Hard Road: Deadly Horizon (Dark Plague Book 2)

by Bradley West

  “I didn’t realize I was running for office,” Travis said.

  “Neither did I,” Carla said.

  “Sal’s right,” Jaime said. “How about the two lovebirds meet the people to make their pitches and answer questions? While they do the rounds, Barb can cut up blank paper for ballots. We’ll hold the election at lunch and go from there.”

  * * * * *

  Just a few days prior, Berkeley’s campus had looked like Baghdad’s Green Zone with swarms of National Guardsmen and police, plus support vehicles and equipment. That was when the fight was against looters and not an impersonal pathogen. The virus had largely wiped-out cops and criminals alike, depopulating a once-crowded campus. No one was present to witness the peculiar procession of two heavily laden vans and fifteen bikers.

  Two months ago, Katerina Kiel was pursuing her post-doctoral studies at Cal when the department head fired her for conducting unauthorized experiments on undergraduates. Burns had paid handsomely the ethically challenged scientist to manufacture the 896MX adjuvant developed at Burns’ bankrupt biotech company. Burns’ number two, Sal Maggio, had stolen the only doses of the experimental treatment, using one of them to cure his dying daughter along with her newborn son. Burns hired Muller and his Black Ice freelancers to abduct Tyson to force Sal to hand over 896MX’s formula. Once Katerina realized that the adjuvant had granted Stephanie and her baby Covid immunity, the goalposts shifted and the gang snatched the mother too. Katerina would milk the abductees’ blood for plasma and antibodies, and Burns would sell the Dark Cure on the dark web for millions.

  At least that was the idea before the Maggio family’s posse rescued mother and son and killed Muller’s mercenaries. The only saving grace was the pint of Stephanie’s invaluable blood divided in halves, one semi-processed and the other held in the fridge as a backup. Katerina now had to centrifuge, filter, extract and convert that magic potion into twenty-four syringes’ worth of convalescent plasma. She and the Twisted Souls Motorcycle Club would absorb the first seventeen injections, and they’d sell the rest online. More profits would come once they rode down the Maggio’s caravan and recaptured the two blood bags.

  “Turn right up there,” she said to Norris, “at the Wormell Life Sciences Building.” Their vehicles drove down the ramp. At Norris’ signal, the bikers cut their engines and got busy. Irrespective of whether the university had changed the locks since Katerina’s dismissal, the Souls were going in.

  Looters had skipped this unimpressive building—much in common with its namesake, a penitent former lawyer who, late in life, had become God-fearing and charitable—so it stood undamaged, unlike its larger counterparts. Upstairs, Katerina’s keys worked and she found her old lab in pristine shape. Even the power system still functioned, though how long the batteries would last was anyone’s guess. She deposited Stephanie’s two half-pints of magical fluids into the lab fridge.

  The bikers hauled lab gear, food and munitions up two flights while Katerina directed traffic. Norris reviewed possible accommodations and settled on a corner office with twin couches. He hadn’t been inside an educational facility since his high school expulsion and was impressed by the luxury. The petite mad scientist had tasked him with finding a PC with a working Internet connection and downloading a Tor browser. Norris didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, but Specs had an IT background—he was half dot-Indian anyway—and Norris would give the job to the young biker. The gang leader’s priority was to evaluate the routes that a Canada-bound motorhome might take.

  Katerina racked her brain trying to remember whether she’d told either Burns or Rolf about the Wormell Building. Sunday night felt like four years ago instead of four nights back. Burns had been down with Covid-20, so he was definitely out of the picture. On the other hand, Rolf had driven around the campus outskirts before the heavy Guard and police presences redirected them to that filthy biker clubhouse. Had she pointed out her base to Rolf? She didn’t think so, but couldn’t be certain. If she had, she’d be seeing him again, and that meant all kinds of trouble.

  Katerina shook her head and tried to concentrate on reconstructing the McClatchy lab array from last night. Mental focus proved impossible, so she popped two Addys, her old study buddies.

