The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

  And just as quickly, she was gone.

  Avery stood in Conner’s stateroom giving a report. He held his hand up, stopping her.

  “Just tell me if they can make it happen.”

  “They say it’s like a needle in a haystack.”

  “What about the apps being developed by the companies Des invested in?”

  “They’ve tried them. If it’s there, it’s in some kind of back door. They say the memories could be tied to a location or released at a certain time. Hacking it might not even work if the release is hardwired.”

  Conner looked up at the ceiling.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “We’re running out of time. We have to try something new. Drastic.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, I’ll let you know, Avery.”

  She averted her eyes. More quietly, she said, “Dr. Shaw is infected.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “With the Mandera strain—not the precursor flu virus.”

  “I said, I’m aware of that.”

  “Should we administer the cure?”

  “No. Leaving her infected gives us more control over her.”

  Day 9

  3,800,000,000 infected

  620,000 dead

  Chapter 58

  Desmond lay on the bed, giving his muscles a few minutes to rest. He contemplated what the most recent developments meant.

  The three stooges were gone. The folding table sat abandoned. Empty cans and food cartons lay where their computers had sat.

  Were they giving up on him? He hoped so.

  A crack shattered the silence. A seal breaking. Rubber brushing past steel. The glass wall of his cell slid to the right, into the bathroom wall.

  His cell was opening.

  Desmond rushed to the gap. His arm was through, then his torso. He wiggled, gaining inches each second, and then he was free, in the corridor, standing next to the card table.

  A closed hatch lay at the end of the corridor, and its wheel was turning. Someone’s coming through.

  Desmond bounded toward it.

  The hatch opened. A handgun emerged, then a skinny white arm.

  Desmond grabbed the wrist, snatched the gun away, and twisted the person’s arm behind their back as he pushed through the hatch, the gun held out before him, sweeping the room, ready to fire.

  The assailant was a woman with blond hair. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt a hint of recognition. He focused, took in the scene. A long table with four flat screens and keyboards, computer towers below. Two uniformed soldiers on the ground, not moving. No blood.

  The woman’s elbow connected with his injured ribs, sending a wave of blinding pain through him. He lost his grip on her. A knee slammed into his forearm, and he dropped the gun. She spun him around and kicked him hard in the chest. The impact with the wall knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he slid down the wall, fighting not to pass out.

  She grabbed the gun, tucked it into a shoulder holster, and squatted down, her green, intense eyes level with his.

  “Hey, genius, I’m the one rescuing you. You want to fight me, or you want to get out of here?”

  Desmond glanced at the guards. They were out cold, but alive. Small darts protruded from their necks.

  “What’s it going to be, Des? I’m leaving, with or without you.”

  He remembered her name then—Avery. The woman who had allowed him to hear her conversation with the programmers. Can I trust her? What choice do I have?

  “How?” he said, between shallow breaths.

  Avery grabbed a semi-automatic rifle and a backpack from the corner of the room. From the backpack, she drew out a pile of clothes and night vision goggles.

  “Put the uniform on. Hang on to the NVGs. Power goes out in twenty seconds. There’s a helo seven decks above us. I figure we’ve got about three minutes to get there. If we’re not there by then, we’ll have to shoot our way out.”

  Desmond felt cornered, like the day Dale Epply had come to Orville’s house. He had fought for his life that day, and he had killed for the first time.

  He made his decision: he would fight his way out if he had to. He was going to stop these people, even if it killed him.

  He took the clothes and began slipping them on.

  Movement on one of the flat screens caught Desmond’s eye. They showed four cells just like his. Three empty. One occupied. A woman, roughly his age, with dark hair. Her skin was the color and smoothness of porcelain.

  “Peyton Shaw,” he whispered.

  So they had captured her too. Her phone number had been the only clue he had left himself in Berlin. She had been investigating the outbreak in Kenya—the outbreak Conner had started, that the man swore Desmond had helped start. Somehow, she was connected to what was happening. She might even be the key to stopping it.

  Desmond pointed to the screen. “We’re taking her with us.”

  “No. No way.”

  “Listen to me, Avery. She’s coming with us.”

  Avery exhaled.

  “She’s coming with us.”

  The blonde shook her head in frustration, but to Desmond’s relief, she moved to the long table and typed on one of the computer keyboards. On the screen, the glass wall of Peyton’s cell began sliding open. But it had slid only about seven inches when the power went out.

  Chapter 59

  Peyton stared in disbelief as the glass wall started opening. Were they moving her? Or coming to kill her? That was it—they had gotten her CDC password when they drugged her. Now they don’t need me anymore.

  Fear rose inside her. But just as quickly, rage met it. The two emotions fought a battle as she watched the glass partition slide.

  Rage won. If she was going to die here, she was going to die on her feet, kicking and screaming and punching. She wouldn’t let it be easy for them.

  The lights snapped out, plunging the cell into darkness and utter quiet, like a sensory deprivation tank. Peyton froze. A second of panic sparked. Is this their plan, to kill me in the dark? I need to move.

