She jerked involuntarily when she thought of Javier. She closed her swollen eyes and pictured the transformation his body was going through. It wasn’t hard to imagine, considering what she’d seen in the video of patient zero and what she’d heard in the conference call with Deputy Director Frank hours earlier.
Her brother would be past Phase 1 now. The alterations to his physiology would be graphic: swollen lips, receding gums, vertical pupils, hemorrhaging from every orifice. His extremities would twist and snap, his hands curling and morphing into claws.
The man Kate pictured in her mind wasn’t her brother any longer. The man she pictured was a monster.
She didn’t bother brushing the tears away. Like Javier, she had completely lost control of her body. Instead of hemorrhaging blood she was hemorrhaging tears.
A double rap on the door.
Kate flinched.
“Kate, are you in there?”
It was Michael.
There was a second round of knocks.
Kate took in a deep breath and turned on the water. She didn’t want to look at the image in the mirror, but she had to. She needed to see how awful she looked.
It was bad. Dark bags rimmed her swollen eyes. She was pale, and her hair was frizzled. After splashing cold water on her face she pulled her hair back into a ponytail.
“Kate,” Michael pleaded. “I need your help. We need to get everything downloaded and the data prepped for the evacuation. There isn’t anything you can do for Javier now.”
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway with glazed, unfocused eyes. She saw Michael standing in front of her, but didn't make a move to acknowledge him.
“Kate!” Michael said. He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Think of your parents. Your friends. They are still out there.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t stop this,” Kate blurted without thinking.
Michael softened. “I did.”
Wiping away the last of her tears, she peered into her mentor’s eyes. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder and in a soothing clinical voice said, “We have to try. This is our job. Millions if not billions of people are counting on our work.”
Billions.
Kate was used to working on viruses that threatened the lives of thousands. But billions? A billion lives in her hands?
She took in a measured breath and pushed thoughts of her brother from her mind. Michael was right. The world was counting on scientists. The world was counting on their work. She had to help the living now. Her work was all that mattered. She had to stop the spread before it crossed any more borders—before it reached Europe, where her parents were.
They hurried back to the lab, talking as they walked. “Things are bad up top, Kate. Internet and cell phone traffic is probably stretched to the limit.”
“Only going to get worse,” Kate replied.
Inside the lab, Michael rushed to his computer. “We got the PCR protocol test back. What do you make of this?”
Kate sucked in one final deep breath and pulled up a stool. After they’d failed to find a match in the CDC and NCBI databases, they’d run a PCR test. It was the final step to trying to match up the genomes they’d already sequenced.
“Okay,” she said, pulling in a deep breath and focusing on the information in front of her. “What do we have?”
“As you know, the results showed no direct match. However, there are remarkable similarities to Ebola.” Michael typed on the keyboard to load the results. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said as data scrolled across the screen.
Kate narrowed her focus. Six of the seven genes were the same known genes of Ebola. She recognized the first three. They were used to control transcription, replication, and packaging into the new virions. But the fourth of the seven genes was different.
She pointed at the screen, knowing from memory what gene it was. “Glycoprotein on the virus shell has mutated.”
Michael brought a finger to his lip. “So that explains why the hemorrhaging isn’t killing the victims like it normally would.”
Kate nodded as she digested the information. She spoke out loud as she considered the results. “Glycoprotein enables the Ebola virus to attach to white blood cells and spread throughout the body. The protein targets endothelial cells, which line the blood vessels. Normally that causes a chain of events that make the cells separate from the blood vessel walls.”
“And it leaves a massively unstable vascular wall, permeable to blood. That’s what causes the hemorrhaging,” Michael added.
“Precisely.”
“So if the glycoprotein spike has been altered, then maybe it only links to macrophages and isn’t disrupting the endothelial cell attachment to the vascular walls as normal.”
Kate nodded. “So there will be some hemorrhaging, but just enough to continue the spread of the virus, not enough to kill the host.”
“Jesus,” Michael replied.
There was a brief pause as the two scientists reflected on the implications.
Kate spoke first. “Obviously we’re dealing with a new or modified strain here.” She studied the bank of lights above, squinting as she thought. “Doctor Medford must have found a way to alter the fourth gene. It’s a partial cure.” She paused to think. “Shit,” she mumbled. “This still doesn’t make sense.”
“Let’s start with what we know,” Michael added. His voice had returned to the clinical tone that reminded her of his expertise.
“Okay,” Kate replied, trying to think of a way to keep the explanation simple. “The sample from Guinea expresses a glycoprotein with a strong affinity for proteins found on the surface of the endothelial cells. The sample from Chicago does not.”
Michael nodded. “But how? And what’s causing the other changes to the victims? The changes to their physiology make no sense. This new modified strain is turning victims into monsters.”
Kate looked at the floor. Her brother was one of those monsters now.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” Michael said, realizing his mistake.
She blinked the images away and with urgency said, “We need to put a sample of the virus in a cell culture dish of endothelial cells and see what happens. Let’s suit up.”
She’d gone to grab her bag when she heard the loud wailing. Her eyes shot up to the emergency bank of lights in the corner of the room. The red lights swirled around the glass dome.
