The Extinction Files Box Set

by A. G. Riddle

  In that moment, she finally understood, truly understood, what he had gone through as a child. It was unimaginable. The guilt. The remorse. And to go through it so young.

  The flames and smoke were advancing. She placed her hands under Desmond’s armpits and dragged him farther away. William crawled, collapsed beside Desmond, and panted, trying to get his breath. He unstrapped his own body armor, drew out a folder. His voice came out raspy and strained.

  “Avery!”

  The woman was ten feet from them, closer to the fire and smoke. She held her head up.

  “The locations. Take it. Get out.”

  Avery’s eyes flashed. The sight of the folder seemed to give her a burst of energy. She crawled across the floor, took the folder, drew a shallow breath, and coughed again.

  William put a hand on her shoulder. “Go.”

  Peyton pressed her lips to Desmond’s mouth again and began giving him rescue breaths.

  From her peripheral vision, she saw William push Avery away. “Go. Before it’s too late.”

  Avery stood on unsteady legs and staggered out of the office wing.

  Peyton rested on her haunches, gathering her own breath as she gave thirty more chest compressions. A tear ran down her face. Desmond was going to die, right here, in her arms.

  Her father’s eyes met hers.

  “Please, Dad. Find an AED. He’ll die without it.”

  Chapter 91

  William was pretty sure his ankle was sprained. Not broken, but it throbbed and spiked with pain every time he put weight on it. In the smoke-filled office wing, with Peyton leaning over Desmond, trying to save his life, he limped to a desk and found what he needed: an overturned table lamp and some clear packing tape. As quickly as he could, he disassembled the lamp and jammed the metal pole in his boot, parallel to his calf. He wanted to cry out from the pain, but he simply gritted his teeth, grabbed the tape, and wrapped his lower leg and ankle tight, ensuring it couldn’t move.

  He put weight on it, testing it. The pain was manageable.

  He turned and began searching the walls for an AED, hopping along like a peg-leg pirate from an old movie.

  With each step Avery took away from the fire, she could breathe easier. In the stairwell, she drew out the folder and scanned its contents.

  Past the cubicles, William hurried along the wall, searching. A minute later, he read the Russian letters for AED, pulled the device off the wall, and returned to where Peyton was still giving Desmond mouth-to-mouth. She looked up when he approached. Her face was covered in tears. The sight was heartbreaking.

  She took the device from his hand, tore Desmond’s shirt open, and attached the patches to his chest. She made sure she wasn’t touching him, then hit the large green button on the box.

  It emitted a short squeal, then popped, causing Desmond to arch his back and inhale violently. His head thrashed about as he screamed—a ragged, raspy yell like that of a lifelong smoker.

  Peyton took his face in her hands.

  “Hey.”

  His chest heaved. His eyes were barely open. A tired smile formed on his lips. He said a single word. It sounded like “Scully.” William didn’t know what that meant, but Peyton seemed to like it. She laughed, and the tears flowed faster now. Tears of joy, William thought.

  “We need to go,” William said. “I can walk. Peyton, can you help him?”

  She coughed, trying to clear her lungs and gather a breath. Then she helped Desmond stand, and the three of them limped out of the burning building.

  Outside the front doors, in the gravel courtyard, two sets of footprints were visible in the ash-coated snow: Peyton’s from her arrival, and Avery’s.

  She had left them.

  Chapter 92

  Conner sat at the conference table, listening to updates. France and Greece had become the first Looking Glass nations. On the large wall screen, he watched footage of doses of the cure being distributed in Paris.

  “Stop right there. Take the five seconds preceding that and use it.”

  Someone behind him approached and handed him a note.

  We have a situation. Hughes-related. Urgent.

  Conner excused himself and made his way to his office, where an intelligence agent was waiting with a laptop. Though the government had taken control of the internet, the Citium’s private network, connected by satellite links, was still functional. The agent opened a connection to the Citium net and pulled up a satellite video feed. It showed three figures opening the iron gate that enclosed Site 79.

  “Zoom in.”

  Conner studied their faces. Desmond. Avery. William Moore. So Desmond had found the old man. Together, they could jeopardize everything he had worked for.

  “How old is this footage?”

  The agent checked the time stamp. “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

  “Do you have cameras inside?”

  The man worked the laptop, brought up the internal views, and rotated through them. On three of the feeds, he saw them moving through the building, searching.

  They’ve separated, Conner thought.

  “Do we have charges in the building?”

  “Yes. Standard Looking Glass precautions. In the labs and file areas.” The young man paused. “Want us to blow them?”

  “No.” Conner held a hand up. “Let’s wait.”

  They sat in silence for ten minutes. When William reached the corner office, he stopped at the desk and looked at a picture frame. The night vision camera revealed the change in his expression. Recognition. Realization. Then he rushed to the filing cabinet and began searching through the files.

  “Whose office is that?” Conner asked.

  “Unknown.”

  “Find out,” Conner snapped.

  On the screen, William paused at the last drawer, studied a file, and said into his mic, “I’ve located the target.”

