by Nick Thacker
“We’ll lose our opportunity,” Emilio said. Valère nodded.
“No,” Roland continued, crumbs falling from the corners of his mouth. “We’ll benefit from this timeline. They have no idea what’s gone on there, and they won’t be able to get anything from the site without losing anyone they send in. We have the advantage of time, and we need to keep it.”
Valère frowned. “That wasn’t the plan. Why are we waiting? And what are we to do in the meantime?”
The fat man answered immediately, his mouth now full of vanilla pudding. “There are still loose ends to tie up. Something our contact at the CDC has informed me about. There’s a woman there, digging around. It’s nothing major, but she’s clever. More importantly, she’s persistent. We need to get a jump on it, and make sure she doesn’t talk.”
The man to Valère’s right looked upset. “No, we can’t. It’s too risky. Besides, the body count is rising, and for what? And what about the coins? I have heard that the students and that professor uncovered some of them.”
Valère pitched in. “The coins are beside the point, and there is nothing left of the group that found them. There is no way to tie them back to us. As for the body count, I understand your concern. Believe me, I do. But think of the end result: it is the same.”
“Then why the needless deaths? Won’t there be enough of that?”
“Yes, my friend,” Valère said. “But consider the alternative: we cannot let something leak before we’re ready. Remember the rules: we control the means, we control the end. Nothing less, nothing more.”
Valère and Roland nodded in unison. Emilio shook his head. “I am with you, but I do not agree. We risk more by trying to ‘tie up’ these loose ends than we do in just letting them run their course. Can we not let this particular one go?”
“No. It’s not a matter of ‘risk,’ it’s a matter of principle,” Roland said. “I won’t let anything like this slip. It’s not in my nature to let things get out of my control.”
They all knew that to be true, but the other man was still persistent. “If something happens, and this leaks before we’re ready…”
“Let’s vote on it.” Roland spoke louder, obviously trying to control the conversation. “That was the agreement, was it not?”
“What is the proposition?” Valère asked.
“We take necessary action to prevent any of these ‘externalities’ from becoming too knowledgeable. We postpone the media’s involvement for another day, and use that time to talk through our strategy once again. The extra time will help settle us, and it will help our contingency do what it can to snuff out these little discrepancies.”
“So,” Valère said, “you suggest we use part of the allotment we’ve been given for containment and eradication?”
Roland smiled. “I do. What good is a dragon, then, without its fire?”
The two other men considered this. It would only take one more of them to agree with the man’s decision before this plan would be enacted. Valère looked at the two men, measuring the addendum to their plan against the alternatives.
He pushed his steak around on the plate once more, toppling the castle and destroying his sanctuary.
“I agree. This is the best option for us at this moment.” He looked up at Roland. “Alert your chosen men and deliver their objective.”
It had been exactly fifteen minutes, and the waitress entered. All three men put on their most unassuming smiles as she hovered over them, refilling their water glasses.
Chapter Seventeen
THE TRUCK PULLED UP TO the opening of an alley, and Julie told Ben to take a left down the narrow road. Run-down apartments and worn out buildings towered over them on each side as the truck bumped over potholes and through puddles of brown liquid.
“Seems like a pretty fancy place you’ve got here,” Ben said.
The truck lurched over a deep pothole and bounced wildly as the suspension tried to compensate. Ben knew that any other vehicle would have suffered damage, but the massive lifted truck handled each bump and dip in stride. The alley curved to the left, and the truck and its two passengers found themselves facing a wide, squat warehouse. Made of metal siding and covered with a shallow steel roof, the warehouse fit in well with its dim surroundings. Ben slowed the vehicle and glided it toward the building, aiming for the small parking lot in front.
“No,” Julie said. “Go around back. Park on the street.” Ben didn’t argue as he pressed the gas pedal and the truck lurched forward. “Most people assume this place is abandoned,” Julie said. “We’re okay with that, so we like to park on the street across from the health center.”
They found a parallel parking spot on the street at the back of the warehouse, and Ben pulled the truck into the space smoothly.
“Wow,” Julie said. “It took me about three weeks to be able to do that.” Ben gave her an obnoxious smirk, opened the door, and stepped to the curb. He waited for Julie and followed her around the side of the warehouse and up a short flight of stairs. Her hand rose to find a keypad lock on the door, and Ben watched as she typed in four numbers.
1234. A small LED on the door blinked green, and the locking mechanism clicked.
“1234. Really?” Ben asked.
“Well, we’re not the CIA,” Julie said.
“Let’s hope not.”
“Security let us create our own pass codes, and I can’t remember anything to save my life. I thought that would save time rather than calling in every morning for assisted entry.” She pushed the handle down, and the door slid open. Ben felt a wash of heat from the building’s interior fall over them as they stepped in.
“Let me check in with Livingston first,” she said. “If you don’t mind waiting by the front door…”
“Not at all. Take your time,” Ben said. He waited for thirty seconds as Julie walked down a short hallway and to the left. When she reappeared and motioned him forward, he joined her at the end of the hallway.
