by Nick Thacker
Just as she turned, a man entered the space inside the door frame.
“Dr. Torres?” The man asked. His voice was raspy; not quite that of a lifelong smoker, but one that seemed tired or weary with age.
She nodded.
The man stepped in and took a long, slow glance around.
“Can I help you?” Dr. Torres asked.
The man’s eyebrows abruptly lifted, as if he had forgotten that he shared the room with another occupant. “Ah, yes. Dr. Torres, it’s great to meet you.” He extended his right hand forward. She reluctantly reached for it and allowed him to grasp it. His hand completely consumed hers, though he did not squeeze tightly. “I’m here from the CDC, which, as you know, is currently operating in a crisis mode.”
“Well, I — I didn’t exactly know that,” Dr. Torres said, still caught off guard. “Do you mean the explosion at Yellowstone?” Charlie had filled her in about the day’s events when he’d arrived hours ago, but she still hadn’t checked for an update.
The man smiled. He retracted his hand and placed it in his pants pocket.
“Yes, in fact, that is exactly why I’m here.”
22
The man continued to explain, both hands now in his pockets. “We’re following this thing as well; trying to stay ahead of it.”
“Well, do you know what it is?” Dr. Torres asked. She sat back down in her desk chair and swiveled to face him.
“We’re guessing it’s some sort of bacteriophage; T4, Coliphage, something like that.” He motioned to a chair. She nodded once, and the man pulled it out and sat. “But the lab results haven’t come in yet. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to know if you’d figured anything out yet.”
Dr. Torres frowned. “How did you know I was working on it?”
The man smiled. “The package that was delivered. A colleague of yours received it and sent it to you, but was prudent enough to document your research and testing phases as well.”
Charlie, she thought. She frowned in anger, then remembered that her assistant had only been doing his job. All of the lab techs and assistants at the company had been instructed to keep a record of any and all testing done on-site on any materials that could be considered “potential threats.” While she’d wanted to keep their work quiet until she could prepare a final report, she hadn’t considered asking Charlie to bypass this security step.
“It’s okay, Dr. Torres. This type of thing happens all the time. You don’t want to make any mistakes in the research phases and potentially damage your career. Even if you had kept this one hidden from us, I’m not here to reprimand you.”
“Okay,” Dr. Torres said. “May I ask why you are here?”
“Information,” the man said without hesitation. “Like I said, we need to keep ahead of this one, especially it’s some sort of bacter—”
“It’s not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not a bacteriophage,” Dr. Torres said. “Actually, it’s exactly the opposite.”
“What do you mean? The symptoms we’re seeing in patients suggests that it is some sort of bacterial-viral combination.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” Dr. Torres said, turning around in her chair and opening a file on her computer. “It’s bacterial and viral, but not in the sense of a bacteriophage. Rather than a virus attacking and piercing a bacteria, we’ve recognized the exact opposite. A bacterial infection within a larger virus.”
The man stood up and began pacing the office. Dr. Torres chose to continue.
“It’s a standard form of a spirillum bacteria, only crammed inside the shell of another body. I’ve never seen anything like it before, really. It’s quite ama—”
The man spun on his heel. “And who else has been working on this project with you?” he asked.
“J — just my assistant, Charlie Furmann.”
“I see. And do you have the sample here with you?”
Dr. Torres fidgeted in her chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Her eyes flicked to the test tube on the table, then quickly back to the man. “I’m sorry — can I ask again why you’re here?”
The man had already begun moving to the table. He reached down and grabbed the small glass vial just as Dr. Torres stood up from the chair.
“Hey! Excus—” The man held the tube away from Dr. Torres with his right hand and lifted his left arm. He swatted the back of his hand at Dr. Torres’ face, catching her just below her left eye.
Dr. Torres stumbled backwards, stunned. Tears began forming in her eyes as she gasped. The man continued moving, now reaching into his pants pockets and removing a pair of latex gloves. In one fluid motion, the man inserted his hands into the gloves and walked to the small lab sink.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Torres asked as she regained her balance. “Wait!”
The man threw the vial containing the sample down into the sink. It shattered with a loud crash, launching glass into the air. The man was already moving toward the open door. He reached for the handle and stepped out into the hallway.
Dr. Torres saw the man’s hand reach into his coat pocket and remove another vial, this one containing a clear liquid. He held the tube up in front of her.
“Dr. Torres. I am sorry it came to this. However, rest assured your research and time will not go to waste.” He threw the sample down. The hard floor obliterated the glass vial, and the clear liquid bounced upward and onto Dr. Torres’ feet. Before she could react, the man slammed the door, and Dr. Torres heard the clicking sound of his shoes retreating down the empty hall.
She ran to the door and tried to open it, fumbling and slipping over the now-wet floor. Finally the handle gave, and she nearly fell into the hallway. She was breathing heavily, but continued down the hallway, following the sound of the man’s shoes. Just as she reached the elevator, it dinged.
