Dark Cure: A Covid Thriller (Dark Plague Book 1)

by Bradley West

“I reckon someone missed Jaime with his first shot. That shooter escaped, but I took out two others who made a run for it. This was a feeler: They wanted to know what we had, and we surprised them. But best we be on our way pronto.” Travis whistled and motioned to Jaime, who crawled partway up the lawn and scrambled up the rest. “What’s your take?” Travis asked.

  “They’ll block the roads off this hill within the hour,” Jaime said.

  Sal was already inside the front door. “Folks, we have to go now. Grab your phones, luggage and anything else you’ll need. We roll in five minutes.” Even as he spoke, the Burmese faction filed out the front door as the two somber mothers herded three youths, and Arkar brought up the rear with large duffel bags in each hand and an M-4 slung across his back.

  chapter thirty-four

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  Tuesday, July 14: Kentfield, Oakland, Larkspur Landing and San Francisco Bay, California, afternoon into night

  Jaime watched as Arkar’s sixteen-year-old son Yonten demonstrated impressive driving skills by backing the deceased warehouseman Tim’s Mazda out of the driveway and into the street at high speed where he blocked both lanes on Crown Rd. As the young man made his way back to the front porch, Jaime gave a thumbs-up. He turned to Sal and said, “I’d rather Yonten drove me in your Audi than Barb. She’s erratic at the best of times and right now she’s even more distracted. I’ll shoot better with someone I trust behind the wheel. Can you put her in your RV with her mother?”

  Sal said, “You’re the lead shooter: You use whomever you want to drive. As for Barb, we need her to drive the Caprice as it has one last job to do once we’re on the mainland.”

  Yonten hopped to his next task: siphoning gas from the Caprice to the Dodge Ram.

  Travis limped up. “This is madness,” he protested. “The Golden Gate Bridge is a war zone. Arkar took six hours to drive the long way around last night. The radio reports the power’s out from Monterey Bay to the Oregon border.”

  “Short of an army escort, we’re fucked unless we head due north into Sonoma or Napa,” Jaime added.

  Sal smiled and shook his head. “I’ve worked on this piece of the puzzle for over a month. Larkspur Landing is only five miles away. If we can make it, we’ll be good to at least Oakland. I couldn’t afford an army, so I rented a navy.”

  Carla let out a shout when the Caprice was down to vapors and Yonten pulled the hose out.

  There wasn’t any more time for discussion: Jaime walked over to where Yonten rinsed his mouth with water and recoiled the hose, and said, “You’re driving me. Just keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel.”

  In the end, Carla rode drag in the refueled Dodge with Travis by her side, M-4 at the ready. Barb drove the Caprice just up ahead. The Burmese split up, with Arkar driving the second Winnebago accompanied by Maung’s two children, Kyaw and Schway. Arkar’s wife Zarni drove the Telluride, partnered with Maung’s stoic widow Chesa. Sal drove the new Winnebago with Greg in the passenger’s seat up front. Tina was in the back tending to a semiconscious Pat who had so far managed to sit up and slurp soup but hadn’t said anything intelligible.

  The convoy followed Yonten and Jaime down Sal’s indicated secondary residential streets. All six vehicles were on the same conference call which broadcasted Barb’s rear echelon complaints about Sal, Jaime’s inattentiveness and the horrors that Steph and Tyson surely were enduring. Jaime presumed Barb harbored a subliminal wish to distract him to the point where their enemies killed them. He turned the volume down to barely audible as he focused on identifying and neutralizing potential adversaries while curbing his new wheelman’s more suicidal driving instincts.

  From behind the shot-up ’Bago's wheel, Sal had a bird’s-eye view of the street. What first caught his attention was four shrouded corpses lying roadside next to a line of parked vehicles that presumably belonged to their attackers. At the front were two cars he knew well: a Porsche 911 and an Aston Martin. Both Steve and Keith had been among the handful who had responded to Sal’s convoy cancellation email with threats. Sal was saddened at his friends' possible deaths until he realized that someone nearby might be settling crosshairs on his forehead. If snipers had simultaneous kill shots on both RV drivers, then they’d be deader than Somali pirates. Jarred from his quasi-stupor, he checked the side mirror and saw that Arkar was juking and shimmying the ’Bago 38, and the older man copied his moves.

