by Nick Thacker
“Wait a minute, Randolph,” Ben said. “You mean you’re infected?”
“Me, Matheson, Frank, Clemens, everyone who was in that room. We’ve got it, and we’re quarantined inside the main building. Matheson passed out not too long ago, but I don’t know if it was related to the rash at all.”
Ben thought for a moment, then spoke. “Listen, Randolph, you’re going to be fine. You just —”
“Ben, listen. I didn’t call just to keep you in the loop. We’re in over our heads here. Two of my guys are already starting to hyperventilate, and there’s a doctor in here that’s checking everyone out. He pulled me aside an hour ago and told me it’s pretty grave. It’s some sort of viral infection, he thinks, and there’s nothing he can do for us without quarantine facilities and better supplies.
“I wanted to see how you were doing. I don’t know where you were when we brought Fuller in, but you might be safe from it. Did you get out of the park?”
“We did.”
“We?”
“I’m with Julie. Juliette Richardson, from the CDC.”
“Oh.” Randolph paused, taking a deep, raspy breath. “Okay, good. Well, stay away from the park, Ben. I’m not sure what’s going to come of this, but if we can keep the contagion isolated long enough, we might be able to get a jump on it and figure out what it is before anyone else…”
“Right. I’m headed to her office now. We’re outside of Red Lodge, Montana.” Ben stopped for a second, catching himself. “Randolph — George. I — I’m sorry…”
“Stop. Don’t worry about it. Stay with that CDC gal and help her do what she can to stop it. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Fuller — Burt was his name. Fuller was at the lake when that bomb went off. He said he was close enough to feel the heat, and the pressure blast knocked him on his ass. But he wasn’t hurt badly, and started walking back to his cabin when he felt the itching start.
“All I’m saying is, I don’t know about that bomb, but I think it might have, uh, dispersed something into the air.”
“You mean the bomb released the virus?”
“He was the closest person to the explosion that we’ve talked to, and he’s the first person who’s died from that virus thing that we know about. It could be coincidence, but it still doesn’t explain where the virus came from.”
“Thanks, George,” Ben said. He considered apologizing again, but hesitated. What’s the point? he thought. They were already dead. He hoped they’d taken the time to call their families, wherever they may be.
He hung up the phone and turned to Julie.
“You might be out here to study that explosion, but I think this case of yours just got a lot more relevant to your line of work.”
He hammered on the gas pedal and aimed the truck down the long highway.
16
Francis Valère poked at the food in front him. One of Quebec’s finest restaurants, and he couldn’t get himself to eat.
Did killing Josh really have that much of an effect on him?
Of course. It needed to be done.
He wondered — again — if he needed to vomit. The nervousness had come immediately after his encounter on the golf course with his former employee. He forced his mind to push the thought away and looked down at the plate in front of him.
Lobster, filet mignon, and the most decadent-looking chocolate mousse he’d ever seen stared back up at him. Not a bite had been taken from the dishes. He used his fork to poke around the plate, pushing the meat to one side. He used another utensil to pile the lobster on the steak, forming a wall. It was a castle; a sanctuary now. If only he was small enough to fit inside…
“Are you alright, Valère?”
The voice snapped Valère back to the real world.
“Valère? Are you okay?” A second voice asked.
He was fine, but he needed them to assume he was struggling with his earlier decision. He had to hide the… nervousness. The nervousness that had plagued him since he was young.
Yes, I am okay, but I will play the role for as long as it is needed.
He looked up at his dinner guests sitting across from him. Roland and Emilio. He’d called the meeting on his drive back from the private golf course, suggesting this location for its world-renowned American cuisine, and for its semi-private rooms. One of his partners, Emilio Vasquez, the man now sitting across the table from him on his right, had called ahead and reserved the banquet room.
Even so, they’d chosen the table in the far back corner of the room. The waitress, a young blond woman in her thirties, had been instructed to enter the room only once every fifteen minutes. So far she’d performed well, never interrupting the men as they discussed the day’s events.
The man to Valère’s left didn’t wait for him to respond. “Everything is taken care of?”
Valère nodded and finally spoke. “Oui, everything was accomplished. I do apologize, gentlemen, I seem to have lost my appetite.”
Emilio smiled. “It is nothing, Francis. I remember the first time I, well, had to remove a component from a plan. It is never an easy task.”
Valère nodded once, accepting his friend’s gesture. “Nevertheless, it is time to move to the next phase of our plan. We need to inform the media channels of our intention, and what is at stake.”
The first man, Roland, swallowed loudly, trying to vie for their attention. While Valère hadn’t touched his meal, Roland was on his second plate of dessert. Rotund, with rosy-red cheeks and jowls that hung nearly to his chest, the man was loud, invasive, rude, and liked by his peers for one thing, and one thing alone: his money.
They looked toward him. “We will wait.”