  Peyton put her hands out, found the glass wall, and shuffled over to the side where it had begun opening. It hadn’t moved far before the power went out. She slid her left arm and leg through, but her body caught at her chest. She placed her palm against the outer glass and pushed, trying to squeeze through. The exertion only made her breathe harder. Her chest heaved, expanding. Pain radiated from where the thick glass divider met her bones. It was no use. She’d never make it through.

  A sound: metal creaking, then the loud boom of a hatch opening. Two white lights beamed into the corridor, moving back and forth like dueling lighthouses searching the darkness. The lights stopped moving, fixing on her.

  Fear drove her then. She wiggled back into her cell. But there was nowhere to hide. Even the bathroom was too open. She would die in seconds, she was sure of it.

  Two guards ran the length of the corridor. Bright LED lights shone from their helmets. She held a hand up, blotting out the beams so she could see the attackers. The first guard was a white woman with straight blond hair that spilled out of the helmet. Her face was slender, striking, her eyes intense. Night vision goggles sat atop the helmet. The second guard—

  Peyton stopped cold at the man’s face. Desmond Hughes. Seeing him in person brought on a conflicting mix of emotions that paralyzed her.

  He moved to the opening.

  “Peyton, my name is Desmond Hughes. I called to warn you.”

  He stared at her, not a hint of recognition on his face. What’s going on here? Why’s he acting like he doesn’t know me? He had acted the same during the call before she learned of the outbreak—an outbreak he seemed to be connected to, according to Lucas Turner. His name had been scrawled on the barn wall in the cell. And now he was dressed as a guard, pretending he didn’t know her. Why? Was it all part of some plan? Her instincts urged her to go along with him, to behave as though she didn’t know hi
m. She sensed that revealing any information to her captors would be bad for her.

  “I remember. What do you want?”

  “We’re getting out of here. Thought you might want to come.”

  Peyton nodded toward the opening. “I tried. I won’t fit.”

  The blonde leaned her head back, throwing the beam from her helmet at the ceiling. “We don’t have time for this, Des.”

  He turned his head, bathing her in white light. She squinted, stared back at him a moment, then glanced away, signaling defeat.

  Desmond moved the beam of light out of her eyes. “Can we shoot it, Avery?” he asked.

  The woman shook her head.

  He held his hand out to Peyton. “Then I’ll pull you through.”

  Peyton hesitated. No way this was going to work. But Desmond waved her forward, confidence in his face.

  What do I have to lose?

  She moved to the opening, and Desmond gripped her arm, one hand on her bicep, the other on her forearm. “We have to go fast. It’s the only way.” More quietly, he added, “It’s going to hurt.”

  She stared at him, trying to look brave. “I know. Let’s get it over with.”

  He planted his foot on the glass and leaned back, pulling.

  Peyton closed her eyes as the pain took over. Pain in her chest as the glass raked past her ribs. Pain at her armpit as Desmond pulled until she was sure he was ripping her arm off.

  And then she tumbled free and fell on top of Desmond. Her face connected with his, but he moved quickly, deflected the blow, and caught her before she hit the floor.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Every breath through her bruised chest brought pain.

  Avery led them away from the cell. “We need to hurry.”

  Footsteps sounded from beyond the hatch at the end of the corridor. Avery and Desmond quickly reached up to flip their night vision goggles down and switch off their helmet lights, leaving Peyton in darkness.

  “Stay here,” Desmond whispered, his voice close to her.

  On instinct, Peyton crouched, making herself a smaller target, and moved to the wall. With each passing second, her eyes adjusted. Through the slightly open hatch, she could see beams of light crisscrossing the room beyond. Her chest ached as her heart beat faster, knowing these people were searching for her, would likely shoot her on sight.

  Desmond and Avery rushed through the hatch. Five soft pops followed—silenced rifle reports. Avery’s voice, barely over a whisper, called into the dark corridor: “We’re clear. Come on.”

  Peyton moved forward and paused at the entryway. Desmond and Avery had switched on their helmet lights again. Beams from three more helmets pointed at the ceiling, wall, and floor, depending on how the fallen soldiers had landed. Blood flowed from head and chest wounds, slowly covering the floor, a blob with tendrils reaching toward her.

  The gunshots reminded her of Hannah, of the blood that had flowed from her wound in the back of the SUV in Kenya.

  Avery was crouched over a backpack in the corner. Her face was bathed in shadows, but Peyton could make it out. She saw no remorse there, just cold concentration. She saw a woman who had taken lives before, and who wasn’t bothered by it.

  Avery reached inside the backpack, drew out a cell phone, and began tapping its screen.

  “What’re you doing?” Desmond asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Backup plan,” she mumbled. “I told you, we should have been out of here by now. We’re out of time. We need a diversion.”

  Explosions rocked the ship.

  “What was that?” Desmond asked.

  “That was the sound of us getting five more minutes to get off this ship.”

  “How?”

  “Hull breaches,” Avery said. “She’s sinking.” She moved to another hatch. “Shoot anything that moves, Des. Don’t hesitate.”

  “Wait,” Peyton said. “They’re holding my colleague, Hannah Watson.”

  Avery glanced at Desmond, silently saying, Shut her up.

  “Is she still alive?” Peyton asked, looking from one to the other.

