Invasive Species (24 page)

“The worst part—the part that we will never forgive the president for hiding from us—is that these creatures' larvae, their young, are parasitic. They must grow inside mammal hosts to survive. Mammals . . . including humans.”

His voice rang out. “One grew inside the baby dolphin that poor Kait tried to save,” he said. “One grew inside Gonzalo, Enrique Montero's brother. And one grew inside James, Elizabeth Keaton's husband. Grew inside them, and killed them.”

The camera went back to the crowd, which looked shell-shocked.

“Yes,” Harrison said. “I am sorry, so sorry, to be the one giving you this news. It should have been the president. This is the president's job, but he won't do it. He's too busy running for reelection.”

A breath before he delivered the next blow. “And if, tomorrow, one of these creatures begins to grow inside
you
, you know what he'll do? He'll hide, just as he always does.”

His fist struck the lectern. “But
I
won't hide. As soon as I am finished here, my staff—including a team of brilliant scientists and doctors—will be providing detailed instructions on how best to stay safe in these dangerous times. Check our website for fact sheets, videos, and links to important information and advice. Keep watching the station you're tuned to—after my speech, we'll have experts on every network.

“Now and in the coming days, my staff and I will do everything we can to prepare you to face what scientists are calling the most serious crisis of our lifetimes. Perhaps the current administration does not think you are worth it, but I do.”

Again his voice grew quieter. “At the beginning of this speech, I spoke of terrorism. I spoke of invasion. Some of you may be thinking, ‘All right—he's scared us. But this doesn't sound like terrorism to me. It sounds more like an epidemic. Frightening, yes, but just bad luck. Nobody's fault.'

“Yes, that's how it sounds . . . but it's not how it is. Until recently, no one had ever heard of these creatures—not even the nation's leading scientists. But now the wasps are here. Here, in America, killing our citizens. Where did they come from? How did they get here?”

He leaned forward. “I believe they were sent by our enemies. By those who envy our freedoms, who hate us for our democracy. I believe—I
know
—these creatures were created and hatched in a laboratory and sent here, just as surely as anthrax spores, a dirty bomb, or any other bioweapon would be. And with the same goal: To terrify us. To destroy us.”

“Brilliant,” Sheila said.

Her eyes were wide.

“This
is
terrorism,” Harrison said. “Pure and simple. Who is behind it? We don't know yet. But we will find out.” His eyes were fierce. “Elect me, and I guarantee
I
will find out. Find out who has targeted us, and if we have to scour the earth we will make sure they
pay
. Just as we will make sure that every last one of these creatures has been driven from every corner of our great country.”

Trey felt something stir deep inside him. An awakening.

“When Election Day comes, and you're deciding how to cast your vote, remember that you face a stark choice,” Harrison said. “My opponent, the man who is willingly putting your lives at risk, or me: the one who promises—who
swears
—to clean up the mess President Chapman has left behind and restore our great nation to the strength and honor it has always proudly held.

“Thank you. And may God bless America and protect us in the trials to come.”

THE DELUGE.

They kept the television on for most of the night. Jack sat on the sofa and wielded the remote, flicking back and forth among the networks and cable news stations. Sheila had taken over the apartment's one comfortable chair, while Trey, unable to stay still, sat at the kitchen table or on the edge of the sofa, but spent most of his time leaning against various walls.

They watched pundits and commentators and party members spin the political implications of Harrison's speech, as if this were the story of the night, not the threat itself, not the deaths. Scientists—whoever the shows had found willing to pontificate in the middle of the night—offered their learned opinions. Bloggers who had posted videos of the thieves blinked in the harsh light of the movie cameras. Conspiracy theorists weighed in. Instant polls measured the consequences.

And driving it all was the Harrison campaign's carefully planned publicity blitz. Compelling, sober, terrifying spokespeople were everywhere, on every channel, all reinforcing the same message: This is serious. This is scary. The president has dropped the ball. Trust Anthony Harrison.

Having watched this routine a dozen times, Jack started to growl. “Next they're gonna start sending people door to door,” he said, “and I'm gonna slug the first one who rings the bell.”

Hospitals and police stations reported being flooded with calls and visits. Hordes of people thinking they'd been stung. Further hordes fearing they were now hosting larvae. False alarm after false alarm.

“Therapists all over the world are thanking Harrison and making down payments on their dream homes,” Jack said.

“Hush.” Sheila ran her hand through her hair, which had grown out from its pixie cut. “You know what's interesting,” she went on. “They all keep going over the same list of attacks, but nobody's managed to come up with any fresh footage of the thieves, or even of someone who's been infected.”

