[Anthology] Killer Thrillers

by Nick Thacker

  Julie opened her door and prepared to step out of the truck when her phone rang. She answered it.

  “Stephens? You want to explain to me what the hell happened back —”

  “Julie, listen. I’m sorry about that. That was Livingston’s decision, not mine. I’m back at the office, and I just found out that he put a redirect on my outgoing emails…”

  The mention of David Livingston’s name caused Julie to choke up. She remembered Randy’s words as he delivered the news. A suicide, the gun lying next to his head on his desk at home. She still couldn’t believe it.

  “Where are you?”

  “We — I’m at Yellowstone. We’re trying to —” She felt a hand on her arm and looked up. Ben was staring at her, shaking his head.

  “What?” she mouthed the words.

  “Trying to what, Julie? What are you up to? You need to get away from there, before this gets out of hand.”

  She looked back at Ben, meeting his eyes. Again, slowly, he shook his head.

  “Sorry — Benjamin, I can’t. We’re close. I can’t give you an update right now, but I —”

  “Julie! You can’t afford to keep gallivanting around. If Livingston finds out…”

  The words tumbled from her mouth before she could control them. “Stephens, where have you been? What are you doing?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m — I’m… working on this, too, Julie. What do you mean?”

  She waited a moment, then continued. “Okay, I know. I’m sorry. Just… don’t worry about Livingston. Listen, we need to go. Okay? I’ll check in tonight, after we leave.”

  “Okay…” the voice was shaky, uncertain. “Okay, you’re right. Keep at it, Julie. Let me know what you need.”

  She thanked him and hung up, then looked at the other two passengers in the truck.

  “He doesn’t know already?” Malcolm asked.

  “I… I guess not.”

  Ben frowned. He thought for a few seconds, then put the truck in park and opened his door, still shaking his head. He looked up sharply and caught Julie’s attention.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Look,” Ben said. He held out his left arm and pulled his sleeve up. The rash had disappeared from his exposed hand, and his arm looked almost completely normal, replaced by his natural skin tone. His right arm looked similar. Julie checked out her own rash and found the same to be true.

  “It’s gone,” she said.

  “Almost. Come on, we need to get in there. Whatever’s left of the virus in our systems is the only hope we have left to figure out what this is.”

  “But why’s it going away? I feel fine, too.”

  Malcolm had exited the truck and was helping Ben examine the open skin on his hands and arms. “It appears as though it’s naturally run its course and is now dying on its own.”

  “Is that what happened to you?” Julie asked.

  “No,” he replied. “I never had an actual rash outbreak, at least not as I remember. I could have been sedated, or comatose. But most likely I was injected with a small amount of the stuff to test its effects and find a cure. That was enough to inoculate me.”

  They nodded, then slammed the doors to the truck and turned to enter the laboratory building.

  43

  “The lab was built in the ‘80s for onsite research,” Ben explained. “It’s not actually used much, since it’s not really a specific type of lab.”

  “What do you mean?” Malcolm asked.

  “It’s got tools that would be useful for a high school science classroom, but it’s not specific enough to be considered a chemistry lab or a biology one. It’s also not quite big enough to be helpful for our geologists, geographers, or animal scientists.”

  Malcolm muttered something under his breath and continued exploring the small room.

  “Why build it, then?” Julie asked. She’d already found a collection of microscopes and was preparing one, searching the drawers for glass slides.

  “They thought it would be nice to have a sort of ‘front line’ lab, so they don’t have to wait around for outside help to come, or travel hundreds of miles to a university.”

  Julie had finished setting up the standard issue compound light microscope on a table in the corner of the room.

  “Everything okay?” Ben asked.

  “No,” she answered. “This is a compound scope, and there’s no way there’s enough power to magnify anything smaller than a bug. I wish there was a transmission-electron in here. Even an LVEM or something would be fine.”

  Ben simply stared back at her.

  “Sorry — this will have to work. It’s not going to get us all the way there, but it might be enough to measure chemical reactions and test for an antidote. Come here.”

  Ben stepped forward, and she reached for his arm. He pulled back, reacting involuntarily.

  “Chill. I’m not going to bite.” She reached again, and this time Ben let her lift his right arm and roll up his sleeve. “Dr. Fischer, would you mind helping me?”

  Malcolm jogged over to the corner of the room as Julie whipped out a strand of latex she’d found amongst the assortment of scientific equipment. She handed Ben’s arm to Malcolm, who held it precariously in front of him. As he held it, she tied the latex band around Ben’s upper arm, causing the veins to bulge as the blood became restricted.

  She then picked up a small syringe and poked it into one of the veins. The chamber began to fill with a deep crimson color.

  “Geez,” Ben said. “You didn’t test it for rabies or anything.”

  “Rabies is the least of your worries,” Julie answered, focusing on holding the syringe straight. “Besides, I doubt that would be the problem with these needles. God knows how long they’ve been here.” As a sort of flourish, she blew on the latex band and the syringe that was plunged into the vein. A thin veil of dust sprung from their surfaces, causing all three to blink and look away.

