After Helen is loaded into the rear of the hazmat truck, Freitas, Sarah, and I are directed to the lead Suburban, where I’m surprised to see a familiar face.
“Look what the feral cats dragged in,” says Mike Leahy, extending a meaty hand, the wind tousling his wavy silver hair. A high-ranking section chief with the National Security Agency, many months ago he acted as my unofficial government liaison and security escort. And let’s just say…we didn’t always get along.
I grimace as we shake hands. “Good to see you again, too, Mr. Leahy.”
Our convoy is soon tearing down I-15, an endless two-lane desert highway, toward the laboratory. We should be able to see the Teton Range rising to the east, but it’s obscured by that approaching dust storm.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Leahy says from the front seat. “When word started to spread back in DC that you were bringing back an infected human? It gave us quite a chuckle. But no one’s laughing now.”
“I’m glad,” I say, “but you’re wrong. ‘Infected’ implies some kind of disease-causing organism. Like bacteria, or a virus. We don’t think that’s the case here. Our working theory is, Helen’s prehistoric-like behavior is somehow being triggered by pheromones, just like the animals’ is.”
“‘Helen?’” Leahy scoffs. “You actually named that thing?”
“That thing is a human being,” Sarah snaps. “With a real name we may never know. Show a little respect.”
Damn. I’m liking Sarah more every day.
We ride in silence, and my mind immediately drifts back to Chloe and Eli. Freitas let me listen in as he called President Hardinson’s chief of staff from the plane and got his personal guarantee he’d send a team to track down my wife and son in Paris. Now there’s nothing else I can do but wait and pray that Chloe and Eli are found.
“That sandstorm sure is moving fast,” says Sarah, gesturing out her window.
I look over—and my eyes nearly bug out of my head.
A smaller cloud of dust seems to be rolling across the desert right toward us.
“What…what in the hell…?” Leahy stutters.
As the cloud gets closer, I realize it’s not a weather phenomenon at all.
It’s a charging herd of wild mustangs. Dozens of them.
Chapter 21
“Aw, shit!” Leahy exclaims, grabbing his walkie-talkie. “Be advised, we got horses on our flank!” he barks into it. “All units—shoot and evade, shoot and evade!”
I hang on tight as our Marine driver slams the gas, and the entire convoy swerves off the highway and begins to speed up.
A mustang’s top speed can reach over fifty miles per hour, but I’m confident we can outrun them. I feel even more hopeful as I watch other Marines in each of the escort Jeeps slide their M14s out their windows and unleash a torrent of automatic gunfire at the galloping broncos, quickly felling one after another.
But it’s still too little, too late.
The remaining horses blast right through our line of vehicles. Glass shatters, metal groans, blood splatters, and bones crunch as thousands of pounds of car and horse collide at highway speed.
Two Jeeps, the ambulance, and one Suburban are toppled immediately, tumbling in different directions.
Then the Suburban I’m riding in is hit—and spins wildly, doing donuts in the desert dirt. Our driver, a female Marine, struggles to regain control as we’re thrown around the car’s interior like clothes inside a dryer.
“Go, damnit, go!” Leahy yells as the Marine pounds the accelerator, kicking up more dust behind us. He pulls her sidearm from her holster and fires frantically out the broken window at the mustangs as they regroup and charge again.
We can’t get away fast enough. Neighing and snorting, the colts ram us again, head-on, with incredible force, first knocking the Suburban onto its side and then flipping it onto its roof.
Shattered glass rains down around me as I dangle upside down, pinned, suspended by my seat belt. Beside me, Sarah and Freitas are also hanging—it looks like the impact of the crash has knocked them both out cold.
I start to get woozy. Images of Chloe and Eli flash through my mind. If I’m dying, I definitely want those two to be my final thoughts.
My head flops over in the other direction. Through the dusty haze I can make out the yellow hazmat vehicle.