Valère waited for him to explain. Never one to deny himself an opportunity to heighten the drama, Roland instead took a bite of a roll of bread that had somehow escaped earlier destruction. He chewed it no fewer than five times before speaking again. “We will wait to tell the media. We need to let the Yellowstone incident take center stage for a little longer. The news down there — hell, even here — is eating it up, and they’re not letting go of it soon.” His southern accent grew in strength, no doubt egged on by the three glasses of wine he’d already consumed, and he continued. “The more pressure that builds around this story in the States, the better off we’ll be.”
“We’ll lose our opportunity,” Emilio said. Valère nodded.
“No,” Roland continued, crumbs falling from the corners of his mouth. “We’ll benefit from this timeline. They have no idea what’s gone on there, and they won’t be able to get anything from the site without losing anyone they send in. We have the advantage of time, and we need to keep it.”
Valère frowned. “That wasn’t the plan. Why are we waiting? And what are we to do in the meantime?”
The fat man answered immediately, his mouth now full of vanilla pudding. “There are still loose ends to tie up. Something our contact at the CDC has informed me about. There’s a woman there, digging around. It’s nothing major, but she’s clever. More importantly, she’s persistent. We need to get a jump on it, and make sure she doesn’t talk.”
The man to Valère’s right looked upset. “No, we can’t. It’s too risky. Besides, the body count is rising, and for what? And what about the coins? I have heard that the students and that professor uncovered some of them.”
Valère pitched in. “The coins are beside the point, and there is nothing left of the group that found them. There is no way to tie them back to us. As for the body count, I understand your concern. Believe me, I do. But think of the end result: it is the same.”
“Then why the needless deaths? Won’t there be enough of that?”
“Yes, my friend,” Valère said. “But consider the alternative: we cannot let something leak before we’re ready. Remember the rules: we control the means, we control the end. Nothing less, nothing more.”
Valère and Roland nodded in unison. Emilio shook his head. “I a
m with you, but I do not agree. We risk more by trying to ‘tie up’ these loose ends than we do in just letting them run their course. Can we not let this particular one go?”
“No. It’s not a matter of ‘risk,’ it’s a matter of principle,” Roland said. “I won’t let anything like this slip. It’s not in my nature to let things get out of my control.”
They all knew that to be true, but the other man was still persistent. “If something happens, and this leaks before we’re ready…”
“Let’s vote on it.” Roland spoke louder, obviously trying to control the conversation. “That was the agreement, was it not?”
“What is the proposition?” Valère asked.
“We take necessary action to prevent any of these ‘externalities’ from becoming too knowledgeable. We postpone the media’s involvement for another day, and use that time to talk through our strategy once again. The extra time will help settle us, and it will help our contingency do what it can to snuff out these little discrepancies.”
“So,” Valère said, “you suggest we use part of the allotment we’ve been given for containment and eradication?”
Roland smiled. “I do. What good is a dragon, then, without its fire?”
The two other men considered this. It would only take one more of them to agree with the man’s decision before this plan would be enacted. Valère looked at the two men, measuring the addendum to their plan against the alternatives.
He pushed his steak around on the plate once more, toppling the castle and destroying his sanctuary.
“I agree. This is the best option for us at this moment.” He looked up at Roland. “Alert your chosen men and deliver their objective.”
It had been exactly fifteen minutes, and the waitress entered. All three men put on their most unassuming smiles as she hovered over them, refilling their water glasses.
17
The truck pulled up to the opening of an alley, and Julie told Ben to take a left down the narrow road. Run-down apartments and worn out buildings towered over them on each side as the truck bumped over potholes and through puddles of brown liquid.
“Seems like a pretty fancy place you’ve got here,” Ben said.
The truck lurched over a deep pothole and bounced wildly as the suspension tried to compensate. Ben knew that any other vehicle would have suffered damage, but the massive lifted truck handled each bump and dip in stride. The alley curved to the left, and the truck and its two passengers found themselves facing a wide, squat warehouse. Made of metal siding and covered with a shallow steel roof, the warehouse fit in well with its dim surroundings. Ben slowed the vehicle and glided it toward the building, aiming for the small parking lot in front.
“No,” Julie said. “Go around back. Park on the street.” Ben didn’t argue as he pressed the gas pedal and the truck lurched forward. “Most people assume this place is abandoned,” Julie said. “We’re okay with that, so we like to park on the street across from the health center.”
They found a parallel parking spot on the street at the back of the warehouse, and Ben pulled the truck into the space smoothly.
“Wow,” Julie said. “It took me about three weeks to be able to do that.” Ben gave her an obnoxious smirk, opened the door, and stepped to the curb. He waited for Julie and followed her around the side of the warehouse and up a short flight of stairs. Her hand rose to find a keypad lock on the door, and Ben watched as she typed in four numbers.
1234. A small LED on the door blinked green, and the locking mechanism clicked.
“1234. Really?” Ben asked.
“Well, we’re not the CIA,” Julie said.
“Let’s hope not.”
“Security let us create our own pass codes, and I can’t remember anything to save my life. I thought that would save time rather than calling in every morning for assisted entry.” She pushed the handle down, and the door slid open. Ben felt a wash of heat from the building’s interior fall over them as they stepped in.