  “Ah, right. Seems perfectly safe.”

  She shushed him, then withdrew the syringe slowly from his arm.

  “How much do you need? Seems like overkill,” Malcolm said.

  “I don’t know how many units are left inside the bloodstream or if we’ll be able to see it at all. Plus, the virus is wearing off, as we saw earlier. I may not have time to extract more later, since the units might be working their way out.”

  She placed the cap on the syringe chamber and loaded another. This one, she stuck into her own arm, not bothering to check for a vein or tie off her upper arm.

  “Units?” Ben asked.

  “Like chickenpox,” she answered.

  Malcolm and Ben still didn’t understand.

  “I’m developing a hypothesis about it, but it’s pretty simple. Imagine a kid has chickenpox — the varicella zoster virus — and has a birthday party. Some kid comes to the birthday party and gives the birthday boy one unit of the virus. That unit multiplies — as viruses do — to a certain point, until the virus has physically manifested itself in the host’s body.”

  “Little red bumps all over his skin.”

  “Yes, exactly. But that’s it. It doesn’t ever really get worse than the bumps, though as you might remember, those bumps are bad enough. The virus has reached its ‘critical mass’ in the kid’s system. The units have reached their maximum exposure ratio, and they won’t — can’t — proliferate any more. But he’s still very contagious, too. Since the virus is at critical mass, every kid who comes over will probably get it, right?”

  “Unless they’ve already had it,” Malcolm said.

  “And then they’ll do the oatmeal baths and stuff and eventually the virus goes away,” Ben added.

  Julie nodded, removed the full syringe from her arm, and continued. “Well, this virus-bacteria is a bit different. Let’s say the kid was infected with a unit of this… stuff. Whatever it is. That one unit would reproduce and multiply into ten units, become contagious, and spread to other people, just like the chi
ckenpox. They’d all get infected, it would grow to ten units in each of them, and they’d all be contagious — but still alive.”

  “So far, so good,” Ben said. “Except for the life-threatening rash.”

  “But, if the kid is infected with more than ten units initially, it’s over. He’s quarantined, but the effect is devastating — the virus is too much for the body to handle and will begin to shut down."

  “The body can’t handle more than ten units?” Malcolmasked.

  “Well, ten is an arbitrary number, but in this scenario, yes. Whatever number of units our virus needs to reach critical mass is the amount of virus that can ‘safely’ infect a person. Anything over that, and the host dies. Below that —”

  “And it reproduces itself up to that number but doesn’t go over,” Ben finished.

  Julie nodded. “That’s my hypothesis. After that, the virus naturally works its way out of the host’s system, rendering them immune to further attack.”

  Ben and Malcolm thought about this a moment. It made sense — hypothetical or not — and both men nodded their approval.

  “I’m guessing that whenever we were exposed to the disease, it was only a small amount,” Ben said. “Less than critical mass. It’s run its course and is now working its way out.”

  They heard the laboratory door slam shut, and all three turned to look. A tall, thin man stepped into view, smiling. “That’s exactly right, Mr. Bennett. What a precise deduction.”

  “Benjamin?” Julie asked, jumping up from her perch near the table and microscope. “What — how are you here?”

  “I was already on the way,” he responded, coming closer to them. “When I called, I was already in the area. I thought I’d check in with you in person, since our tech communication seems to be consistently ineffective.”

  Julie didn’t respond.

  “Don’t worry, Julie. Ben —” he turned to look at the third man in the room, hesitated for a split second, and frowned. “Mr. — I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” Benjamin Stephens walked over to Malcolm and stretched out his hand.

  “Dr., actually. Dr. Malcolm Fischer.”

  “Right. Dr. Fischer. My apologies.” Stephens had the room completely focused on him, and he savored the moment. “Sorry for my intrusion. As I mentioned, I merely came to help. Julie, what can I do?”

  Julie thought about it for a few seconds. “You agreed with Ben when you walked in. Why? What do you know about the virus?”

  “Well, for starters, as I’m sure you’ve already discovered, it’s not actually a virus. Or, to be specific, it’s not only a virus.”

  “We’re past that already, Stephens,” Julie said. “How do you know that?”

  “Julie, my job is to collate and organize information. Every disease prevention authority in the country is working on the same thing you are. I saw a report yesterday that confirmed your theory of a viral-bacterial strain.”

  Stephens had stopped in front of a square table in the center of the room. He pulled out a folding chair from beneath it and sat down. He placed his arms on top of the table as he spoke. Trying to appear submissive, Ben noticed.

  “I also found out where the strain originated.”

  At these words, Malcolm stepped toward him, then halted.

  “The virus is the byproduct of an ancient extinct plant that was found inside Native American baskets in a Canadian cave. An unlucky Russian expedition found it and thus became the virus’s first modern casualties.”

  “Who told you that?” Malcolm asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. Ben reached out and held the man’s shoulder.