The doors slid open, and a shocked Charlie Furmann stared at his disheveled boss. “Dr. Torres — are you okay?”
Her eyes were wide and wild, and she knew she must have looked insane, but she held herself together. She backed away from the elevator, putting space between herself and Charlie.
“I — I…” she stammered. “Yes, I’m… I’m fine. Go home, and I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. She turned away from Charlie and the open doors of the elevator and jogged to the stairs at the end of the hallway.
23
After leaving the warehouse that housed Julie’s office, the pair drove to the other side of town. Just as they passed the city limits and left the metropolitan area, the high-rise apartments and multi-floor office buildings slowly changed into larger, flatter buildings and individual houses on suburban streets.
“I moved out here after living in the big city for ten years,” Julie said.
“Big city?”
“San Francisco. I was right in the middle of everything,” Julie answered. “It was great at first, but it wears on you after awhile.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Ben said.
Julie laughed. “Well, sure, I guess any city’s big to someone like you.”
Ben thought about the statement — really a question — for a moment before responding. “I didn’t always live out in the middle of nowhere,” he said. Before Julie could interject, he added, “but I guess I always wanted to.”
The truck drove on, passing yet another neighborhood filled with one- and two-story houses painted either brown, tan, or beige. White picket fences separated them from one another, and perfectly manicured lawns signaled a strict HOA governed the neighborhood.
“So the park is a great job for you,” Julie said.
Ben nodded, looking out the window. For the first time during their trip, he was only a passenger in the vehicle. Julie had offered to drive from the office to her apartment.
“It is,” Ben said. “I guess, I mean it was.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Julie said, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. “We’ll figure this out.”
Afte
r passing the neighborhood stretching over the road on their right and left, Julie turned onto a smaller country road, and Ben saw the houses and white fences recede in the distance. Fields and farms now replaced the neighborhoods on each side of the road.
“I thought you lived in an apartment,” Ben said as he watched a group of cows.
“I do,” she answered, “but it’s just the upstairs room of a converted barn. I rent from the family that owns it.”
As she spoke the words, she turned and began driving down a gravel road. Up ahead, a crop of tall pines surrounded a house and a few buildings, among them a large barn. It was worn, as if the barn hadn’t been kept up for many years.
“It looks worse on the outside,” Julie explained. “They stopped using it as a barn in the ‘70s, but converted it back in 2003. It’s completely renovated inside, and has everything I need.” She pulled into the long driveway that led to the farmhouse and barn, and the truck lurched over potholes and rocks strewn over the single lane. “It’s quiet and helps me relax.”
The phone in Ben’s pocket buzzed. He reached for it and stared down at the number. Recognizing it, he answered. “Hey — how’s it going?”
A few moments later, “What? Are you okay — how long ago?” He paused again. “Where are you now?”
Julie looked over at her passenger as the truck slid onto a gravel driveway in front of the barn. She shut off the engine, but waited inside for Ben to finish his conversation.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m coming — I’ll leave now.” He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket.
“Where are we going now?” Julie asked.
“You’re not. You’ve got work to do here. I need to get to Twin Falls though.”
“Like hell I’m not. We’re in this together, remember?”
He didn’t actually remember when they’d decided they were in this together, but he let it go. “Listen, that was Diana Torres, the person I sent that sample to. Something must have gone wrong.”
Julie remained quiet. “She’s infected, and I need to get to her…” his voice trailed off.
To her credit, Julie didn’t intrude by asking more questions. “Ben, I’m sorry. I’m going with you. Let me get some stuff from the house, and then we’ll get to the airport.”
“No, I don’t fly. It’s less than a day’s drive from here anyway. Besides, it doesn’t sound like there’s much I can do about it.”
Julie wanted to ask, in that case, why it mattered that they go visit her. Again, she was quiet.
“That’s fine, you can come. Hurry up in there — we need to get on the road.”
24
Six Months Ago
Dr. Malcolm Fischer gasped again.
I’m alive.
His eyes were open, blinking, as if trying to clear a veil from in front of them. The room was the same, but it was dark now. Darker, anyway. The lights were off, but there must have been some light trickling in through the door’s rectangular window that was getting into the room.
He lifted his head to check. Yes, that’s where it’s coming from.
And then: I just lifted my head.
Malcolm wondered if he was dreaming. How do we check that? Then he remembered. He lifted his right hand and pinched his left.
He could feel it.
There were no pins and needles this time, no probing behind his skin. He was awake, and fully. He blinked a few more times and tried to sit up.
He let out a groan as his right arm pushed off the bed. He looked down at the location of the pain — his shoulder. There was a large purplish welt where he’d ripped out the needle with his teeth, and he could see that he hadn’t done a great job: the small metal needle was still resting on his skin, the end slightly poking into his arm.
He reached with his left hand and gently slid it back. It came out easily, and a little spot of blood followed close behind.
He swung his legs off the table, waiting for the slightest noise.