  * * * * *

  Travis alerted the militia that they could collect Melissa outside the DOT compound. Next up were final instructions for his squad. “Jaime and Arkar, take the Silverado with our three science and medical experts. Don’t take shit from anyone and treat those people as hostiles. Let me know where you are and key your handset twice if you need backup. As soon as this election’s out of the way, Melvin and I will be ready to roll.”

  “Why are we even bothering to vote if you’ve already decided everything?” Carla asked.

  Travis shook his head and the Silverado drove off. “I took down their votes. Stephanie and Tina are for unicorns and sunshine, while Jaime and Arkar support law and order.”

  “I’ve tallied everyone’s vote but Melvin’s,” Barb said. “I can’t find him.”

  “He’s in the hospital RV, praying over Pat,” Erinn said. “I’ll relieve him so he can come out.”

  A large and battered former paratrooper walked out of the RV with his right arm in a sling, his left calf bandaged and the hole in his right ear plugged with a bloody cotton ball. Melvin approached the shoebox on top of a folding table with a ballot in his hand. Barb walked up and took it from him. “You’re the last one,” she said. She couldn’t forgive him for clubbing her mother in the face, but her attitude had softened as she watched how he tended to Mom.

  The printed name shocked Barb: Melvin had voted with the doves. Not that it mattered as the pre-Melvin tally stood nine for Travis’s Gun Club to seven for Carla’s Group Hug. “People, listen up,” Barb said. “We had seventeen eligible voters, and by a score of nine to eight, Travis is still our leader.”

  “I’d like to vote too,” a woman’s voice sounded from the hospital RV.

  Heads whipped around to see Pat Maggio, head bandaged and supported under her armpit by Erinn. “I feel much better, but don’t remember much. Where’s Steph?”

  Barb rushed to her side. “Steph’s fine, Mom. She took Tyson to the doctor’s. Everyone’s good. We were sick with worry about you. How are you feeling?”

  Pat looked at Melvin. “That man’s prayers and our Lord brought me back. His love gave me strength. I don’t know who you are, but bless you, sir.”

  Now it was everyone’s turn to stare at Melvin. “Mrs. Maggio, I’m the one who hurt you. I don’t deserve forgiveness.” He used the back of his hand to wipe his eyes.

  Pat was crying too. “I know you’re mistaken because it was your faith that helped me realize how far I’d strayed.” She turned back to Barb. “What are we voting on?”

  “Whether to support Carla and Steph’s approach, which is to cooperate with the people we meet on our trip north, or to stick with Dad’s original plan and avoid people and do it on our own. After you vote, we can clean you up and feed you.”

  “I don’t need to hear from Carla and Travis. You, sir, what is your name?”

  “Melvin Robinson, ma’am.”

  “Melvin Robinson, how did you vote?”

  “I’ve been violent all my life. In Afghanistan, I slew people in a righteous cause. Since mustering out six years ago, I’ve consorted with evil people. I want to turn over a new leaf in the presence of the Lord. I voted for Carla, for peace.”

  “That’s how I’m voting too.”

  * * * * *

  Burns switched on the flashing lights and floored it. When no police cars appeared in the rearview mirror, he slowed down and took in the scenery. How the world had changed in the past week. The kidnap team and he had traveled at night and most of the time he’d been too sick to notice his surroundings. Posh Berkeley had few people on the street and a skip-block pattern of looting and burning. While there were plenty of abandoned cars and piled-up trash, there weren’t any visible c
orpses. Oakland was another kettle of fish: nothing was burned, but there were bodies . . . even bones visible where feral animals had fed . . . and armed groups appeared every few blocks. Two men dangled a dead German shepherd from a pole hoisted on their shoulders while their companions yukked it up. Burns inferred that they’d hunted well and a feast was pending. He wondered if cooked dog meat transmitted Covid-20 but shunted aside that distasteful thought. Less than a mile from the high school, he passed a lone figure. What in the bloody hell?