“What the hell?” Michael said.
The sound intensified, the whine of the alarm silencing out Kate’s labored breathing. Her heart climbed in her throat. She rushed to her laptop just as the door to the office swung open and a research assistant burst into the room. He hunched over, his hands on his knees, panting.
“It’s here,” he said in between labored breaths.
“What?” Michael asked. “What’s here?”
“The infection!” the young man coughed.
“What do you mean it’s here?” Kate asked.
Sucking in a breath, the assistant rushed over to the television in the corner of the room. Kate had silenced it earlier. She grabbed the TV remote and clicked the volume to max. The whine of the emergency siren echoed in the room, making it impossible to hear, but she could see something was happening.
A newscaster stood on the top of a building she didn’t recognize. The cameraman angled the video camera over the side of the roof. Below, a mob of people ran down the side of both streets. They streamed out of office buildings, tripping over one another and clogging the sidewalks. Cars blared their horns in the bottlenecked traffic. One of the drivers pulled his SUV onto the curb, sending a man flying through the adjacent Starbucks’ front window.
“Where is this?” Kate asked.
“Atlanta,” the assistant said, finally catching his breath. “The virus is in Atlanta. A passenger on a plane brought the infection in overnight. Atlanta, New York, Las Vegas, San Francisco. There are reports in virtually every major city,” he said.
“Prep the data
,” Michael said, “and get ready to go. We're leaving.”
-12-
The Blackhawk circled the glass-paneled CDC building for several minutes. Beckham patted the vest pocket that held the picture of his mom. The simple touch filled him with strength and, glancing down, he knew he was going to need it.
Atlanta was in chaos.
Reaching for a handhold, he leaned out the door to scan for a possible LZ. He’d had ample time to plan their insertion point, but every time he thought he had a location nailed, he’d found a barrier.
Cars clogged the roads everywhere he looked. There wasn’t a single inch of clear concrete, and there was little sign of life. Only a few panicked citizens ran through the streets. He watched them race toward a pair of abandoned Humvees surrounding the gated entry to the Arlen Spector building.
“That’s our target!” Beckham yelled. The reflection of their Blackhawk flashed in the glass windows as they circled. The twelve-story building stood in the middle of a large open space of grass and walking paths. Built on a hill, the facility overlooked a road that snaked beneath it.
There was motion down there, more civilians streaming from under the building. He lost sight of them on the second pass and focused on the Humvees outside the front gates.
“Where the fuck did the soldiers go?” Beckham muttered. “Get us closer to the ground,” he yelled.
“Roger,” came the voice of the pilot.
Beckham tightened his hold and squinted. As they descended, the runners on the ground came into focus. He spotted the missing soldiers. They were all shirtless, but there was no mistaking their ACU pants. Beckham concentrated on the pack for a better look. Even from the present altitude, he could see the men were covered with blood.
“We have infected!” Horn shouted.
Beckham’s muscles twitched. He was hoping for a secure landing, a quick in and out. Put down near the CDC building, grab Dr. Michael Allen and his team, and get the hell out of Dodge. As the chopper took them closer to the ground he realized things weren’t going to be that easy. There weren’t any guards left to roll out a red carpet and let his men into the building.
“Shit,” Beckham muttered. He looked to Big Horn for support. The operator hid behind his skull bandana, his eyes the only visible feature on his face.
“Whatcha thinkin’, boss?”
Beckham scanned the LZ for a safe place to deploy their rope. More of the infected darted across the ground on all fours.
Riley shouted, “Do you see that shit?”
Beckham looked for Ellis. The man sat paralyzed in the corner. “Doctor, we’re going to need you on your feet.”
Ellis threw up his hands. “Hell no! You’re crazy if you think I’m going down there.”
“We need you to get into the building,” Horn grunted.
“Here, take it,” Ellis replied, reaching inside his pocket and fumbling for his keycard. He held it out with a shaky hand. “That’ll get you inside.”
“What about the retinal scan?” Beckham asked. “Won’t we need that, too?”
The doctor’s shoulders sagged as the words sank in. He nodded slowly, tucking the keycard back into his pocket.
The chopper jerked hard to the right, throwing Beckham off balance. He smashed onto the floor, sliding a few feet. A pair of strong hands grabbed his shoulders and stopped him. He looked up to see the bottom half of Horn’s skull bandana.
“What the fuck!” Beckham yelled, grabbing Horn’s right arm and pulling himself to his feet.
Before the pilot had a chance to respond, Beckham heard the scream of F-22s flying low over the city. He crouched and moved into the cockpit, looking through the dirty windshield. Beyond he could see three of the jets racing across the skyline.
“What the hell are they doing here?” Beckham asked, his skin tingling from a combination of awe and nerves. Nothing could put a man on high alert like the roar of F-22s flying at five hundred feet.
The pilot held up his left hand. Beckham flinched as the jets made their first pass. Turbulence shook the hovering chopper as they shrieked over top.
“They’re going to bomb strategic locations in the city,” the pilot finally said.
“You're shitting me,” Beckham replied. When the pilot glanced up at him, Beckham saw he was completely serious.