  Given the context, perhaps Jaime could be forgiven for what happened next. The mob had stationed a young lookout by the roadside. The adolescent’s eyes widened when he saw the convoy careen down Evergreen Drive. His error was in having jammed the walkie-talkie into the back pocket of outgrown Levi’s. By the time his nervous fingers had pried the handset from the skintight denim, Jaime’s Berretta was aimed at his down-covered chin. “Drop the handset or you die. Good, kick it over here. Again, closer. That’s fine.” Jaime exited intending to confiscate the walkie-talkie and continue his journey. Instead, the youth panicked and ran. Jaime shot him in both thighs and the screaming teen rolled on the lawn. Jaime picked up the walkie-talkie, returned to the Audi, and Yonten was underway within ten seconds. He ignored Barb’s shouted questions as to why he’d just shot a kid twice. “Wouldn’t once have been enough?” she yelled.

  Jaime spoke over the pilfered walkie-talkie. “We have your lookout. Any interference with the vehicles and I’ll execute him. Out.” He tossed the device out the window and spoke loudly over his speakerphone. “Barb, stop! That’s enough. Keep it up, and you’re next.” Barb piped down and the rest of the uneventful drive transpired in awkward silence.

  The Larkspur–San Francisco passenger ferries had shuttered months ago, but tethered quayside was a one-hundred-foot car carrier. As soon as the half-dozen vehicles boarded, the Rage was underway. Sal bumped elbows in the “Covid handshake” with the short, gray-goateed pilot and passed along a bag with five bundles of hundred-dollar bills.

  Sal gave his overjoyed team a minute to enjoy the sunshine and salt air as Marin began to fade into the distance. “We’re targets on deck. Let’s step inside the big motorhome and keep our heads down. Jaime and Arkar, can you two please stand sentry fore and aft? Disable boats that approach closer than two hundred meters and ignore your warning shot.” The two able-bodied marksmen moved off, weapons at the ready.

  Sal addressed the others inside the luxury forty-two-foot motorhome. “I met this boat’s owner back in June and made a down payment. Derek’s from Ontario, but otherwise he came with good references and sure enough, he was here for us today.”

  “That was a piece of genius,” Carla said to general acclamation.

  Barb’s irritation showed. “Great. You’d all better stay on Mr. Moneybag’s good side, or the next time there’s a mass extinction event my dad might not be there buy his way out.”

  Sal ignored Barb’s scorn and addressed the more appreciative members of the audience. “I learned long ago that if you have a problem and you can write a check, you turn that problem into an expense. We’re headed for Berkeley Marina. The wealthy boat owners have the marina well-protected, but once we’re on land, we’re on our own. The two RVs stay behind the gates guarded by Greg, Tina, Barb and Zarni and Chesa and the kids. The marina’s armed security guards are on our payroll as well.

  “Just before the power failure, I emailed Melvin and told him to risk daylight movement and retrieve Jaime’s panel truck, then meet us at the marina. He’ll be in a blue Tahoe SUV and the truck is a white twenty-two-footer. I’ll tell marina security to let them inside. I hope Melvin received the message, but he hasn’t replied yet.

  “Jaime, Travis, Arkar, Carla and I will search for Steph and Tyson. If we don’t come back by midnight, carry on without us. I gave Greg a map marked with our first refueling spot in the Nevada desert, along with the contact details for the coyote who will take us from northern Idaho into Canada. We’ll join you en route if we can, but if we’re late you rest under cover by day and travel by nig
ht. Any questions?”

  Barb’s anger morphed into distress. Travis looked uncomfortable and broke his self-imposed ban on public utterances. “If Steph and Tyson are there, we’ll bring them back alive or die trying.”

  * * * * *

  Smiley Shuckies opened the classroom door and surprised Stephanie who had Tyson at her breast. She was past the point of embarrassment and continued to nurse. “What can I help you with?” she asked.

  The formidable former soldier with the schoolboy crush flushed and averted his eyes. “Katerina wants to see you right away.”

  Steph didn’t bother to cover up. Anything that made these people uneasy was a plus. She knocked on the door and Katerina joined her in the hall.

  “What have you found out?” the scientist asked.

  “He napped, drank a gallon of water and has been working on his laptops ever since.”

  “How many laptops? Did you install the keylogger on both of them?” Seeing Stephanie’s blank look, Katerina rephrased her question. “Did you insert the thumb drive into all of them?”