It’s also been tipped over and is being pummeled just as mercilessly by multiple mustangs, its white-suited passengers as helpless as we are.
One of the horses manages to bash open the back doors—and the animal suddenly rears up on its hind legs in terror.
Helen is inside, still strapped to her gurney, but the plastic quarantine tent around her is badly torn, and she’s screaming and baring her teeth at the horse.
Another mustang notices. Then another, then another. Before long, the colts have regrouped and are charging yet again—away from us.
The rest of the horses rejoin the fleeing pack and kick up another massive dust cloud in their wake.
When it finally settles, they’re gone.
Wrecked vehicles and bloody horse limbs litter the desert ground. Human moaning wafts through the hot air, along with Helen’s feral screams.
Chapter 22
My sneakers and rubber-tipped cane squeak against the floor as I hobble down this long, sterile hallway. I’m late to one of our frequent all-hands meetings, thanks to a pit stop at the lab’s infirmary to grab a fresh handful of painkillers.
Over the past forty-eight hours, I’ve been popping those little guys like candy.
I push open the door of the conference room, which isn’t easy. The stitches in my shoulder are still sore, and my busted knee still aches. Not to mention my three chipped teeth, sprained wrist, and the cuts and bruises over my whole body.
Seated around the giant marble table, their meeting already in progress, are Freitas, Sarah, Leahy, and most of the other scientists on our team. I say “most” because, between the feral human attack in the jungle and the mustang stampede on the highway, we’ve lost six colleagues in half as many days.
As I gently, painfully, sink into an empty chair, I have to remind myself how much worse my fate could have been.
Dr. Marilia Carvalho, a neuroscientist from São Paulo, is showing a series of colorful MRI brain scans on the large display screen. Since we arrived at the Idaho National Laboratory, we’ve been meeting like this often to share our research.
“But as you can see, while the subject’s neurological structure is still identical to that of a typical human’s, the vast majority of her neurological activity is occurring in the cerebellum, the medulla, and the basal ganglia.”
“The so-called reptilian brain,” Sarah offers. “An anatomical holdover from our days in the wild.”
“Precisely. The higher capabilities in Helen’s mind, like emotion and reason, have somehow been switched off. She most likely sees us modern humans as threats because her brain is literally functioning like a Neanderthal’s.”
“But why?” booms Leahy, jabbing his bulky arm cast in the air for emphasis. “That’s the question Washington is paying you all to find out!”
“Our working theory is still pheromones, Mr. Leahy,” says Freitas, who has two black eyes and a broken nose covered with a thick beige bandage. “We believe that explains why, as soon as the mustangs ‘smelled’ Helen, they backed off.”
“But why is it happening to some folks and not others?” Leahy demands. “Why in some places and not others?”
Those are all fair questions. But I have an even more pressing one.
“Why hasn’t it shown signs of regressing?” I ask. My colleagues all turn to me quizzically. “And why aren’t any of you more afraid of that?
“Think back seven months ago,” I continue, “when the president signed that emergency executive order, and all those world leaders joined her, putting a global moratorium on cellphone use, power generation, cars, planes. While it lasted, nearly all electromagnetic radiation was removed
from the environment, and animal attacks plummeted—within hours. Wildlife started returning to normal.”
Nods all around the table. Happy memories from a more hopeful time.
“But look at Helen. She’s been in a completely sterile environment, inside a Faraday shield that blocks all electrical signals, for almost two days—and she’s as feral as ever! We know how to reverse the effects of HAC on animals. But on people? We’re back to square one. Is there an ‘antidote,’ or is it permanent? Shit, maybe it is contagious after all.”
For what feels like forever, no one speaks. I’m not happy I just sucked all the air out of the conference room, but I said what I felt I had to.
“It’s almost as if…some kind of irreversible physical changes are happening in Helen’s brain,” Sarah says somberly. “Perhaps we’ve been approaching it all wrong.”
