The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

  “He called me at home. On the landline.”

  Conner spoke slowly, still suspicious. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Answer me,” Conner said, his tone hard.

  “He was confused. He didn’t know who I was. He told me I was in danger. Then he hung up.”

  “In danger of what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Conner considered her words for a moment. “When did you last speak with your mother?”

  “What?”

  “Answer.”

  “When I landed in Nairobi.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  Peyton recounted the conversation, as best she could remember.

  “When was the last time you spoke with your father?”

  “My father? The eighties. I was six—”

  “You haven’t spoken to him since then? No emails? No meetings?”

  “Dead people don’t send emails.”

  A smile curled at Conner’s lips. He turned away from her.

  “When was the last time you spoke with your brother?”

  Peyton was shocked by the question. “My brother? He died in ’91.”

  Peyton waited, but Conner only stared at her.

  “He was a WHO employee working on an AIDS awareness campaign in Uganda. He died in a fire near Mount Elgon,” she said.

  “I know how, when, and where your brother died. Now answer my question.”

  Peyton stared at the monster’s badly burned face, at the scars that ran down his cheeks, over his chin, and into his shirt collar. “Did you know him? Were you there in 1991?”

  Conner touched his collarbone again. “Stop.”

  On the screen, Peyton saw the doctors remove their hands. But they didn’t back away. They glanced at each other, seeming to weigh their decision, then resumed the operation. Another person wearing a surgical gown marched into the scene, raised a handgun, and pointed it at the closest medical worker. All three froze.

  Peyton swallowed. “I haven’t seen or talked to my brother since the Christmas of 1990, in Palo Alto.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it? One last question. Your login and password to the CDC VPN.”

  “No.”

  Conner motioned to the tablet, where the medical workers were still standing at the table, waiting. Hannah’s open wound oozed blood. “How long do you think she has? Another few minutes?”

  Peyton considered his request. She had the highest level of security clearance: access to situation reports from the EOC, inventory levels at the strategic stockpiles, and notes from the labs investigating new pathogens. For these bioterrorists, her login was an all-access pass to the inside of the US response to their attack. It meant real-time intel they could exploit to kill more people.

  “My login is pshaw@cdc.gov. Password: ashaw91#io.”

  Conner turned the tablet around and typed quickly.

  “You know, the problem with lying about your password is that it’s easily discovered. Seriously, Peyton, I’m gonna need that password. Right now.”

  She swallowed and spoke with all the force she could muster. “You know, I’m a member of the Commissioned Corps of the US Public Health Service. We take an oath—to protect the public. So did Hannah. Telling you would violate that oath. I take my oaths very seriously.”

  “Dear God. Why does everyone around here have to do things the hard way?” Conner punched a few buttons on the tablet.

  Seconds later, Peyton heard the hiss of gas seeping into her cell. She lost consciousness almost immediately.

  Conner touched his collar. “Resume. We may need Watson for leverage. And prep an interrogation room for Shaw ASAP.”

  Chapter 54

  In the observation room on the Kentaro Maru, Conner watched the techs administer the drugs to Peyton Shaw. The questions began soon after, and within minutes, she had revealed her CDC login. He relayed it to the team in ops.

  “We’re in,” the operator said over the radio.

  “What do you see?” Conner asked. “Do they know yet?”

  “No. The tests comparing the viruses have been delayed. Their infection models are way off.”

  “Good. Download everything and get out.”

  In his stateroom, he watched the video feeds. Desmond was in the middle of some push-ups. The three programmers were camped out beyond the glass, typing furiously. The area around them was starting to resemble the pigsty Conner had found them in: crushed Red Bull cans and microwave meal wrappers littered the floor.

  Another feed showed the redheaded CDC physician. She was strapped to a bed in the medical wing. She’d been sleeping since the surgery.

  Conner switched the feed to Peyton Shaw. She was just waking up. She staggered to the tiny bathroom in the cell and stood over the sink, bringing water to her face. She gagged once, then moved to the toilet, waiting, but nothing came up. She rested her back against the wall, staring at nothing for a long moment.

  Slowly, she stood and stripped off her clothes. Water washed through her dark brown hair, over her curves, down her body. Conner studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous—not like the girls every guy went for—but he thought she had something even more attractive: an unassuming confidence. It drew people like a magnet, put them at ease, compelled them to want to be around her.

  He was the opposite. He repelled people. Repulsed them. He had since childhood. Everyone who saw him instantly had the same reaction. Smiles disappeared. Eyes grew wide, raking over the scars on his face.

  Soon, he would create a world where that didn’t matter, where no child would have to grow up a monster, alone, rejected by every person who saw him.

  After her shower, Peyton lay on the narrow bed, her wet hair soaking into the mattress. She was scared. For her own safety, for Hannah’s, and for everyone in Kenya and beyond. If the virus went global, it could claim millions of lives. Maybe more. It felt like her entire world had been turned upside down. She had felt that way only once, when she was six years old.