  Conner stood. “Where’s Hughes?”

  The screen switched to one of the quarantine wards. Hughes was holding a plastic curtain back, disgust on his face.

  “And the girl?”

  The view switched to the mechanical room, where Avery was trying to crank a generator.

  “Blow the charge in the office.”

  “Just the office?”

  “Yes. And show me all the cameras.”

  The screen switched to a split-view of thirty night-vision cameras. They were motion-activated and could run for up to thirty hours without power.

  Six cameras went black. Two more showed smoke billowing into the corridors. Another showed the office in flames.

  Desmond raced through the hallways. Avery, too.

  Conner leaned back, wondering what the man would do.

  Desmond stopped at the fire. He won’t go into it, Conner thought. He was sure of that. Avery gripped Desmond’s shoulder, but he threw her off, and to Conner’s shock and horror, he ran directly into the fire.

  Conner stood and exited the office.

  “Sir?”

  He couldn’t watch. “I’ll be back. Don’t leave,” he said.

  Conner made his way outside, wondering if he had made the right choice.

  Ten minutes later, he returned to his office, where the agent was still watching the feeds.

  Three figures stood outside the building: Peyton, William, and Desmond. So. He had made it out. And Peyton was with them. That further complicated things.

  “What do you want to do, sir?”

  “Let’s make a new plan. One with no chance of failure.”

  Chapter 93

  Standing in the falling snow, Desmond, Peyton, and William watched the building burn. They were too tired and too injured to walk.

  Desmond activated his mic. “Avery, do you copy?”

  No response.

  Peyton eyed him.

  “Avery—”

  The roar of an engine pierced the silence. The vehicle was moving toward them at high speed. Desmond couldn’t make it out, but a cloud of dust rose from the road.

&
nbsp; Headlights came into view, their yellow light fuzzy through the sheets of snow that blew in the wind. They crossed the threshold of the complex, past the iron gate, and into the courtyard, tires throwing gravel as they went, barreling directly for them.

  The vehicle swung around and slid to a stop.

  The driver door opened.

  Avery stood and peered across the roof of the black Volga GAZ-21. The engine rattled like an ancient radiator on its last legs.

  “Figured it wasn’t the best night for a walk.”

  Desmond smiled as the three shivering passengers got in and the old Soviet-era sedan pulled away from the burning building.

  They decided to take off immediately. If the explosions had been set off deliberately—instead of by an automated trigger—an incursion team might be inbound. They flew north initially, then banked east, then south, hoping to confuse anyone trying to track them across multiple satellites.

  When they were at cruising altitude, William activated the autopilot and limped back to the passenger compartment. Peyton desperately wanted to examine his leg wound, but he waved her off. She had just now recovered from her time in the smoke-filled building. She was still getting sicker, and the physical exertion of the last hour hadn’t helped her situation. Her body ached all over.

  To Avery, William said, “We need to figure out where we’re going. You have the folder?”

  Avery handed it to him, and William threw open the manila cover and began rifling through the pages.

  “I thought there was more here,” he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Peyton asked.

  “Requisitions. Shipping manifests. Medical supplies. Water. Food. Tents. Antibiotics. Rehydration salts.”

  “Everything you’d need to test an outbreak,” Desmond said. “But no shipments of cure or virus? We assumed they were using boxes, packing tape, and water.”

  “Water is on here,” William said, deep in thought. “And the manifests would probably be faked—the actual cure or virus would be labeled as something else.”

  Peyton could tell he thought something was wrong.

  Desmond took out his satphone. “What’s the nearest location?”

  William looked up as if remembering they were all there. “Actually, they’re all to a single location.”

  “Maybe that location was the distribution node to all the others. Aralsk-7 is landlocked and pretty out of the way.”

  “Maybe,” William said, sounding unconvinced. “The address is in South Australia, near Adelaide. The destination is an organization called SARA: South Australia Relief Alliance.” He read out the address, which Desmond typed into his phone.

  Peyton, William, and Avery crowded around him.

  A tent complex stretched out in a grid next to a single long metal building. It reminded Peyton of the Dadaab refugee camps. A dirt airstrip lay nearby.

  Desmond panned the map right, then south. Peyton leaned in.

  What’s he looking for?

  He stopped on a black mark in a brown expanse. She realized then what it was: the remains of his childhood home. The second location the Labyrinth Reality app had provided. It was his second backup, and it lay less than seventy miles from the camp. Why? Was it connected? It had to be; the coincidence was too great.

  “The backup Labyrinth location is here,” Desmond said. “I wanted myself to go here, and now we know the Citium was shipping to this site. Even if, by some chance, those things are unrelated, we can follow two leads at once.”

  William rifled through the pages in the folder again, scanning the address on each manifest carefully.

  Peyton said, “What’s the matter, Dad?”

  “This feels wrong. The location should be a port or a major shipping hub—not a relief organization.”

  Avery eyed him. “Some of the pages could have been lost during our escape.”

  William glanced away from the group. “True.”

  “Or maybe we got the wrong file,” Desmond said.