  “Again, it’s just some of the information that’s come across my desk.” Stephens turned and looked directly at Julie. “Julie, that’s why I’m here. I’ve been sending this stuff to you for days, but I know you haven’t been getting it.”

  She shook her head.

  “I sent it up to a lab, and they’ve been processing it with the CDC as well. From what we can tell, someone found that original strain, put some sort of protective ‘shell’ around it, and created the ‘super virus’ we’re now dealing with.”

  Stephens stood up, and Julie saw Ben cross his arms.

  “But like I said, I couldn’t get through to you. It seems like Brown found some sort of redirect on my account, but he didn’t set it up. Maybe Livingston —”

  “Livingston’s dead,” Julie said.

  Stephens was about to continue, but Julie’s words stopped him in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

  “Livingston,” Julie repeated. “He’s dead.”

  “But…”

  “They found him at his home, in his office. Suicide.”

  Stephens’ face seemed to scrunch a bit around the eyes, for the briefest amount of time. But as soon as Julie noticed it, it disappeared. She must have taken him by surprise.

  “You — you can’t be serious,” he said.

  “Stephens, I wouldn’t joke about this. You know that.” She turned to watch Ben’s and Malcolm’s reactions. Both men stood still, stoically gazing toward Stephens. They were watching his reaction, she realized.

  Stephens seemed to falter a bit, taking a step back. He grabbed the corner of a table and steadied himself. “But… but that…” his voice trailed off.

  “Stephens.” Julie’s voice was strained, but she tried to pull him back in. “Benjamin. I know it’s insane, but we have to keep moving forward.”

  He nodded.

  “Can you tell us the rest? What else do you know about the virus?”

  He swallowed, but began to speak. “Well, as you already know, our organization isn’t exactly swift when it comes to handling crises, but there have been a few departments that have had a little success modeling the strain and calculating its progression.” He walked back to the chair and sat back down at the table. Julie found a bottle of water and brought it over to him.

  “They found out that the agent works by infecting the bloodstream, but also the air around its host. It sort of ‘festers’ inside the host, releasing particulates through the skin — likely the reason we see a physical manifestation in the outer epidermis.”

  “The rashes and boils,” Julie said.

  “Right. So it spreads to a human host through the air — it doesn’t need direct contact with blood or fluids, just time and close proximity. Once it’s in the bloodstream, it moves to the internal organs, where it proliferates and reaches viral titre for contagion.”

  “What’s viral titre?” Malcolm asked.

  “Viral load. It’s like a concentration of the actual virus. The point at which the virus will infect enough cells to become contagious.”

  “The critical mass,” Julie added, explaining it to the two men standing next to her.

  “Exactly. The lab reported that anything below around 8,000 copies per milliliter of the virus is considered below the danger line. Above it, the host can’t contain the virus in its own body, and the strain tries to jump to another host within range. If it doesn’t jump and proliferate there, the initial host’s systems will shut down. If it can jump, it will, causing the titre to drop by half in both hosts.”

  “Does proliferation continue from there?” Julie asked.

  “It does, but only to that magic line of viral load — somewhere around 8,000 copies. If the load is higher than 16,000 when it jumps, though, both hosts have a concentration of higher than 8,000 cpm. The virus will continue to spread inside their systems, consuming cells and antibodies mainly, but also overloading vital organs.”

  “So the answer is to find a third host?” Malcolm asked. Ben was nodding along, trying to piece it together as Stephens explained.

  “Right. And then a fourth, fifth, and on, until the virus has equally spread through these hosts and the titre count drops below 8,000 in each.”

  “What happens then?”

  “We don’t know,” Stephens said. “But it dies on its own, somehow. Initial tests have shown that it starts to clear up within a day
or two, and works its way completely out an infected host within a week.”

  “Ok, so we don’t have an antidote for it, yet. But we know that it goes away on its own?”

  Stephens nodded. “It does, but like I said, only when the concentration in the host is low enough. Under load, it will increase to the point of becoming contagious to others, but then stop, immunizing the host.” His eyes flicked to Malcolm. “Over the viral load, however, and it will completely destroy the host’s internal system.”

  “That’s good news, Stephens,” Ben said. “But we’re running out of time. This thing’s spreading around the country, and it’s not slowing down. Plus —”

  “The bomb,” Julie finished.

  “Right,” Stephens said, nodding. “The bomb. Any ideas as to where it is?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Okay, well I can help. Julie, why don’t you and I —”

  “You’re not going anywhere with her,” Ben said, stepping forward.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not leaving.” Ben said again.

  “Ben,” Julie said, coming up alongside him. “What’s the deal?”

  Stephens stood up from the chair again, frowning. He looked at Ben, scrutinizing him.

  Before he could react, Ben took another step forward and punched Stephens in the gut, hard. Stephens doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

  “Ben!” Malcolm ran toward him, but Ben held up his arm to halt his approach.

  “Stop — let me deal with this.” He turned back to Stephens. “What else do you do, Stephens?”

  “Wh — what are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Who are you working with?”

  Julie became panicked as she looked between the two men standing in front of her. “Ben, wait, just —”