“Perhaps we should hear the latest on everyone’s research first,” Freitas says, steering the meeting back on track.
And so the rest of the scientists present their latest, equally inconclusive findings. Then the group starts filing out. We all have an enormous amount of work to do.
Shakily, I rise to my feet and begin limping toward the door. Freitas pulls me aside, placing a paternal hand on my back.
“Oz, I have some news,” he says, his voice solemn. “About your family.”
“The French cellphone number Chloe called from was identified, along with its last location: an abandoned monastery near Chantilly. Apparently some kind of wacko animal rights cult has been squatting there.”
I know right away they must be the “friends of the Earth” Chloe cryptically mentioned in her message.
“When agents arrived, the group itself was gone, but local police have some leads as to where they went next.”
I can only pray Chloe and Eli are still with them. But I do have additional cause for hope. Among the other items they found in the monastery was our dog-eared copy of A Tale of Two Cities.
Chapter 23
“Please hold for the president of the United States.”
I’ve met Marlena Hardinson many times before. I lectured her and other world leaders in the Cabinet Room of the White House. I even spent a few months living with her, the First Gentleman, and other high-ranking officials at Thule Air Base in Greenland after animals overran Washington and the government was temporarily evacuated.
Still, it’s always pretty exciting to get a call from the leader of the free world.
Even when you know she’s about to chew you out.
“Dr. Freitas, Mr. Oz,” President Hardinson says pointedly as soon as she gets on the line, her husky voice brimming with frustration. “Can you please explain to me how an international operation costing over half a million dollars in travel, equipment, and logistical expenses per day has yielded no new breakthroughs on the animal crisis—or the growing human one—in almost four weeks?”
Freitas and I, along with just a few other colleagues (since most of our team, including Sarah, is still in Idaho hard at work), are back aboard our transport plane, this time flying across the Pacific. We’re listening to this unexpected call on an encrypted speakerphone.
Freitas gulps, visibly rattled.
“I see you received the briefing packet we prepared for you, Madam President.”
“Which might as well have been a stack of blank pages,” she responds. “Except the part about the new human affliction being ‘potentially irreversible.’ Is that true?”
“We don’t know for sure, ma’am,” I cut in. “After all, we’ve only been able to examine one live specimen. That’s why we’re on our way to—”
“Tokyo. Yes, I’m aware. I spoke with Prime Minister Iwasaki this morning and informed him of your plans. He told me, in confidence, that there have been dozens of reported incidents involving feral humans in recent days, especially in the countryside.”
“Have any been picked up yet by the Japanese press?” Freitas asks nervously. “Because if word gets out, we could be looking at a level of global pandemonium—”
“The prime minister, as we have, has been doing absolutely everything in his power to suppress any reporting on the feral humans. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned after all my years in Washington, you can’t keep a lid on bad news forever.”
She’s right. Especially of this magnitude. What was once just a silly rumor about bands of people “going native” in the game preserves of Africa has quickly proven to be a deadly reality all over, in places as diverse as Finland, South Korea, Egypt, and Japan. With most countries already teetering on the brink of anarchy, local governments have been trying desperately to sweep each incident under the rug. But it’s only a matter of time before a cellphone video goes viral showing feral humans mauling innocent ones, and panic is unleashed around the world.
“Godspeed to you all,” Hardinson says. “Oh, and Oz. My chief of staff informs me a security team in Paris has been making headway locating your wife and son?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Thank you again for all your administration’s help.”
“I’m not doing it out of the kindness of my heart, Oz. As I’m sure you know. We’re only trying to save them because you’re trying to save humankind.”
I understand the president’s veiled threat loud and clear: succeed, or else.
Seven billion lives are hanging in the balance.
Including the two I cherish most.
Chapter 24
Our Mitsubishi H-60 transport helicopter thunders above the sprawling metropolis that is Tokyo. It’s a stunningly dense city that seems to stretch on forever.