“How long do we have?”
The pilot cupped his headset and said, “They're telling all military contacts to be out of the city in thirty minutes.”
Beckham felt a lump form in his throat. Shocked into motion, he moved back into the troop compartment. “Time to move! Get on the rope, Big Horn.”
“All of us?” Ellis choked. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“You heard the man,” Riley said. He grabbed the doctor by his shirt and pulled him toward the open door.
“But we don’t have biohazard suits!”
“Better hold your breath,” Horn said with what could pass as a laugh. He locked the rope into position with a metallic click.
“Nothing we can do about that now, doctor,” Beckham yelled over the whoosh of the blades. “Besides, we know this thing isn’t airborne. Right?” He watched Ellis nod slowly. The man’s eyes seemed detached, like he didn’t know where he was.
The pilot’s voice pulled Beckham back to the chopper.
“Where should I put you down?”
Beckham took another minute to scan the potential landing zone. Identifying an opening, he pointed to the lawn just outside the front drive of the main entrance. “Over there!”
Seconds later they were hovering over the green space, the tree branches rocking viciously below.
Horn threw the fast rope over the side and scoped the area with his M27. Then he grabbed the line with his gloves and slid down.
Beckham watched him hit the ground and take off running for an abandoned Humvee. With a reassuring nod, Beckham slapped Riley on the back. “You’re next.”
Without a second of hesitation the operator took the rope and slid down after Horn.
“Please, I don’t know if I can do this again,” Ellis said, his eyes pleading with Beckham to reconsider.
The distant roar of the F-22s rumbled and Beckham shoved the doctor toward the door. “We need you, Doctor. Your team needs you!”
Minutes later they were running as a group across the lawn, the gusts from the helo blades swirling debris around them. Beckham shot a glance over his shoulder. The infected that were at the gates earlier were running in the opposite direction now, chasing the helicopter. Great, he thought. He would take the distraction.
They halted behind a second set of Humvees parked near the circle drive. Balling his hand into a fist, Beckham inched the barrel of his MP5 over the hood. The entrance looked clear, no sign of life.
“All right, Ellis, which way?” Beckham asked.
Ellis shook nervously, his hands twitching. He jammed them in his pockets. “Through those glass doors we’ll take a left, enter the stairwell, and then proceed to Lab Facility 14 on Level D.”
Beckham offered a reassuring nod and rapidly spewed new orders. “Kid, you take point. Big Horn, watch our six. Doc, you’re with me.”
With a measured breath, he counted to three and then flashed an advance signal. Riley burst from his position with his shotgun shouldered and aimed at the front doors.
Beckham moved next. “Follow me,” he said to Ellis, jerking his chin toward the entrance. They crossed the circle drive quickly, the sound of their footfalls beating against the concrete. The noise didn’t bother Beckham, but the doctor’s hesitation did. It was likely to get them all killed.
Snorting, he clenched his fist. He would not put his men at risk if Ellis decided to go chickenshit. Beckham crouched behind a concrete ledge and watched Riley and Horn take up positions along the wall.
Beckham spied the doctor glancing nervously over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Dr. Ellis, can you do this? Because we don’t have much time. In less t
han twenty minutes, those F-22s are going to barbeque this city, and I do not want to be here when that happens.”
Ellis emerged from his trance, and the color slowly returned in his cheeks. He swallowed and then nodded. “Yes, I can do it.”
A burst of wind swept across the group. Beckham could taste the scent of burning rubber in the air. It reminded him of Iraq and half a dozen other war zones he’d been in. Plumes of dark smoke rose into the sky from locations across the city.
The sporadic sound of gunfire rang out at the same moment. The noise came from automatic rifles. Machine guns.
“Let’s move,” Beckham said, knowing the sound would draw any infected away.
“Contact!” Horn yelled.
Beckham saw the former soldier immediately. The man stood between them and the glass doors to the headquarters. His posture was completely off, like his bones and joints had been repositioned by a shitty chiropractor. Dried blood clung to the man’s cheeks, forming a barrier around his swollen lips. They puckered and then made a sickening pop.
Beckham fired on instinct. He raised his MP5 and in two swift motions he squeezed off a double burst. The first shots caught the former soldier in the chest, jolting his body backward. Bloody mist exploded from the man’s open lips. The second burst hit him in the center of his forehead, and his brains peppered the concrete behind him.
“Covering fire!” Beckham yelled.
Grabbing Ellis by the collar, he yanked him toward the doors. Riley got there first. He crouched next to the entrance and swept the area beyond the shattered glass with his shotgun.
“We’re clear on my side!” he yelled.
Beckham followed Riley inside. They entered an empty white lobby covered in shards of glass and bullet casings. A round center desk sat empty in the middle of the space.
“Maybe we’re too late,” Horn said. He lowered his bandana and spat onto the tile floor.
“Keep moving,” Beckham said.
Riley guided the team to the door at the end of the hallway. “Key card,” he yelled, waving Ellis forward. The doctor ran the plastic card over the security panel a moment later. It beeped and unlocked.
Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1) Page 14