  Her family had lived in London then, in a flat in Belgravia. She’d been asleep in her bedroom when the door flew open. Her mother rushed in, shook her, spoke urgently.

  “Wake up, darling. We’re leaving.”

  Her mother made her dress and leave home with only the clothes on her back. She crowded Peyton, her sister Madison, and her brother Andrew into a black cab, and they sped to Heathrow. The four of them left London forever that night.

  The first flight took them to Amsterdam, the second to Paris. A private car drove them through the night to Le Mans. At daybreak, they boarded a small plane that flew them to America.

  For a few months, they lived in hotels, never staying in the same place for more than a few nights. Peyton’s mother told her children it was an extended vacation and “tour of America.” But Peyton sensed something was very wrong. Her sister and brother did too.

  Periodically, Peyton asked her mother where her father was, why he couldn’t join them.

  “He’s busy, dear.”

  Peyton tried to listen in on the calls her mother conducted in secret, often stretching the phone cord into the hotel bathroom and shutting the door with the shower running. Peyton could make out only bits and pieces. Someone had lost their dog. A beagle. Her mother was very worried about it. She was constantly asking about finding the beagle, which was strange, because she had never been one for dogs—or animals of any kind.

  Finally, after four weeks, her mother sat the three children down and told them that their father wouldn’t be joining them. With dry eyes, she said, “There was an accident. I’m very sorry, but your father has passed away.”

  The words destroyed Peyton instantly. Andrew met the news with disbelief that soon turned to skepticism. Then anger. He asked questions their mother refused to answer.

  How did he die?

  When was the funeral? Where?

  The lack of answers only enraged Andrew more. He shouted and argued w
ith their mother.

  I want to see him. I can see my own father. I want to see his grave. You can’t stop me.

  I want to go back to London. It’s our home.

  Andrew became increasingly distant. Peyton was nearly catatonic. Her sister Madison was there for her, holding her as she cried each night for a week. Their mother was stoic, withdrawn. The calls continued. The secrecy only made them trust her less. Maybe it was simply because she had been the one who’d told them, but to varying degrees, all three of them blamed her for their father’s death.

  Despite Andrew’s demands that they return to London, Peyton’s mother refused to relent. They settled near San Francisco, in Palo Alto. They changed their last name to Shaw, and Andrew completed his last two years of high school, then left for college, then medical school.

  It took time for the family to come together again. In fact, it took more than time—it took Andrew’s death in 1991 to finally bring them all closer again. It was just the three of them after that—Peyton, Madison, and their mother, Lin—and they shared a strong bond.

  Peyton hadn’t thought about that night in London in 1983 for a long time. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had thought of it now.

  She awoke to the worst headache of her life. She returned to the sink and gulped down two mouthfuls of water. Bloodshot eyes stared back at her. She lifted up her shirt, afraid of what she would see. She swallowed hard when she saw it—a rash reaching up from her abdomen toward her chest.

  She was infected.

  Day 8

  2,000,000,000 infected

  400,000 dead

  Chapter 55

  Millen sat in a folding chair, taking in the Sunday afternoon sun, watching Elim walk across the dusty field outside Mandera Referral Hospital. The older woman from the village, Dhamiria, helped him as he walked, encouraging him in Swahili. Halima recorded his progress, and Tian moved things around, providing a sort of obstacle course for Elim to walk around and step over. The six-year-old boy delighted in the task.

  Millen played music from his phone, which all four Kenyans seemed to enjoy. He wouldn’t have dared expend the phone’s battery without the solar charger, but for the moment, sunlight and power were two things they had in abundance. The music and Elim’s rehabilitation had been their routine for the past two days while they waited on the transport Elliott had arranged. Millen was eager to get home. On Friday night, a few hours after arriving in Mandera, he had slipped the satsleeve on his phone and opened Google News. The first article had shocked him:

  US Stock Markets Tank on Pandemic Fears

  Growing concern over the scope and severity of the X1 outbreak has finally infected markets. Stock indices in the US declined over 25% today during the short session that ended at 1 p.m. in what is being called Red Friday. The decline is the largest stock market crash in history. The drop eclipsed even Black Monday—October 19th, 1987—when the Dow Jones Industrial Average shed over 22% of its value in a single day. As with the crash in 1987, the rout began with Asian markets and spread west to Europe and the US…

  Millen had clicked the next headline.

  World Goes Into Lockdown as Two Separate Outbreaks Spread

  Though the WHO has stopped providing estimates on the number of X1 cases, experts project that at least 50 million, and possibly many more, are already infected worldwide. Nations around the world are resorting to drastic measures.

  The UK announced this morning that it would close its borders. Germany, France, Italy, and Russia quickly followed suit.

  Perhaps the most alarming and mysterious aspect of the X1 outbreak is the virus’s seemingly unlimited reach. Cases have been reported aboard military vessels on long-term deployment, in remote villages, and on cruise ships with little outside contact.