  “No, I installed it only once because Burns had hidden a second laptop. He only brought it out fifteen minutes ago. He wrote down notes, then shut it down and went back to the first laptop, the one I doctored.”

  “I gave the thumb drive to Rolf. I’ll get it back. You need to insert it into the second laptop.”

  “I’ll try, but he used it just once and turned it off as soon as he was done.”

  “The next time he’s on it, you come to me and I’ll distract him. Don’t let me down or I’m taking that baby back.” Katerina retreated into the lab and locked herself in.

  Stephanie returned to the classroom. Burns' eyes ached as he massaged his fevered temples. “I told her you had a second laptop and she’s in a frenzy. She’ll be back soon with the USB drive. I’m supposed to alert her when you’re back on the new laptop, and she’ll distract you.”

  “She really does think we’re idiots.”

  * * * * *

  Katerina’s hurried departure down the hall was Shuckies’ cue to let himself into Steph’s room. From the way they jumped, he realized that Stephanie and the sick Brit had been scheming. “I have an offer,” he said.

  Stephanie gave Shuckies her best smile. “I’d love to hear it.”

  “I want to switch sides. For half the money, I’ll protect you both.”

  “We agree,” Burns said, “but you need to be aware of certain things before you start counting your millions. I don’t have any of the cure as Katerina has yet to synthesize it. The first pint of Stephanie’s blood should produce at least a dozen treatments. Depending on antibody counts, we might net more than two dozen. We’ll have to set aside the first doses to treat any of us who aren’t immune, starting with me. The catch is Katerina won’t be done before the end of tomorrow and I may be dead by then. You’ll have to watch her. As soon as she produces the first dose, she’ll want to test it. The most likely guinea pigs are you and Horne. I’m guessing she’ll want a sample of my blood under some pretext. She’ll then mix my Covid-20 virus with her Dark Cure and inject the combination into you masquerading as the treatment. This is the same playbook she used at Stanford and the reason they expelled her. If the Dark Cure doesn’t work, you’ll end up dead like me. If it does work, Muller and she will use you for a while and then kill you.”

  Smiley nodded. “Thanks for the warning. We figured as much, but without the details.”

  Stephanie’s interest lay closer to home. “What about Horne?”

  “Oh, he’s still out for your blood,” Smiley said. “In the traditional sense, I mean. But Muller is one rough pecker, and I can’t move on Bomber until we neutralize him first.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Stephanie said. “The man’s a rabid dog.”

  “We’ll treat him as one and put him down,” Burns said. “If I can produce any saliva, we’ll poison his food.”

  * * * * *

  Katerina found Muller in their lounge. He was hunched over the ancient laptop they’d brought from the bikers’ clubhouse. He sat up, startled as she walked in and started to vent. “Fucking Burns has a second laptop, one without a keylogger on it. I need that USB.”

  Muller barely acknowledged her; his intention absorbed by the screen. “Son of a bitch! Burns sent a photo of our blood bags to someone who calls himself Double Lucky.”

  “What, he wants to ransom them for the third time?”

  “I think he’s already done it. The only text in the message is this address. Someone will come. We need to find out who he sent it to.”

  “Let me kill him,” Katerina said.

  “Don’t be stupid, my love. We’ll have Horne do it, but not before we get the master password and confirm what’s on that thumb drive.”

  * * * * *

  Melvin, Robert and Tien tempted fate once again. After Robert’s near-fatal chauffeuring blunder on the previous night, Tien took his turn behind the wheel. Tien was a slender fellow, short of stature and bespectacled. He was intelligent, with a ready wit that belied his quiet demeanor. He’d also been working up the courage to propose to Flora and was devastated by her violent death. A lifetime of passivity disavowed, thoughts of retribution consumed him. Neither Melvin nor Robert knew Tien’s state of mind, only that he had the Tahoe moving like it was a tomcat with its tail on fire. Their first clue that something was amiss came when Tien stopped at an empty intersection with a green light and street hoods nearby.

  “What in the hell you doin’?” Melvin asked. “Let’s keep moving!”

  Sure enough, the half-dozen men who were standing across the intersection broke their huddle and jogged across the empty street as they spread out and reached into their waistbands.