“He must be out golfing,” Julie said. “Let’s see if Stephens is in. He’s my assistant, but we’ve got him working on another case right now. He’ll at least appreciate that I’m checking in.”
This time she headed to the right, and as Ben followed, he realized how small the office complex really was. The hallway intersected with another that ran perpendicular, but then opened into one large workspace. Half a dozen cubicles were sprawled in the middle, with two closed-door offices around the exterior. The florescent lighting was either on a dim setting or someone had forgotten to replace many of the bulbs.
Julie led him to one of the cubicles and stopped in front of a thin man with his back to them.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. The man turned in his chair and stood. “Hey, boss. Good to see you. How was the trip? Fishing traps and insects, if I recall correctly?”
“Something else came up, as I’m sure you’ve heard. This is Ben,” she said. “Ben, meet Benjamin Stephens.”
Stephens extended his hand. “Nice name. Good to meet you.”
“It’s actually Harvey Bennett, but I go by Ben.” Ben looked Stephens up and down. Tall, wiry, with black horn-rimmed glasses to match his disheveled hair, the kid looked as if he were only sixteen years old and on his way to a comic book convention. Reacting to Ben’s stare, Stephens brushed his hair with a hand, trying to get it to lay flat.
“Ah, well. My mistake. And what do you do, Mr. Bennett?”
Julie interjected. “He works at Yellowstone. That’s why we’re here — any news?”
“Not much,” Stephens said. “It’s all over the web now, though.” He stepped to the side, revealing a triple wide monitor setup full of open tabs and browser windows. Just about every one that Ben could see was filled with reports of the Yellowstone incident and explosion.
CNN, Fox news, Yahoo!, and the Wall Street Journal.
“I’ve been following it since it broke about four hours ago,” he said. “You guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” Julie said.
“I — we could use some coffee. Where’s Livingston?”
Stephens walked over to the wall where an antique coffee pot sat empty. He placed a filter in it and added water as he spoke. “It’s Thursday,” he said, as if that explained everything. “He’s golfing. Listen, there’s more to it than just the Yellowstone incident.”
Julie frowned. “What you mean?”
“About an hour ago, a local news station way up in the northern part of Minnesota released a statement regarding some sort of debilitating virus that’s killed two people. Husband and wife, up near the border. He was out hunting apparently, according to some neighbors, and she was waiting for him at home. Next thing they know, when the neighbors went to check on them, they were both dead.”
Ben just stood silently by as Julie and Stephens spoke. “Why do you think it’s related?” she asked. “Could’ve just been some sort of seasonal fever, or even a cold.”
“The bodies were found with a deep red rash covering their skin, and boils and welts over most of their body as well. The man was out in the snow, facedown. His wife was on the bathroom floor.”
“That’s terrible,” Julie said. “It sounds like he was trying to combat the heat of the fever with snow.” She looked toward Ben.
“Sounds an awful lot like how they found one of my coworkers at the park,” Ben said. “Rashes, boils, and a heat fever.”
“He the one that died?”
Ben nodded. “He made his way back to a staff building all the way from near the explosion, probably about an hour walk. But he didn’t make it longer than two hours after direct exposure.”
Stephens nodded slowly, then met Ben’s eyes. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Nothing we can do about it now except figure out what the hell this thing is.” Ben said.
“Let’s do it,” Julie said. “Stephens, you know the drill. Anything you find goes through Randy’s system, even though he’s on vacation. Send me what you have curated and ready so far. Skip the duplicate content.”
News agencies and websites these days often “borrowed” content from one another and regurgitated it verbatim on their own platforms. The Associated Press had rules about not changing the nature of the content, but it was one thing to use a story and refer back to the original source and another thing entirely to rip it off completely and pass it as their own. As the world of online marketing changed and the amount of people browsing the web on computers and devices increased, so did advertising dollars. Almost all of these news websites participated in advertising in one way or another, competing for eyeballs and clicks instead of chasing leads and performing due diligence as journalists.
Among other things, Stephens’ job was to collect, collate, and curate these reports and blog posts into a streamlined, easy to read report. What used to be a standard research-based task of any job was now a full-time position in most organizations.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve already started compiling it, and I’ll send it through SecuNet later this afternoon. Listen — I’m new to this whole thing, Julie. Do you think this is going to get big?”
“Who can say?” Julie said. “I’m an optimist, but this one seems a little fishy to me. An explosion that was obviously man-made, followed by two instances of whatever this virus thing is at the same time? Seems like something is going on, and I’m going to figure out what is. Even if it’s not an outbreak, it very well could lead to one.”
Stephens’ young face looked down at the two of them, his eyes scrunched up almost as if he were in pain. For as tall as he was, Ben found it difficult to believe this man could ever seem condescending or intimidating.
“I’ve read about stuff like this, Julie. It could get pretty bad.”
“It’s going to be fine. We just need to find out the source and then stabilize the potent properties, then get it to the higher-ups for processing and propagation. Standard stuff, really. You know that.”