  The most deadly outbreak, centered around Kenya, has also finally forced the world’s hand. The Ebola-like disease, currently called the Mandera virus, has killed thousands thus far. Infection rates are not known. In hopes of containing the epidemic, an unprecedented alliance of Western and Eastern powers, including the US, UK, France, China, Japan, Australia, and India, has announced a full-scale blockade of all East African ports—from the Red Sea to South Africa.

  Details of how the blockade would be carried out were not immediately available.

  Despite an hour of searching, Millen hadn’t found the news he was looking for: an update on the search for the missing CDC and WHO workers, especially Dr. Shaw and Hannah. It seemed their abduction had been forgotten in the chaos sweeping the world.

  He had awoken Saturday morning to find Elim again walking around the tent complex, giving it his all. Dhamiria held his arm. They were both smiling and laughing. Their conversation was in Swahili, and although Millen couldn’t understand it, their body language told him everything he needed to know.

  He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. If the headlines from the previous night had told him anything, it was that tender moments and simple pleasures would be hard to come by in the days ahead.

  Later on Saturday, Millen had searched the headlines again:

  Kenya Burns as Ebola-Like Virus Spreads

  Rioting overnight gripped Kenya’s largest cities as crowds demanded that the faltering government act to combat the mounting death toll from the Mandera virus. The death count from the fires and fighting in Nairobi, Mombasa, and Garissa is unavailable at this time, but sources within the Ministry of Health estimate that over 40 thousand have died from the virus, and many more are infected.

  The crisis in Kenya’s largest cities caused an exodus as residents…

  Millen scrolled through the pictures. Bonfires at intersections. Overturned cars. Mobs pressing against police in riot gear. He decided not to show them to Elim or the villagers. They were having a good day—a day he didn’t want to ruin. Elim was learning to walk again. The four Africans were living proof that the virus could be survived. It almost felt like the whole world wasn’t falling apart.

  Millen felt hope. And a reason for faith.

  Elim had grown stronger with each session of his makeshift rehabilitation program. His naps grew shorter, and he walked on legs more sure and firm. After dinner on Saturday, he took Millen aside for a conversation the younger man had been expecting.

  “I’d like to talk with you about what happens when the plane arrives tomorrow,” Elim said.

  Millen wanted to spare the man from having to ask the question. “If she wants to stay, she should.”

  “She does,” Elim replied. “However, she’s made a commitment. An important one. Finding a cure is vital.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Millen said. “If we take enough samples from you and her, we should be fine.” He paused. “Or, there is another option.”

  Elim raised his eyebrows.

  “Come with us.”

  Elim shook his head. “My place is here. Now more than ever. My country needs me.”

  Millen was packed and ready when the call came on Sunday.

  “Dr. Thomas, we’re on approach to the Mandera airport.”

  “We’ll be there,” Millen said.

  At the airport, he led the two young villagers into the private plane, then returned to the SUV, where Elim sat behind the wheel, Dhamiria in the passenger seat.

  “Where will you go?” Millen asked.

  “Wherever we’re needed,” Elim said. “We’ll head south and take it from there.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I hope your friends and colleagues are returned safely, Millen.”

  “Me too.”

  A few minutes later, the plane lifted off. Millen gazed out the window at the deserted airport. It had been bustling when he arrived last week. Now it was dead—like the charred remnants of a bomb test in the desert. He wondered what he’d find in America. If the news was any indication, a lot of people were infected, and their fate might be the same as that of the residents of Mandera. He couldn’t let that happen. He hoped he was bringing
home the key to finding a treatment.

  Chapter 56

  On Sunday morning in Atlanta, Elliott waited for the event he believed would change America forever. The news gave no clues of it. The people he called had heard nothing.

  The first hints had leaked the day before across social media. All military personnel, including the National Guard, were called in to their nearest base or a designated rally point. Staff at hospitals, as well as police, fire, and EMT workers, were also called in.

  Those without symptoms of the respiratory virus known as X1 were instructed to report first. Those who were sick were to arrive three hours later.

  The first responders called and texted their family and friends to say that they were being deployed for an emergency preparedness drill and wouldn’t be home for several days. Some noted that they wouldn’t have phone or internet access during the drill.

  Elliott had expected his phone to ring. He was not only a physician and an epidemiologist, but a rear admiral in the Public Health Service’s Commissioned Corps. He was also a CDC employee; or he had been. His employment situation since he had leaked information about Peyton’s abduction to the news hadn’t been made clear. He was certain that he should be on the critical personnel list; perhaps multiple lists. But the call never came. His name had been deleted.

  He didn’t have to guess who had done it; he knew. And he had never been so angry in his entire life. For someone to play politics at a time like this, to pursue a vendetta against him when he could save lives, was unthinkable. But there was nothing he could do about it, and that bothered him even more.