by Ted Dekker
Several times he resisted the temptation to cut to his right and angle for the source of the missile. But he ran on. They’d surely seen his parachute deploy. They would be ready for him this time.
And this time he wouldn’t bounce back from a bullet to his head. He needed more than a knife.
Carlos lifted the radio. “How far?”
“A hundred meters. Running up the river,” the voice said softly. “Take the shot?”
“Only if you know you can hit him below the neck. Are you sure it’s him?”
A pause.
“It’s him.”
“Remember, I need him alive.” A tranquilizer dart could kill if it hit a man in the head.
Carlos waited. They’d tracked Hunter since his landing, three miles down the valley. Four others had survived the crash: two in similar manner as Hunter, two others broken and bleeding but alive near the crash site. Their survival had been temporary.
If his man didn’t take the shot now, they would take him at the wreckage. Better now. The last thing Carlos needed was another of Hunter’s escapes.
“Status?”
It was Svensson on the other radio.
Carlos keyed the transmitter. “We have him in our sights.”
“So he did survive.”
“Yes.”
“He’s healthy?”
“Yes.”
“Keep him that way.”
Come out here and keep him healthy yourself, you impossible sloth. Of course he would keep him healthy. As long as the man didn’t try anything.
“Target down,” his other radio crackled.
He waited, sure that a reversal would immediately follow the report. Target back up and running.
But no such report came.
“He’s still down?”
“Down.”
“Handcuffs tight. And I suggest you hurry. He may not be down for long.”
Monique lay on the mattress only half-aware. She’d dreamed of thunder. A loud peal from the crashing skies announcing the end of the world. The people cried out to a huge face in the clouds, which presumably belonged to God. They begged for a hero to save them all from this terrible and unfair turn of events. They wanted a fix. So God had pity. He pointed to a woman with long dark hair named Monique. This was the one who’d first made the Raison Vaccine. This was the one who could now tame it.
Monique opened her eyes and took a deep breath. But there was a problem. Svensson now owned her fix.
The deadbolt slid open and the door creaked.
She closed her eyes. The only thing worse than being trapped in this white room was having to face Svensson or the man from the Mediterranean who smelled like a bar of scented soap. Carlos.
Several sets of feet walked in. Something thudded softly on the concrete floor. What was that? She dared not look now.
The boots left and the door was once again bolted shut from the outside.
Monique waited as long as she could before opening her eyes. She moved her head. There in the middle of the floor lay a body with its face down and turned away from her. Camouflaged jumper and muddy black boots. Hands cuffed behind. Dark hair.
She sat up. Thomas?
It looked like it could be him, but he was dressed wrong.
She hurried across the room and walked around the man. Yes, it was a man—his forearms were too well muscled for a woman. Then she saw his face.
Thomas.
A hundred thoughts raced through her mind. He’d come for her. He knew where to find her. He had come as a soldier. Were there others?
To see a man unconscious and handcuffed at her feet would normally turn her stomach, but today was not normal, and today the sight of a friend filled her desperate world with so much joy that she suddenly thought she was going to cry.
She knelt and nudged his shoulder. “Thomas?” she whispered.
He was breathing steadily.
She shook him hard. “Thomas!”
His cheek was pressed against the clean floor, bunching his lips. A day’s growth of stubble darkened his face. His wavy hair was tangled and knotted.
“Thomas!”
This time he moved, but only barely before settling back into oblivion.
She stood and stared at his prone body. What kind of man was he really? Her thoughts had been drawn to Thomas Hunter a hundred times in the ten days since he’d first burst into her world and kidnapped her for her own safety. To save the world, he’d said. An absurd suggestion to any person not thoroughly intoxicated.
Now she knew differently. He was special. He knew things he couldn’t possibly know, and he made a habit of risking his life to defend that knowledge.
And on a more personal level, to defend her. Save her.
Monique glanced up at the security camera. They were watching, of course. And listening.
She walked to the sink, dipped a beaker into the basin of water (the mountain provided no running water, at least not in her quarters), slipped the hand towel from its rack, and returned to him. She wet the towel and gently wiped his face and neck.
“Wake up,” she whispered. “Come on, Thomas, please, we need you awake.”
She squeezed more water on his head, his face, his shoulders, and she shook him again. He closed his mouth, swallowed. Finally his eyes fluttered open.
“It’s me, Monique.”
His eyes turned up to her face, widened, and then squeezed shut with furrowed brow. He groaned and struggled to rise.
She grabbed his handcuffed arm and pulled him, but it didn’t seem to help much. He struggled to get his knees under him and his seat in the air. She wasn’t sure how to help him—he was awkward yet determined on his own. Finally he managed to bring his head up and sit back on his haunches, eyes closed.
“Are you okay?” she asked. It was a dumb question.
“They shot me,” he said.
“You’re wounded?” Where? She hadn’t seen any blood!
“No. They drugged me.”
He just rolled his neck and swallowed.