Ben got the impression, listening to the conversation, that Stephens was the type of person who was constantly paranoid. Julie seemed to be playing the role of concerned parent, trying to console the hyperactive imagination of her child.
“You’re right. Sorry. Figure out what this thing is, okay? I’ve always worried about something like this getting out of hand, especially today. This country isn’t united enough to save itself.” He paused a moment.
“Where are you two headed now?” The coffee machine behind him woke up and began gurgling hot water down through the filter. Almost immediately, the smell of coffee filled the office air. Ben suddenly felt more awake — he knew that even the smell of coffee was enough to cause alertness. He licked his lips, just now realizing that he had driven the bulk of the journey from Yellowstone.
“Back to my place first,” Julie said, “then we’ll find him a hotel,” gesturing toward Ben. “Livingston won’t cut his golf game short for anything short of a nuclear attack, but he’ll be expecting all of us to work an all-nighter tonight if this thing blows up.” She winced at her poor choice of words but continued. “Like I said, give me what you have whenever you can and keep it coming. As long as he’s got information coming in, he’ll stay quiet.”
Stephens nodded in approval and walked back to his desk. He sank down into his chair, slouching. “Sure would be easier around here if you ran this place,” he said almost under his breath.
“I would keep it down if I were you,” Julie said. “Knowing Livingston, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has this place bugged, as well as each of our houses.”
“Right. I’ve seen the budget for this operation — I think we’ll be okay.”
Julie turned and raised her eyebrows, silently asking Ben if there was more to cover. He shrugged. She walked toward the hallway again, and Ben followed closely behind.
Chapter Eighteen
THE EVENING HAD TURNED INTO a bluish haze, thanks to a gentle showering of rain a few hours before and a near-full moon. Livingston clicked the key fob of his car and waited for the telltale beeping sound.
The 2012 Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG was his pride and joy. He’d taken out a second mortgage on his condominium to ride in this kind of style, and he hadn’t regretted a moment of it. As a government employee, he understood the irony and the juxtaposition of seeing a man of his status rolling around in a vehicle like this, but that was all the more reason to love it.
He’d always been fond of money. His first word, in fact, was “money,” a story he loved sharing at parties and around the office.
Livingston walked toward the squat warehouse building that served as his temporary office. He liked to think of it that way: temporary. Everything in this life was temporary, he knew, but especially dead-end jobs like this one. He’d get to ten years, cash in his tenure play, and move on to a middle management job in a huge corporate bank or investment firm. Companies like that were always looking for management who weren’t pushing for more and driving everyone around them to insanity. He’d fit in well at a company that needed an axe-man or a standard-issue pencil-pusher.
He’d also fit in well at a place that enjoyed the same type of indulgences.
Julie, Benjamin, Charles, his executive assistant Laura — these people didn’t understand him. He couldn’t care less if they did or not, but he at least expected more respect than he got.
Wasn’t a $400,000 luxury car enough to make an impression?
He entered his four-digit entry code into the keypad and opened the door. He sniffed — God, he hated this place. Walking toward the T-intersection in the hallway, he stopped to check his appearance in the long window of the lab room.
Tall, dark, and slightly heavyset, he wasn’t a bad-looking man. Years of sedentary work had taken his college swagger and turned it into a waddling gait, but he still had a full head of brownish-blond hair and a proud jaw. He had been a hockey player in college, but he’d lost his youthful spryness long ago, as well as a few of his front teeth.
He nodded to his reflection and continued down the hall, ta
king a left at the intersection and a right into his office.
He dropped his briefcase on the chair next to the door and hung up his overcoat. After business hours or not, he hated being caught underdressed, so he usually wore his work suit around town and sometimes at home. Livingston poured himself a double shot of scotch and opened the miniature freezer to find a cube of ice.
Perfect. Laura couldn’t even remember to do that.
He slammed the door shut and sat down at his desk. Like his car, the desk was an indulgence even the United States government wouldn’t waste money on. He’d spent all $2,000 of his office decoration budget line item as well as another $1,500 to get this antique mahogany desk, complete with a hidden door beneath the top drawer.
He opened the laptop in front of him and clicked around, finally finding the folder he was searching for. A password entry prompt opened, and he entered a string of characters. The folder opened, and Livingston browsed through the list of pictures, sipping on the warm scotch.
Double-clicking on one particular image, Livingston sat up straight in his chair. It was a picture of Julie Richardson, smiling in a two-piece bathing suit at the local branch’s company picnic. She was holding a volleyball under one arm and talking to someone off-camera.
He clicked on another. This time Julie was mid-serve, the volleyball inches above her right hand, and her body stretched out to its maximum length.
Livingston didn’t know who had taken the pictures, but when Laura had given everyone in the office Dropbox access to them, he’d made sure to save them locally to his hard drive.
Another picture opened — Julie and Benjamin Stephens sitting at a picnic table across from one another. Julie’s back was to the camera, and Livingston clicked the magnifying glass to zoom in slightly…
The phone rang.