  Tien ignored his carmates' protests and drove right at a young adult in a red Liverpool jersey. Melvin lowered his window, wondering whether his shoulder would endure recoil better than last night. Robert leaned out of the window behind Tien, shaky hands clenching a Glock. The carjackers on the wings opened fire, but at fifty miles an hour, the Tahoe was a blur.

  The gangster in the Liverpool shirt avoided the Tahoe like a matador sidesteps an enraged bull, turning his back to reveal a Salah nameplate above the number 11. Tien stomped on the brakes and jerked the parking brake to execute a tight U-turn. He damn near flipped the SUV in the process, but the Tahoe stayed upright. For the split-second that they were stationary, Melvin fired three times and Robert twice. Tien roared off in pursuit of the young Mohamed Salah admirer, one hundred twenty feet away and drawing a bead on them.

  In the same way that a Cape Buffalo’s charge can put a pride of lions to flight, the Tahoe’s aggressiveness scattered five of the six gunmen. The sixth one buzzed from a recent close encounter with a glass pipe and was fearless. Salah dodged the Tahoe a second time and unloaded a fusillade as the SUV passed. Several 9mm rounds hit the Tahoe broadside.

  Tien knew that these people were murderers and he’d had enough. His peripheral vision narrowed, and the adrenaline flow overwhelmed every impulse but rage. The Tahoe reversed, Tien cut the wheel hard left and swung the SUV around to face Flora’s stand-in killer again.

  Melvin was fed up with being shot at. As the Tahoe sped forward, the former paratrooper gritted his teeth and fired twice, then twice more. One bullet caught the Reds fan high on his right side and disarmed him. Melvin’s shoulder flared with such intense pain that he couldn’t speak. Tien hit the brakes one last time and brought the SUV to a swift halt. He dismounted from the driver’s seat and strode to where the thug lay in his blood. “Remember me?” Tien asked. “I was next to my fiancé last night when you killed her. We were in a red pickup truck. Remember?”

  What in the hell is he talkin’ about? We were ambushed miles to the south. Melvin kept his thoughts to himself.

  Salah was high and couldn’t remember his home address, much less if he’d shot anyone the previous night. The carjacker looked up at the little man who stood over him. “I don’t
remember nothing. You and your woman are nothing, you fucking chink.” He turned his head and spat and saw his weapon just within reach. His hand shot out, prompting Tien to fire into his face until his gun was empty. Without remorse, he turned his back and walked to the Tahoe where he realized that something was wrong. Melvin was compressing Robert’s bloody chest in the backseat. Tien closed the doors Melvin had left open, then got back behind the wheel. He put the Tahoe in gear and floored it as tears of anger and sadness ran down his cheeks.

  In the back, Melvin gave up on his resuscitation efforts and stroked Robert’s forehead. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord. Another soul lost. When will this ever end?

  * * * * *

  Berkeley had been hit harder and sooner than Marin by Covid-20 and the resultant civil strife. Coils of shiny razor wire were arrayed across front lawns—and judging from the burned-out homes behind them, these last-ditch attempts at self-defense acted more as a provocation than a deterrent. Society had collapsed, and the wealthy would have to pay for how they’d hastened its demise irrespective of where their sympathies lay along the political spectrum. Farther along, smoke from fires on Cal’s campus explained the lack of police presence as they raced through Berkeley, Rockwood and into blue-collar North Oakland.

  Carla and Travis performed two slow drive-bys of McClatchy High. To Travis’ trained eye, the front gate wasn’t wired, and it was a longshot that anyone inside the school had the gate under surveillance. He also noted the broken padlock. They returned to the staging area two blocks away and conferred with Sal. The one thing they did miss was two leather-jacketed men on motorcycles parked across the street from the entrance, up a driveway in the shadow of an abandoned house.

  Jaime and Arkar agreed with Sal’s plan. Sal would create a diversion by rigging the Caprice to drive into the rear entrance lobby and presumably detonate a boobytrap. That would be Jaime and Arkar’s signal to rappel down from the skylight into the gym. From there, they’d be close to the classroom that held Steph, Tyson and Burns. There’d be two guards to neutralize, plus a female scientist and the leader, Muller. Travis and his night-vision scope would be on the alert for tangos. Carla would operate their getaway vehicle, the Ram pickup. After they triggered the boobytrapped main doors, Sal would provide suppressing fire if needed, and wait for Jaime and Arkar to free the hostages and exit the blown-up entrance.