“You should lie down. Here, let me help you.”
“I just got up.”
“I have a mattress.”
“We don’t have time. As soon as they think the drugs have worn off, they’ll come for me. We have to talk now. Can you get these handcuffs off?”
She looked at them. “How?”
“Never mind. Man, my head feels like . . .”
His eyes suddenly widened.
“What?” she demanded.
“I didn’t dream!”
The dreams again. She wasn’t sure what to make of them anymore, but they were certainly more than mere dreams.
“You were drugged,” she said. “Maybe that affected you.”
He spoke as if he actually was in a dream. “It’s the first time I haven’t dreamed in two weeks. I mean from this side anyway. There I stopped dreaming for fifteen years by taking the rhambutan fruit.”
He was handcuffed and on his knees in a white dungeon, and the world was dying of a virus bearing her name, and he was talking about a fruit.
“Rhambutan,” she echoed.
“And we think that you might be connected to Rachelle,” he said.
“Rachelle.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned away and whispered under his breath. “Man, oh man. This is crazy.”
She didn’t know why he thought she would be connected to Rachelle, and for the moment it really didn’t matter—he was clearly given to fantasy. What did matter, on the other hand, was the fact that Thomas was the only one who seemed to be able to find her. She glanced at the camera again. They had to be careful.
“They’re listening. Sit by my bed with your back to the opposite wall.”
He seemed to understand. She helped him across the room and he sat heavily, cross-legged, facing her mattress.
“If we talk quietly, they may not hear us,” she said, easing herself onto the mattress.
“Closer,” he said.
She scooted closer, so that their knees were nearly touching.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
He stared at her, then past her. “First the virus. It’s been released.”
“I . . . I know,” she said. “How bad is it?”
“Bad. Twenty-four gateway airports. It’s spreading unchecked.”
“They haven’t closed the airports?”
“Won’t slow the virus enough to justify the panic.” His voice was clearer now—the drug was wearing off quickly. “When I left Washington, only the affected governments were even aware that the virus existed. But they can’t keep it quiet for long. The whole world’s going to wake up to it one of these days.”
She swore softly in French. “I can’t believe this happened! We took every precaution. It wasn’t just heating the vaccine to a precise heat; it was holding it there for two hours. One hour and fifty minutes or two hours and ten minutes, and the mutation doesn’t hold.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe not, but you do know that my vaccine was actually a virus that—”
“Yes, I know all about your vaccine actually being a virus; you told me that in Bangkok. And it was a brilliant solution to some very big problems. If anyone is to blame here, it’s me. I was the one who told the world how your vaccine could be changed into the virus it’s become.”
“Through your dreams.”
“Yes. Where you’re connected to Rachelle.”
She didn’t want to talk to him about these dreams right now. He’d looked at her strangely each time he’d claimed that she was connected to Rachelle.
She refocused the discussion, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Do they know who’s behind this? Do they know where we are?”
“The French are involved. Or at least some rogue elements in the French government. That’s the prevailing theory. Svensson’s not on his own—he’s the man behind the virus, but there’s a lot more to this than the virus. They call themselves the New Allegiance, and they’re demanding huge caches of nuclear arms from all the nuclear countries in exchange for the antivirus.”
“They’ll never agree!”
“They are already,” he said. “China and Russia. The United States is preparing to comply.” He blinked and she wondered how true that was. “Others. Israel may be a problem, but with enough pressure they’ll probably go along. The prospect of whole populations dying off in a matter of weeks trumps any other logic. This all comes down to the antivirus.”
“What about my father? Is the company looking for a way?”
“Your father is screaming bloody murder in Bangkok, but apart from trying to find an antivirus, there’s not a lot he can do. Everyone’s looking for a way—another reason to delay telling the public. If they do find a way to stop the virus, panic will never have a chance to gain momentum.”
“They have leads, then.”
“No. Not that I’ve heard. Not besides you.”
“You mean the back door.”
“I’m guessing that’s why Svensson took you in the first place. Did your key survive the mutation?”
Someone had obviously filled him in. “Yes. And I think I may be able to create a virus that will render the Raison Strain impotent. Hopefully.”
He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Thank God.”
“Unfortunately, I’m here. And now so are you.”
“Did you give it to Svensson? And what do you mean hopefully ?”
“Hopefully, as in I haven’t actually tried it yet. I gave it to them twenty-four hours ago.”
“Can you tell me what this virus-killer looks like?”
She knew what he was asking. If they were separated, or if he escaped but not she, he could carry the information to the outside world. But the antivirus in her mind was far too complex for anyone without an education in genetics to remember, much less understand.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so because you don’t know how to or because it’s too complicated?”
“I would need to write it down.”
“Then write it down.”
“It is.”
“Where?”
“By the computer.” She glanced over his shoulder at the work station. “I would much rather you just take me out of here.”
“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere without you. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“From whom?”
“From Rachelle,” he said.