But even from such a high altitude, it’s clear how badly the endless waves of animal attacks have ravaged Tokyo and its people.
It’s midday, but judging by the lack of movement, it seems like huge swaths of the city are without power. Pillars of smoke dot the skyline. I can see flocks of striped sparrowhawks, ready to swoop down on human prey. Herds of something—wild boar?—flow through the streets like living, snorting rivers.
We bank southwest. Gradually the urban density becomes more suburban, then finally lush and mountainous. This tells me we’re nearing our destination: semirural Yamanashi Prefecture, one of the most geographically secluded areas in the country.
Our chopper finally descends right in the middle of the main quad of Tsuru University, to the utter shock of the handful of students and faculty brave enough to be outside. Freitas slides open the cabin door and I see an elderly Japanese man hurrying toward us, shielding his face against the rotor wash. He has a bushy white goatee, thick black-rimmed glasses, and wears a tan suit and red bow tie.
My first thought is, the guy resembles a kooky mashup of Mr. Miyagi and Colonel Sanders. He must be Professor Junichi Tanaka, the highly regarded naturalist Freitas has been in contact with, who’ll be leading us into the highlands to trap a second feral human.
Great. At least our guides back in South Africa were strapping young men. If we’re attacked with Grandpa here at the helm? I’d say it’s pretty much every man for himself.
“Konnichiwa, Freitas-san,” Tanaka says, offering a smile and his hand to shake. But Freitas has already started bowing and doesn’t notice this. Tanaka returns the bow, just as Freitas rises up and extends his hand.
My boss is about to bow again when I grab his shoulder and stop him. Another time, another place, this little culture clash might be amusing. But not now.
“How about we ditch the formalities and get down to business?”
Freitas introduces the members of the skeleton team we’ve brought with us as Tanaka leads us all to an idling van. One of his graduate students, a twenty-something geeky-looking kid named Yusuke, is behind the wheel.
“First we will take you to the place where they killed all those Americans,” Tanaka says, directing us inside the vehicle. “Then we will track them down.”
“Uh…come again, mate?” asks Dr. Bret Clement, an immunologist from New Zealand, arching an ey
ebrow in concern.
This is rather alarming news to me, too.
“You told us there were only sightings of feral humans around here, Freitas,” I say. “What American dead is he talking about?”
Freitas sighs and looks away. I know immediately he has once again kept his team partially in the dark.
“Mormon missionaries. About five of them. They’d been living in a remote mountain village near Otsuki. One afternoon, they were outside, apparently repairing their well. Neighbors heard screaming. By the time the cops arrived, they were all dead. Police sealed off the scene and claimed the deaths were a religion-motivated murder-suicide. The handful of neighbors who claimed they saw a pack of filthy, screeching Japanese rushing back into the woods? Their stories were deliberately disregarded and buried, by direct order from the Japanese Ministry of Justice.”
Unbelievable. I supposed desperate times call for desperate, semi-illegal measures. But still. It’s a miracle that word of the human attacks hasn’t spread. Then again, the world is in such a state of chaos, maybe not.
Yusuke drives slowly and carefully along the narrow, winding roads that lead up the side of Mount Gangaharasuri, which I appreciate. But I’m mindful of how low the sun has slipped in the sky when we finally arrive at the missionaries’ former village.
We exit the van, duck under the blue-and-white Japanese police crime scene tape, and do a quick walkabout of the property. The wooden home is modest, even by local standards. The stone path surrounding the well is covered with dried blood.
“My best guess,” Professor Tanaka says, inspecting a topographical map on his iPhone and scanning the dense, hilly forest that starts just a few yards from the house, “is the pack went that way. The terrain is still steep, but less so. And in about twenty kilometers, there is a small cave beside a freshwater creek.”
“The perfect spot for a prehistoric human settlement,” Freitas says. “Let’s go.”
He starts marching toward the woods, but I hesitate. As do some of the others.
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