  Muller walked as best his wounded side allowed, but he made slow progress toward Berkeley. He’d spotted one group of street scavengers before they’d seen him and hid behind a house until they passed. Since then, he’d moved extra cautiously considering his unarmed state and wounded condition. All he had in his favor were a raw scar on his face and a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe. Limping along with a laptop under his arm diminished the menace factor. He’d have to find a weapon or else he’d be prey, an unaccustomed condition. The red ambulance, lights ablaze, driving by was out of place in the zombie apocalypse moonscape of north Oakland. Was that Elephant Man–lookalike Burns? The wagon slammed to a stop and reversed. Burns had been a dead man crawling when he’d escaped the previous night. Now the left side of his face was a bandaged, bloody mess and he was an ambulance driver. What the fuck?

  Burns’s thoughts whirled equally fast but in other directions. Why is Muller walking down the street alone? What is he doing with my Tor laptop? Will he murder me? As long as I don’t share my Tor details, he can’t afford to kill me. Burns stopped the ambulance across from Muller and lowered the window. Each word produced its own agony as he forced sounds through his contorted features: “Get . . . in.”

  Muller cautiously looked at him. “Damn my eyes, it’s you, isn’t it? You had a terminal case of Covid. What happened? And what’s with your face?”

  Burns eked out his reply one word at a time: “Vaccine . . . Maggio . . . shot . . . get . . . in.”

  One of the Maggios had given him the vaccine, and then they’d shot him? That made little sense, but a ride in an ambulance beat the hell out of walking these mean streets. He could finish Burns whenever he wanted, but for the moment he needed someone on his side. Muller climbed into the cab. “Nice ride. I think Katerina might be with a biker gang in her old lab somewhere on campus, spinning plasma.”

  Biker gang? That explained why Rolf was on the outs. Burns shifted into drive. “Address?”

  “Don’t know, but it shouldn’t be hard to find. But first we need food, clothes and weapons. We also need an internet connection. If we can get online, we can check out the response to the Dark Cure ads.”

  Burns stared at Muller. “Partners?”

  “Partners again: fifty-fifty. It’ll take her at least a day to make a batch. We need to hole up on campus and track the bikers to wherever she’s based. We take the Dark Cure, sell it on Pirate Bay or wherever, split the Bitcoin, and go our separate ways.”

  Burns nodded and put the ambulance in motion. The two men knew that they would both betray the other, but that would come later.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Under New Management

  Thursday, July 16, 2020: Douglas County, Nevada; Berkeley, California, afternoon

  Sal awoke to a commotion and pulled the blinds to see Carla and Travis engaged in a furious argument. I thought they were hot for each other? He summoned his energy and shuffled toward the steps.

  Erinn helped Pat back to the RV while Johnny bird-dogged her with two bowls of soup and a close-range appreciation of her tight buns. Sal stopped at the top of the stairs and looked on in wonder. “Pat, you’re back.”

  Overwrought, Pat began to cry. “Please forgive me.”

  Sal was surprised to find himself tearing up. As best he could recall, he hadn’t loved his wife since he’d discovered her dedication to adultery a dozen years ago. On the other hand, no one deserved a fractured skull and she was the mother of his children. He took a step back to let the two women and Johnny into the Horizon.

  “I brought you fish soup,” Johnny said. “It’s funky shit, a little like Thai but not spicy.”

  Glad for the diversion, Sal took a sniff. “What’s all the shouting about?”

  “The election ended in a tie, and Carla and Travis are arguing,” Erinn said as she helped Pat take a seat and placed a bowl in front of the famished woman.

  “Can you ask them to join us? I’m too weak to go down there.”

  “No problem,” Johnny said. He gave Erinn a look as he brushed past her.

  Carla and Travis came in looking like two schoolkids pulled into the principal’s office. “I understand we have a tie. What do we do?” asked Sal as he slurped soup.

  “We can’t assume that everyone shares our values,” Travis said. “Tina’s operating on one of their gunmen, someone Jaime shot in a snipers’ duel. These are the same people who tried to ambush us. They would’ve killed us for everything we have, and they tried to kill me at a hostage exchange. They’re cooperating now because we have the upper hand, but everyone’s luck runs out eventually.”