No beeping. No instruments in the hospital room seemed to be trying to alert their masters that their subject had awakened.
He put his feet on the ground and tried to stand up. Malcolm’s body immediately collapsed, and he lay for a moment on the floor before trying to stand up again.
How long have I been here? He tried to remember. The last time he’d woken up, he had been asleep for six months. Not enough time to have completely atrophied.
He forced himself to stand again. Shaky, but he was balanced. He then focused on the tubes that were in his body. He noticed a reader on his finger — wasn’t this the one that tracked his heart rate?
If he removed everything, he knew the machine would start beeping again, sending the alarm that his heart had stopped.
What to do?
He couldn’t start switching off the machines, either. They were obviously going to be tracking the data from the machines, and if the machines suddenly went offline one after another, they’d be in here in seconds.
He looked around. Nothing to use as a weapon, really, unless he was James Bond.
And he wasn’t James Bond.
Besides, what could he do? There were at least three doctors around, and possibly the beasts who’d brought him in. Three- or more-on-one didn’t sound like good odds.
He did have the element of surprise, though. Unless there was a silent alarm emanating from one of the machines, they — whoever they were — had no idea he was awake.
What had they said? “The chemical usually renders the patient comatose for around four to six months” or something like that?
He thought about it for a moment. They had also said headquarters was coming tomorrow morning. If they had come, they surely would have noticed the giant welt on his arm, and the misplaced needle that should have been sticking properly out of it.
That meant he had only been asleep for a few hours.
He’d done it.
Malcolm did a small fist pump, more to test the motion of his right arm than anything. He was awake, but he still needed to get out of there, and fast.
At least before tomorrow morning. Hopefully long gone by tomorrow morning.
Again, though: what could he do?
He took another look around the room. The many computers and instruments hooked up to him wouldn’t all alert anyone if he started fiddling with them. The ones that would, he could only guess. Then he saw one of the computers connected to one of his fingers. It was on a rolling cart, and he couldn’t see it plugged into anything.
He hobbled over to it, using the bedrail as a support. Sure enough, it was a standalone machine. Battery powered.
He looked at the screen. It looked like a heart rate monitor, from what he could tell. There were numbers flashing on every inch of the screen, but the majority of it was a continuous graph, with peak appearing every second on the right side.
Well, what do I have to lose?
He started taking the rest of the trackers and monitor tubes off his body. Disgusting.
Next were the needles poking through his chest, arms, and legs. Finally, the clip-like things that were connected to his fingers.
All except the heart-rate monitor.
He hoped that was the only one that would alert his captors. Why wouldn’t it be? They expected him to be completely comatose, after all, not an alert, mobile prisoner.
He checked the wheels on the cart and began pushing it toward the door. Malcolm checked the handle, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open. He hobbled behind the cart, careful to not let the tube fall to the floor for him to trip on.
It looked like a hospital wing, except one with no one else in it. It was a little creepy, actually, he realized. Not a soul was anywhere to be seen, and the only lights that were on were the emergency lights that ran up and down the hall between the brighter fluorescents.
He wheeled the cart to the end of the hallway. Unlike what he’d expected of a “real” hospital, there was no T-intersection here. The hallway ended in what seemed
like a janitor’s closet in front of him. He checked the door. Locked.
He needed a plan, and fast. He couldn’t exactly wheel the heart monitor computer out and down the front steps, but he had no idea how to disable it without sounding an alarm somewhere. If he shut it off, he was almost positive an alarm somewhere in the building — no doubt where the nightshift was still working — would sound, and his gig would be up.
Unless…
He thought for a moment. It might work…
But where?
He hobbled along, faster now, turning the cart around and pointing it back the way he came. He pushed past his old room, noticed the door open, and pulled it closed. Can’t be too careful.
He continued to the center of the hallway and found his T-intersection. He was in the top of the “T,” and this stretch of hallway in front of him was short — likely just a bridge or covered walkway to another section of the hospital. He entered it, noticing the floor curve up in a gentle arc.
He walked slightly uphill until he reached the center of the bridge, then stopped in front of a door. Electrical 2-A.
He was on the second floor, and this was the electrical closet for building A, which was either the one he’d just come from or the one he was about to enter. He hoped he’d chosen correctly as he tried the door. This one was unlocked, and he pushed the cart inside.
A light switch on the wall next to the door flicked on a single overhead bulb, enough to light the space in a dim yellow bath of light. He looked around, finding nothing at first besides a few mop buckets, some brooms and dust pans, and a shelf of cleaning supplies.
It appears that their janitors have commandeered this closet as well.
On the right-hand wall, however, he found what he was looking for. An electrical panel, the kind that housed the fuses and breakers, stared back at him. It was easily as tall as he was.
Okay, he thought. Let’s get to work. Whatever he tried, he couldn’t disable the monitor from signaling that he’d been tampering with it. But he could, however, try to disable the system on the other end, so that it wouldn’t receive the signal.
