Extinction Cycle (Kindle Worlds): Extinction [Isolation]

by Brian Martinez

  "I thought you were in love with her. Isn't that why you keep showing up here?"

  "Doesn't matter. Snitches don't get stitches where I'm from, they get dead. This is on you."

  "Don't go blaming everyone else for your problems, you did this to yourself. Next time show up to court like an adult."

  His hand around Theo's neck, Will led him out of the alley. He couldn't help but think of the one-eared cat from a few minutes earlier, giving its kill a final shake as it disappeared into the night.

  The last few hours had been intense.

  Stanley had searched for Colonel Gibson's phone number, first through standard means and then through a military database. Once he'd found it, he used a simple carrier lookup to figure out which carrier the Colonel used. Then he cross-referenced it with a list of default codes for accessing voicemail from an outside line. This method relied on the fact that most people accessed their voicemail on the phone that received the calls, and the hope that the person never changed the default code for accessing their voicemail from an external number.

  In short, it exploited the weakest part of every security system on Earth: people.

  There were three default codes for the Colonel's carrier. Stanley waited ten minutes between each attempt to stay above the detection rate of multiple attempts so he wouldn't be locked out. On the third and final default code, he got in.

  There were six saved voicemails, most of them meeting reminders, and one call from the Colonel's wife, Connie. Nothing helpful, except for the message from someone in the IT department about setting up the Voice over IP mailbox he'd requested.

  A while later, after some serious work, Stanley gained access to the Colonel's private VoIP. There was a single message saved to the system. Stanley had one shot at hearing it. He started recording and hit enter.

  "Colonel Gibson, it's Isaac Medford. Got an update for you."

  Stanley opened a blank text file and started typing what he heard. On the off chance the recording didn't work, he wanted to make sure he remembered every, single word. He typed furiously.

  Finally made a breakthrough...Bonded VX-99 with Ebola virus...Viral weapon too contagious...Doubt anyone will link it back to U.S...Highly synthesized protocol, make it look lab-engineered...Sending Jim Pinkman to Fort Detrick.

  When the audio message was done playing, he immediately logged out and shut the window. He couldn't take chances and risk hanging around for a second too long in case they detected suspicious activities on their server.

  He took a breath. Then he checked the recording, praying it had saved.

  It had. He listened to the audio file once completely through. This Isaac Medford who had left the message had to be the voice he'd heard on the monitor, calmly instructing his team to terminate the subject. Stanley made a backup of the file in a separate location. Then, just to be safe, he made another one on a backup drive.

  Stanley stared at the words he'd typed. The man whose voice he'd just heard had engineered a viral weapon by combining VX-99 with the Ebola virus. An experimental drug that never saw the light of day, paired with one of the most malicious, virulent illnesses the world had ever known. Even on paper it sounded like a bad idea, so it wasn't a surprise to hear the doctor so concerned about the outcome.

  He clicked back to the unnamed folder M. Zero had sent him and played the video file. Ever since that first viewing, he hadn't been able to watch it a second time. He knew that he should, to glean more details about the operation, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The whole thing unsettled him, from the tortured screams to the monstrous face to the slow, twitching death. This wasn't some B movie. This was real. That was a human being on the screen- or at least it had been once.

  Stanley was in shock. However bad he'd thought this thing was, it was ten times that.

  He opened the recording he'd made, clicked ahead and listened to the doctor's last sentence again. "I'm sending Jim Pinkman to Fort Detrick to brief you personally."

  Stanley didn't need to look up Fort Detrick to know why this Jim Pinkman was being sent there. The place was well-known in his circle. It had been the center of the United States' biological weapons program for more than twenty-five years, and then, after that program was discontinued- allegedly- it had been a major hub for the United States' biological defense program. It was also about fifty miles north of Washington D.C.

  In other words, about an hour's drive.

  He had just started to pack his things when a knock came at the door.

  Stanley's heart pounded. He wasn't expecting anyone, and his landlord would never came over at this time unless in the case of an emergency. Even then, the man avoided Stanley as much as Stanley avoided him. He crossed the apartment in complete silence, walking softly across the dark floor. He held his breath as he reached the door and brought his eye to the peephole, praying to God he wasn't about to be riddled with bullets by a shooter on the other side.

  He exhaled. It was Marco.

  "Ready for court?" Marco scratched his beard absentmindedly. Stanley looked up and down the building's hallway. "No one followed me," Marco assured him.

  "Just get in here."

  Marco moved inside the apartment and Stanley shut the door behind him. Stanley redid the three locks, plus the deadbolt, while Marco squinted to see in the dark. He caught a glimpse of the suitcase on the futon. It was stuffed full of warm clothing.

  "Don't say it," Stanley said.

  "I don't think I have to."

  "You don't understand, Marco, this time it's different."

  Marco sighed. "It's always different. You can't keep running your entire life."

  Stanley continued to pack, throwing a sweater into the suitcase. "It's not safe for me anymore. Not here. Not anywhere people know me."

  "When are you coming back," Marco asked. There was a long silence. "Are you coming back?"

  "I can't say." Stanley moved around the room, finding things to pack. "There's something happening, something I need to tell people about, but doing it is going to paint a giant target on my head."