  Desmond looked to Avery, who said nothing.

  “Is she?” Peyton stepped closer to the blonde.

  “I don’t know. She’s in the hospital wing.”

  So McClain hadn’t followed through on his threat. They had finished the surgery. If the ship sank, they would leave her. Hannah would die for sure.

  “We have to bring her with us,” Peyton said.

  “No way,” Avery said quickly. “Absolutely not. I’m not even sure if we can get out.”

  Peyton fixed Desmond with a look that said one word: Please.

  He turned to Avery and stared.

  “We’re dead if we do this, Des. I mean it.”

  “Then we’ll die trying. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  Chapter 60

  Desmond’s heart pounded in his chest and in his ears, like the sound of a truck driving over train tracks. He gripped the rifle, trying to make himself ready.

  The night vision goggles bathed the cramped corridor in a green glow. Avery walked a step in front of him, to his right, giving him a clear shot if they encountered resistance.

  Peyton’s hand was tucked inside his waistband; he pulled her behind him through the darkness. She occasionally bumped into him and whispered, “Sorry,” when they came to a stop or changed direction.

  Boots pounded the floors above and below. Muffled voices echoed through the darkness like ghosts chanting, seeming to close in on them.

  “What’s happening?” Desmond asked.

  “Chaos. Insubordination,” Avery said. He knew she had an earpiece in, tuned to the ship’s wireless comms. “Conner’s ordered a search for us. But most everyone is rushing to the lifeboats and tenders.”

  That was a break. Maybe they had a chance.

  Avery crouched by a hatch. She raised her NVGs, so Desmond did the same.

  “Inside,” she said. “Stay along the perimeter. Move fast.”

  The hatch crept open. Light poured out. This section had power. A battery backup? Generator?

  Avery stepped through the hatch and broke right, moving quickly. But Desmond couldn’t help but stop at the sight of the vast room. It was as long as a football field and almost half as wide. The ceiling hung thirty feet above. Rows of cubicles wrapped in sheet plastic covered the floor, with soft yellow lights glowing inside, like Japanese lanterns floating on a concrete sea.

  Each cubicle held a hospital bed, most with a patient lying still. Quiet beeps chirped from within, an out-of-sync symphony of death echoing in the cavernous space. A cart with body bags stood in the central corridor, abandoned.

  Desmond had seen this place before. This was the place that had come to him in a memory. He had thought it was a warehouse then; now he knew the truth.

  The ship was a floating hospital, a laboratory where they conducted experiments. The setup was brilliant. The subjects had utterly no chance of escape. They were probably loaded on and off in cargo containers. Had they gathered vulnerable subjects from around the world? Used them up and discarded them? The idea was horrifying.

  Peyton stood beside him, staring in shock.

  Two barely audible clicks from his right drew Desmond’s attention. Avery was motioning to him, her expression saying, Come on, you idiot. He seemed to be able to read her perfectly, and she him. He wondered how long he had known her. And how he had known her.

  He caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder.

  “Is there a cure on this ship?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “To the outbreak in Africa.”

  Avery seemed annoyed. “No, Des. You don’t remember?”

  He stared, confused.

  “They’re testing something else here. It’s… never mind. We have to hurry.”

  Testing something else. Desmond wondered what that meant.

  He followed Avery around the outer row. At the far end of the room, she opened a
nother hatch and burst through into a corridor, which was dimly lit with what Desmond assumed were emergency lights. The entire medical section apparently had its own backup power system. Plate glass windows along one wall revealed operating rooms in disarray. Blood covered the tables and dripped onto the floor. Bloody sutures, clamps, forceps, and scalpels lay strewn about.

  The opposite wall was solid except for a series of doors. Avery moved quickly, opening each one, her rifle held ready. Desmond covered her advance, sweeping his rifle forward and backward, Peyton tucked behind him.

  “Found her,” Avery called.

  Peyton rushed into the room.

  Hannah lay on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, her strawberry-blond hair spilling onto the white pillow. An IV line was connected to her hand, and a clear plastic bag hung beside her. A monitor displayed her vitals.

  Peyton lifted the young woman’s eyelids. “She’s sedated.” She began disconnecting the IV. “I’ll carry her.”

  “You can’t,” Avery said, with force bordering on anger.

  Peyton stopped. “I’m carrying her.”

  “We’re going up seven flights of stairs—in a firefight. You can’t carry that much dead weight.”

  “I’ll—” Desmond began, but Avery flashed him a look.

  “No you won’t. You’ve got to fight. The stairwell will be crawling with people. So will the deck.”

  Desmond knew there was no negotiation this time. And that Avery was right.

  To Peyton, Avery said, “Either wake her up so she can walk out, or leave her here. Your call.”

  Peyton glanced at Desmond. He nodded, silently insisting, Make the call.

  Peyton studied the monitor a moment, then checked the end of the bed and began searching the drawers.

  “What’re you looking for?” Avery asked.

  “A chart. I need to know what they’ve given her. And what dose.”

  “The charts are electronic,” Avery said. She gripped Peyton by the shoulders. “Look, if you’re going to wake her up, you’ve got to do it right now. Okay?”