“Let me check in with Livingston first,” she said. “If you don’t mind waiting by the front door…”
“Not at all. Take your time,” Ben said. He waited for thirty seconds as Julie walked down a short hallway and to the left. When she reappeared and motioned him forward, he joined her at the end of the hallway.
“He must be out golfing,” Julie said. “Let’s see if Stephens is in. He’s my assistant, but we’ve got him working on another case right now. He’ll at least appreciate that I’m checking in.”
This time she headed to the right, and as Ben followed, he realized how small the office complex really was. The hallway intersected with another that ran perpendicular, but then opened into one large workspace. Half a dozen cubicles were sprawled in the middle, with two closed-door offices around the exterior. The florescent lighting was either on a dim setting or someone had forgotten to replace many of the bulbs.
Julie led him to one of the cubicles and stopped in front of a thin man with his back to them.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. The man turned in his chair and stood. “Hey, boss. Good to see you. How was the trip? Fishing traps and insects, if I recall correctly?”
“Something else came up, as I’m sure you’ve heard. This is Ben,” she said. “Ben, meet Benjamin Stephens.”
Stephens extended his hand. “Nice name. Good to meet you.”
“It’s actually Harvey Bennett, but I go by Ben.” Ben looked Stephens up and down. Tall, wiry, with black horn-rimmed glasses to match his disheveled hair, the kid looked as if he were only sixteen years old and on his way to a comic book convention. Reacting to Ben’s stare, Stephens brushed his hair with a hand, trying to get it to lay flat.
“Ah, well. My mistake. And what do you do, Mr. Bennett?”
Julie interjected. “He works at Yellowstone. That’s why we’re here — any news?”
“Not much,” Stephens said. “It’s all over the web now, though.” He stepped to the side, revealing a triple wide monitor setup full of open tabs and browser windows. Just about every one that Ben could see was filled with reports of the Yellowstone incident and explosion.
CNN, Fox news, Yahoo!, and the Wall Street Journal.
“I’ve been following it since it broke about four hours ago,” he said. “You guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” Julie said. “I — we could use some coffee. Where’s Livingston?”
Stephens walked over to the wall where an antique coffee pot sat empty. He placed a filter in it and added water as he spoke. “It’s Thursday,” he said, as if that explained everything. “He’s golfing. Listen, there’s more to it than just the Yellowstone incident.”
Julie frowned. “What you mean?”
“About an hour ago, a local news station way up in the northern part of Minnesota released a statement regarding some sort of debilitating virus that’s killed two people. Husband and wife, up near the border. He was out hunting apparently, according to some neighbors, and she was waiting for him at home. Next thing they know, when the neighbors went to check on them, they were both dead.”
Ben just stood silently by as Julie and Stephens spoke. “Why do you think it’s related?” she asked. “Could’ve just been some sort of seasonal fever, or even a cold.”
“The bodies were found with a deep red rash covering their skin, and boils and welts over most of their body as well. The man was out in the snow, facedown. His wife was on the bathroom floor.”
“That’s terrible,” Julie said. “It sounds like he was trying to combat the heat of the fever with snow.” She looked toward Ben.
“Sounds an awful lot like how they found one of my coworkers at the park,” Ben said. “Rashes, boils, and a heat fever.”
“He the one that died?”
Ben nodded. “He made his way back to a staff building all the way from near the explosion, probably about an hour walk. But he didn’t make it longer than two hours after direct exposure.”
Stephens nodded slowly, then met Ben’s
eyes. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Nothing we can do about it now except figure out what the hell this thing is.” Ben said.
“Let’s do it,” Julie said. “Stephens, you know the drill. Anything you find goes through Randy’s system, even though he’s on vacation. Send me what you have curated and ready so far. Skip the duplicate content.”
News agencies and websites these days often “borrowed” content from one another and regurgitated it verbatim on their own platforms. The Associated Press had rules about not changing the nature of the content, but it was one thing to use a story and refer back to the original source and another thing entirely to rip it off completely and pass it as their own. As the world of online marketing changed and the amount of people browsing the web on computers and devices increased, so did advertising dollars. Almost all of these news websites participated in advertising in one way or another, competing for eyeballs and clicks instead of chasing leads and performing due diligence as journalists.
Among other things, Stephens’ job was to collect, collate, and curate these reports and blog posts into a streamlined, easy to read report. What used to be a standard research-based task of any job was now a full-time position in most organizations.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve already started compiling it, and I’ll send it through SecuNet later this afternoon. Listen — I’m new to this whole thing, Julie. Do you think this is going to get big?”
“Who can say?” Julie said. “I’m an optimist, but this one seems a little fishy to me. An explosion that was obviously man-made, followed by two instances of whatever this virus thing is at the same time? Seems like something is going on, and I’m going to figure out what is. Even if it’s not an outbreak, it very well could lead to one.”
Stephens’ young face looked down at the two of them, his eyes scrunched up almost as if he were in pain. For as tall as he was, Ben found it difficult to believe this man could ever seem condescending or intimidating.
