood. “Hey. What’s up?”
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