  Sal turned to Carla. “What do you think?” He took a mouthful of soup and could taste the mix of lemongrass, turmeric and ginger particular to Burmese cuisine.

  “I’m the only one who knows how to make the 896MX adjuvant and we have enough raw materials for thirty doses maximum. If lab conditions aren’t right, I might spoil the entire batch and then we’re left with Plan B. That would mean harvesting Stephanie’s plasma for the antibodies and she’s too weak to donate more blood for another month. I need to work in a sterile environment for up to a full day. I don’t see any other way. Without vaccines, it’s only a matter of time before Covid-20 destroys our convoy.”

  “That’s another reason to stay away from people,” Travis said.

  “We have plenty of personal protective equipment, and I can insist that everyone we interact with follow proper PPE protocols.”

  “You can insist? What, you’ll stamp your feet and ball your fists?”

  “Enough,” Sal said. “Since we have a tie, as the 3M’s founder, I hold the deciding vote. For now, I’m siding with Carla. Travis runs security, and if we come under attack, overall command reverts to him immediately. He spent eight years as a SEAL following harebrained orders from some clueless senior officers, so he knows the drill. I reserve the right to change my mind once we see how this situation plays out.”

  “That’s acceptable to me,” Carla said. “Though I’d hoped you’d have more confidence in my judgment. I’ll get started.” She turned and headed for the door.

  Travis stared at Sal who met his gaze. Travis shrugged and turned away. “Your call, but you’ll regret it,” he said as he left one painful step at a time. His dejection made his lacerated guts ache. Fuck it. He’d grab some shuteye and let Carla and her devotees lead the way until the next shitstorm struck.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Amrat’s pediatric clinic was at the Bridger Valley Medical Center. Whatever the heightened risks of Covid the BVMC presented, a modern OR with proper anesthesia, monitoring equipment, and backup power offered many advantages. Tina said she needed fifteen minutes to examine Kelvin’s charts and X-Rays. Amrat ducked out and hustled Stephanie and her baby into his office. “Let me take another look at Tyson.”

  The doctor shined his diagnostic penlight into each of Tyson’s eyes, then moved a tongue depressor in a flat line six inches away from his face. “Hmm.” Amrat clicked off his light and located his stethoscope. The newborn barely moved as the cold steel disc pressed against his sunken chest. Then he examined Tyson’s cranium under magnification, finding a spot with mild discoloration and a bulge high on the left side. “That’s interesting.” He pressed gently with two fingertips, but the newborn didn’t respond.

  He straightened up and looked at the fearful mother, her concern evident on her maskless face. “After Tyson regained consciousness, did he vomit?”

  “Once or twice.”

>   “Did he bleed any out of the ears, nose or mouth?”

  “No.”

  “How well does he feed?”

  “Not very much. He sleeps most of the time and is sluggish when awake.”

  “His skull’s swollen but that could just be bruising from where your body shielded him from gunfire, or it could be symptomatic of brain injury. I can’t tell without a CAT scan, and here we can’t do one. Tyson’s eyes react to light, but more slowly than normal. He also didn’t track my finger. His heart’s fine, but short of a proper neurological workup, we have to assume he’s suffered damage. I can inject him with an anti-inflammatory to control swelling, but there could be side effects and we’re flying blind. How do you wish to proceed?”

  “I . . . I’ll want to talk it over with my husband. Isn’t there something else you can do?”

  “Under these circumstances, no. If we had technicians or the internet, a CAT scan would suggest a treatment regimen. Maybe the Las Vegas Children’s Hospital is still open, but I doubt it.”

  Before Stephanie could respond, an orderly poked his head into the office. “They’re waiting for you in Operating Theater Two, doctor.”

  Amrat left at a fast walk, passing Jaime as he stood by the door with his tactical rifle dangling from a three-point sling. He walked over to offer comfort while Stephanie absentmindedly fussed with Tyson’s onesie. “What would you like to do?” he asked.

  “I want to donate a pint of blood,” Stephanie said. “Let’s go to the nurse’s station they showed us on the way in. We need to help these people as much as we can.”

  “Half a pint, Steph. Just half.”