  "Were you even going to tell me you were leaving?"

  A pause. "I would have texted you."

  "Jesus, Stanley."

  "I don't have the comfort of being nice."

  "I guess you never have, why start now?"

  Stanley zipped the suitcase shut. "These aren't the old days, Marco, we're not watching Johnny Mnemonic and writing viruses in your mom's basement. This is life or death on a large scale. If I have to be an asshole to save lives, well, then I have to be an asshole."

  "I'll make sure they put that on your statue," Marco said. "You know, people keep telling me to ditch you, and I keep defending you like some dumb puppy."

  "Who did you talk to?"

  Marco snorted. Stanley's face softened, looking tired.

  "Do yourself a favor, Marco. Get out of here, far away from the city, away from people. Don't trust anyone. And until then, if anyone comes around looking for me, you tell them the truth."

  "Which is?"

  "That you don't know me."

  Marco studied his friend's face. He'd never seen him this bad. "Shit, what the hell did you find, man?"

  "I can't tell you," Stanley replied. "But it's big."

  -5-

  Stanley finished loading up the van.

  After Marco left he'd gotten back to work. The first order of business was looking into Jim Pinkman. He hadn't been able to figure out too much about who the man was, but he did get a hit on the name in the airline databases. If they were right- and they always were- Jim Pinkman was currently mid-air, on Flight 193 to Dulles International Airport, with a layover in Chicago.

  The flight had originated from an island he'd never heard of by the name of San Nicholas. Tellingly, there was a military presence on the island, including some weapons testing. It was a place he would have to look into further.

  Stanley had sent a message to a few associates who lived in the Chicago area. It read: "Any
chance someone can shadow a target arriving in Chicago? This is level one, bigger than anything I've ever seen. Life and death. His name is Jim Pinkman. Flight 193. Anything we can get from him could save lives. Phone, computer, briefcase, anything."

  Just before he packed up the laptop, he got a message back from a guy named GhostBot that read, "I might know someone."

  Chicago, Illinois

  O'Hare Airport

  Calvin pulled his hatchback into Lot B and parked as close to the exit as he could. He'd considered parking in the long-term sections, either in Lot E or G, because the rates were cheaper, but he decided against it when he saw how far they were from the terminal. The truth was, even though he didn't want to think about it, there was a chance he'd be leaving that terminal running.

  He pushed the hair out of his face and reread the message on his phone. "Recon job. Utmost importance. Take anything you can from his person." Attached was a photo of a man with thick, brown hair. He looked to Calvin like someone smart, a professor or a surgeon. He didn't know what the man had done or what the importance was of what he had on him, but he knew one thing: this man was his mission.

  "Jim Pinkman," he said to himself.

  Putting his phone away, he grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat and walked to the terminal. Once inside he made his way through the ropes and waited to be called to the counter. He nervously slid his passport and e-ticket to the cute girl. "I'm visiting friends," he blurted. She smiled politely, not really caring either way.

  GhostBot had sent him a flight voucher to buy the ticket, leaving the destination in his hands. It didn't matter anyway, since he wouldn't be getting on the plane. He chose Appleton, Wisconsin because if he ended up having to take the flight to avoid suspicion, it was only a fifty minute flight from Chicago to Appleton. A quick puddle jump. The trip back would be that much easier.

  After passing through security without pissing his pants, he made his way through the main terminal, toward the arrival and departure gates. Commuters weaved across the wide-open space, some in a hurry, others lazily moving from one Duty Free shop to another. The airport always felt to Calvin like a place where time didn't exist. No matter what hour of the day it was, someone was awake, and probably eating a shitty burger.

  He checked the board. Flight 193 had already arrived. A brief look of panic crossed his face. He wondered if he'd shown up too late. GhostBot would be pissed if he'd screwed this up.

  Calvin was a regular on the message board where GhostBot and a bunch of other hackers posted about their accomplishments. He was a Neophyte himself, but he wanted so badly to learn and do what the elites did. Taking down corporations in their spare time. Exposing corruption in the highest levels of government, not just in the U.S. but all around the world. Six months ago, Calvin begged GhostBot to teach him what he knew. He was relentless. GhostBot eventually promised that if he did a few favors- made a few drop-offs, smashed a security camera, placed a phone call or two- he would teach Calvin everything he wanted to know. The arrangement was a lot like those guys he saw in vampire movies. Familiars, they called them, servants who would one day be turned and given the gift of eternal life as reward. At least he didn't have to drag any virgins back to a castle to prove his loyalty.

  A sudden screech rose up in the terminal. It echoed in the high ceiling like the cry of a demonic bird. For a second nothing happened, and he wondered if he'd imagined the sound.

  Then anarchy broke out. People began screaming and running from the direction of the arriving gate. They looked scared for their lives. His first thought was of a terrorist attack. It was an unavoidable reality in this day and age.

  Despite the panicked passengers fleeing past him, Calvin ran forward. A half-naked man emerged from the gate covered in gore. He twisted and shook as he made his way across the carpeted floor, grunting and smacking his swollen lips. Beneath the blood his features were more like a monster than a man, but Calvin still recognized him from his photo.