  “Well we can’t exactly go back and search again,” Avery said. “But we know they were shipping something to this site.”

  “At this point, I think going to this site is our only move,” Desmond said.

  Silence followed.

  Peyton’s eyes met Desmond’s. She sensed that he wanted to see what was at his childhood home. She remembered going there with him, all those years ago, the pent-up emotions he had pretended weren’t there back then. She agreed with him: this was their best option.

  “I say we check it out,” she said, staring at Desmond.

  “Me too,” Avery said.

  William nodded. He was still distant, lost in thought. Finally he stood.

  “Right. I’ll set a course.”

  Day 13

  5,900,000,000 infected

  9,000,000 dead

  Chapter 94

  Millen had been asleep for two hours when the announcement came over the loudspeaker.

  “EOC shift personnel, report to Auditorium A.”

  The tone was urgent.

  Millen’s bedroom was a small office in the interior of the building. It was dark and cold, but it was quiet.

  He turned on the table lamp, rolled out of the cot, and staggered to the desk where his pants lay. He pulled them on and rushed downstairs.

  The auditorium was filled to capacity. Phil stood at center stage, working a laptop.

  “All right, listen up. The White House has received another message from the Citium—a video. I’m going to play it now, then we’re going to discuss what we’re going to do about it. Please keep quiet.”

  On the screen behind Stevens, the video played. Sick people stood in the streets of a city, in a line that stretched for blocks. Many coughed as the video panned past them. Some were in wheelchairs. Toward the front of the line, people had rolled their sleeves up. A man in a white coat with a Red Cross logo held a jet injector. He pressed it to each person’s shoulder, pulled the trigger, then changed out the single-use protector cap that covered the injector nozzle.

  A woman seated at a table spoke to each person who’d been injected, typed something on a laptop—presumably the person’s name—then handed them a sticker.

  The camera zoomed in on one of the stickers.

  X1 Guéri

  The subtitle read X1 Cured.

  The camera panned around, showed the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

  The scene changed. It was another city, with a similar line of people, their shirtsleeves rolled up as well. On a hill above them, crumbling stone ruins towered. The Acropolis. Millen recognized the Parthenon instantly. Athens.

  A man’s voice began to speak over the images. He had a slight British accent.

  “Earlier today, the people of France and Greece received the lifesaving cure for the X1-Mandera virus. We offered you the same cure. You declined. You sentenced your citizens to death so that you could stay in power. We are providing this video to give you one last chance.

  “Do the right thing for your people. Save their lives.

  “We ask very little. We seek a peaceful world, where no human can kill another, where science is the engine that turns the world, not greed, not war, not hate or selfishness.

  “In the event that you require further proof, we have covertly deployed the cure inside your borders for you to confirm.”

  The video changed. On screen was a white woman in her mid-forties. A teenage girl and a younger boy sat with her, a black background behind them. The woman faced the camera and spoke with a southern drawl.

  “My name is Amy Travis. I live in Johnson City with my daughter Brittney and son Jackson. I was sick. So were my children. A man came to my house. Said he was part of a group of researchers called the Citium. They were testing a potential cure. I agreed to try it. I’m making this video because I want others to know that it works. I’m proof. So are my children.”

  The video changed again. This time a young black man spoke. A woman sat beside him, and in her lap was a boy o
nly a few years old.

  “My name is Roger Finney. This is my wife, Pamela, and our son, Brandon.”

  A voice off screen said something Millen couldn’t make out.

  “Oh, yeah, we live in upstate New York, just outside Rome. We were given the cure. We signed the forms. Didn’t have much to lose. It worked for us. Felt better that night. Headaches and fever were gone. Cough cleared up soon after that.”

  The screen faded to black, then began showing still photos from across America. Scenes of the cordon zones. Barbed wire across city streets. Buses loading and unloading people at the Astrodome in Houston and AT&T Park in San Francisco, canvas-backed trucks unloading supplies, National Guard troop carriers rolling through cities.

  “This is your country right now. But it doesn’t have to be.”

  More still photos appeared, but now of Paris and Athens, of lines of people receiving the cure, celebrating. Photos of the two American families followed.

  “Accept our request. Pass the laws that welcome the Looking Glass Commission. If you do not do so within the next two hours, we will take our plea directly to your people. They will overthrow your government. The result will be the same—but there will be more bloodshed. Think carefully. Make the right decision—the responsible decision. Just as France and Greece have.”

  The video ended in a black screen.

  The auditorium erupted in questions. Synchronized shouts swept through the crowd like a beach ball being tossed around at a ball game. On stage, Phil whistled loudly.

  “Enough!”

  “Is it true?” a voice in the back yelled.

  “Shut up and listen!” Stevens shouted. “Yes. What you saw is true.”

  The response was shock and whispers. A part of Millen thought maybe the video was faked.

  Stevens continued. “Five hours ago, the French and Greek governments agreed to the Citium’s terms. The Citium, as the terrorists have styled themselves, have taken control of both countries’ military assets, power grids, and internet infrastructure. They have also distributed a cure that appears to be viable.”