Thomas’s head slowly cleared. The handcuffs bit deep—there was nothing he could do about them. They had to get out with the antivirus, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment either. The only thing he could do anything about right now was Monique.
He looked into her brown eyes and wondered if Rachelle really was in there somewhere, now, at this very moment. Honestly, looking at Monique now, he wasn’t sure that she was Rachelle.
He glanced at Monique’s right forefinger. The cut was there, exactly like Rachelle’s. He looked into her eyes again. The last time he’d seen Monique was in Thailand last week. But that was fifteen years ago, before he’d married Rachelle. Odd.
Monique’s full understanding of the situation might have critical and practical value, however. If they became separated and Monique knew that she could connect with Rachelle, she might find a way to do what Rachelle had done. She might be able to dream as Rachelle if need be.
Thomas considered this as he stared into her eyes.
Monique broke off the stare. “Who’s Rachelle?”
Both women shared the same fiery spirit. The same sharp nose. But as far as he could see, that was where the similarities ended.
“Thomas?”
“Rachelle?”
“Yes, Rachelle,” Monique said.
“Sorry. Well, you know how I’ve told you about my dreams. How I learned about the Raison Strain from the Books of Histories in my dreams.”
“How could I forget?”
“Exactly. Every time I fall asleep, I wake up in another reality with people and . . . and everything. I’m married there.”
“Rachelle is your wife,” she said.
She knew! “You remember?”
She stared at him, and for a moment he thought she did remember.
“Remember what?”
Why had he said that? “I don’t know exactly how it works, but Rachelle dreamed she was you. She told me where to find you.”
He paused. “You might be Rachelle. I . . . we don’t know.”
Monique stood. Thomas couldn’t tell if she was offended or just startled. “And what on earth brought you to that conclusion?”
“You have a paper cut on your right forefinger. I know that because Rachelle woke up with a paper cut on her right forefinger. If you and Rachelle are not the same, at least Rachelle is sharing your experiences.”
Monique lifted her finger and glanced at a tiny red mark. Then she lowered her hand and slowly looked to Thomas.
“Your wife’s in danger.”
The door bolt slammed open. Monique’s eyes widened and shifted over his shoulder.
Mike Orear had been sure that Theresa was overreacting. She had taken the full brunt of the virus’s threat head-on and come away reeling. He didn’t doubt any of her facts. It was true, a man named Valborg Svensson had released a virus that had mutated from the Raison Vaccine. The virus was undoubtedly very dangerous and would kill millions, maybe billions, unless it was stopped.
But it would be stopped.
The world didn’t just end because some group of deviants got their hands on a vial of germs. His life wouldn’t end just because Svensson or whoever was pushing his buttons wanted some nukes. Things just didn’t work like that.
That was three days ago, T minus eighteen, give or take a few days if they believed the models at the CDC. Now it was T minus fifteen, and Mike Orear was converting to Theresa’s religion of fear.
He sat in his office and studied the spread of l
egal-pad notes in front of him. They all screamed the same thing, and he knew what they were screaming, but he knew there was a mistake here somewhere. Had to be. Just had to be.
He’d talked to Theresa a dozen times in the last three days, and each time he’d asked if anyone had made any progress on an antivirus, expecting that eventually she would respond in the affirmative. She would say one of the labs in Hong Kong or Switzerland or at UCLA had made a breakthrough.
But she didn’t. On the contrary, the labs working on the problem were learning just how unlikely finding any antivirus in less than two months would be.
News about a highly virulent outbreak of a mutated viral vaccine, dubbed the Raison Strain, on a small island south of Java had hit the wires yesterday morning, and the wires were burning hot. The population of the island was roughly two hundred thousand, but there was no airport, and the ferries to and from had been suspended. The island was isolated, and the virus contained. No other shipments of the vaccine had been released.
Given the nature of the virus, the World Health Organization, together with the Centers for Disease Control, had put up unrestricted funds and massive rewards for an antivirus that would save the two hundred thousand people who would otherwise die in less than three weeks. Contracts were being bought out by the government to free up all of the major labs across the country. The healthcare community had gone nearly ballistic.
A red herring, Mike thought, a red herring for sure. And even then the networks were reporting a watered-down version of the story. They understood the threat of panic and they were playing ball.
But they didn’t know the half of it, Mike thought. Not even a hundredth of it. How could a threat of this magnitude not leak to the press? How many other newsagents were sitting in their offices right now, thinking the same thought? Maybe they were all afraid to run outside and declare to the world that the sky was about to fall. The story was too big. Too unbelievable.
He stood and walked to the mirror on his wall. Opened his mouth and looked at his gums. Stretched his cheeks and peered around his eyeballs. There was no indication at all that he was infected with a killer virus. But he was. He’d given Theresa a blood sample just to be sure, and it had come back positive. He didn’t know if he’d caught it from her or from someone else that day, but according to her report, he was a dead man walking.