  It was Jim Pinkman.

  Calvin kept his distance, at an angle where the thing that used to be Pinkman couldn't see him. He dropped his backpack and scrambled to take his phone from his pocket. His trembling finger found the camera button. As he started filming, the Pinkman-thing bent over in agony like he'd been stabbed in the gut. He latched his strange lips onto his arm and bit a piece of the flesh off in one bite. He swallowed it and let loose a cry that reverberated through the massive space.

  Calvin didn't stop filming. The scene was surreal and terrifying, but he still didn't want to fail the mission. If he wasn't able to get the man's briefcase, he was damn sure going to show GhostBot why.

  Two Homeland Security officers appeared from the right. They approached the man carefully, with their hands on their sidearms.

  "Get on the ground," one of them shouted. Pinkman-thing contorted, and even from a distance Calvin heard what sounded like the man's bones popping.

  No, that wasn't right. It was more like clicking.

  "Get on the fucking ground," the second officer warned. Pinkman-thing rushed at him so fast the officer didn't have time to pull his gun. He jumped and latched onto the officer, his feet wrapping around the man.

  Calvin let the phone come down as the Pinkman-thing bit the man's neck open.

  Somewhere in Pennsylvania

  Stanley's van was parked on the side of Interstate 70. He sat on a stool in the back. Around him were all his bug-out supplies: protein bars, bottled water, portable stove, sleeping bag, tools, toiletries and first aid kit. He was always prepared to go dark for as long as necessary when things got hot. And things were definitely about to get hot.

  He signed onto his laptop the way he always did, using a Tor browser with his user agent spoofed. He only used publicly-available shells and scripts. There were thousands of factors the government, or any enterprising user for that matter, could use to track access back to him- IP address, user agent, cookies, sessions, payloads- and he wasn't about to make it easier for them.

  There was a message waiting for him when he signed in. It was from GhostBot.

  "Found Pinkman," it read. "You need to see this."

  Stanley watched the entire cell phone video without blinking, from the shirtless man covered in blood to the attack on the security officer. It ended with GhostBot's contact running for his life with his phone in his hand. The video became an up-and-down blur, with glimpses of paramedics and officers running past him the other way. A series of gunshots popped just as the video cut off.

  Stanley sat back, stunned. The events of the last few days were starting to come together, and they were forming a perfect shitstorm of doom. He rewound the video's progress meter and stopped on the clearest image of Pinkman he could find. Even from a distance, the man's face had obviously undergone a transformation. Especially his mouth, which looked like an O of puffy flesh. Stanley brought up the experiment footage in another window. He cued up the section where the wild man was beating on the glass.

  He had the same, damn mouth.

  Stanley had planned two stops originally. First was to go to Fort Detrick and demand to be seen by Colonel Gibson. It was a crazy plan, he knew, but at least if he was turned away at the gates there would be some record of him being there. He had a feeling the experiments with VX-99 and Ebola weren't entirely above the board. Having a little experience with keeping an eye on the military, he knew a project like that would be classified as Sensitive Compartmented Information. Handling of classified information should have happened in a special facility, one designed to very specific standards. Just to enter, personnel would be stripped of all belongings on their person and searched.

  Seeing personal communication between Gibson and a project leader, outside of standard protocol, meant the Colonel was keeping secrets. And that meant someone needed to start looking the Colonel's way. Asking questions.

  After seeing the airport footage, though, Stanley's plan had changed. With all those witnesses, in such a public setting, it wouldn't
be long before the media reported on the incident. Outbreak panic would set in. Most military installations would go on raised alert, and Fort Detrick would be at the top of that list. Therefore, Stanley decided to skip directly to Plan B.

  The cabin.

  -6-

  Will got a call while he was on his daily run. It had been an odd morning. Everyone he'd run into seemed to be on edge, but he wasn't sure why, like the tiniest push would tip them over the edge.

  "Hey, Donegan," he answered, breathing heavily.

  "Ebola's in Chicago," Donegan said.

  "Good morning."

  "Fuck the pleasantries, did you hear what I just said? I was right about this thing coming to your doorstep."

  Will took a deep breath. People up and down the block were pulling out of their driveways and heading to work on a busy Monday morning. Tanya had left earlier than normal herself. "Chicago is a long way from D.C.," he said.

  "Africa's a long way from America but that didn't stop nothin', did it?"

  "Is that really what you're calling for?"

  "No. Good work on Weaver," Donegan changed the subject.

  "Thanks. I'll stop by in a little while for payment."

  Donegan paused a second. "Will, my boy, I uh, I got something for you. It's a right big job, but-"

  "I'll take it."

  "Well hold on a second there..." His voice was laced with doubt, something Will didn't think the man was capable of feeling.

  "I don't care if it's tough, Donegan, I want it."

  "It's not that, it's...well the thing is I bought the job from Mikey over at Crown when I heard about it, but now that I say it, I'm thinking it's not such a good idea."

  "What is it, mafia?"

  "No."

  A cold feeling seized Will's gut. "Who is it," he asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

  Donegan said, "It's him."