“Huh,” Jack said. “Well, it hasn't been very long. We'll start hearing shit soon enough.”

“I don't think so.”

It had been a long time since Trey had spoken. Jack and Sheila both turned to stare at him, as surprised as if a chair had decided to join the conversation.

“Don't think so?” Jack asked. “Don't think so what?”

“I don't think we'll be hearing of many attacks,” Trey said. “Not now.”

Sheila was watching him closely. “Why not, Trey? You think they're hiding?”

Trey thought about it, then shook his head.

“Then what?”

“Waiting,” he said.

*   *   *

AT SOME POINT
in the evening the president sent his press secretary, a rumpled-looking man who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, out to meet a crowd of reporters. He stood before a microphone in front of a cluster of cameras and tried to convey outrage.

“He looks terrified,” Sheila commented. “I think the first he heard of this was tonight.”

“No,” Trey said. “He's terrified because he
did
know—they all did. But they weren't prepared for the secret to leak.”

Sheila's eyes were on him. “How do you see that?”

Trey shrugged. How did he understand anything he saw? Tone of voice, posture, stresses, intonations, expressions in the eyes.

He just did.

“With his reckless, irresponsible speech, Governor Harrison has proven himself unfit for public office,” the press secretary declaimed. “He is using family tragedies for personal benefit, something President Chapman—or any person with an ounce of morality—would never do.”

Reporters shouted questions. The press secretary said, “Our hearts go out to those who have lost family members and friends, just as we express sorrow over those who die too soon from so many other maladies. We take this new threat very seriously and are utilizing all resources at our disposal, including the Centers for Disease Control and, if necessary, the military, to repel it.”

Then, to a cacophony of shouts, he turned and walked away.

“Not enough,” Sheila said.

Jack shook his head. “Not close.”

Trey felt something move inside him, somewhere near his core.

And stayed quiet.

*   *   *

TWO IN THE
morning. “It's weird,” Jack said.

“What is?” Sheila asked.

“I feel ripped off.” He gave a little smile. “I mean, for a while there, this was all . . . ours. We were, like, the only ones who knew. And now, just like that, we're not.”

Sheila looked at him. “I wish it had never been mine.”

His mouth twisted. “Yeah. And I'm sorry. But you know what I mean.” He opened his arms. “As long as it was just us, there was a chance it wouldn't all blow up and go to shit. Now—no.”

“I don't think there was ever a chance.” Sheila sighed. “People were going to find out, and things were going to start spiraling anyway.”

“I guess so.”

“It's what people do,” Sheila said. “They ruin everything.”

“‘People ruin everything.'” Jack's voice was approving. “I think I'll make a T-shirt with that.”

“Tell me something,” she said to him. “
Could
someone weaponize wasp venom?”

“I told you,” Jack said. “No. It's bullshit.”

He took a gulp of coffee. “Listen,” he went on. “Sure, you could make the venom more potent, more deadly—at least, someone like Clare Shapiro could. I'm sure those busy bees at the Defense Department are ‘efforting' that as we speak.”

He turned his palms up. “But when it's still inside the wasp? Creating a new breed of superwasps? Come on. Crapola.”

“But thief venom is so powerful,” Sheila insisted. “Powerful enough to kill a human—and much more than would be needed for smaller hosts. Why would it evolve that way?”

Jack grinned at her. “Black widow spiders,” he said.

“What?”

“Sheila,” he said, “what do black widow spiders eat?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Crickets? Beetles?”

“Yeah. Stuff like that. Yet their venom can kill a human. Hell, it can kill a horse or a cow. Why?”

Sheila opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.

Jack was enjoying himself. “The widow's venom is thousands of times more powerful than it ‘needs' to be. In fact, if anything, its potency is an evolutionary
disadvantage
.”

Sheila thought this over, then nodded. “Because people who see a black widow are likely to kill her, where they might ignore a less venomous spider.”

“Exactly. And not only people—other animals will go out of their way to kill widows as well.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We all fall into the trap of seeing nature as infallible, of seeing every evolutionary step as an improvement, an aid to species survival.”

“But it's not true?” Sheila said.

Jack shook his head. “Of course not. Evolution isn't a straight path. It's filled with dead ends, wrong turns, mistakes.”

His shrug was eloquent. “Sometimes Mother Nature just deals a wild card.”

“And the rest of us pay the price,” Sheila said.

*   *   *

SOON AFTER, JACK
started yawning so widely that they could see where his wisdom teeth had been yanked fifteen years earlier. Eventually he started eyeing Trey's sofa. “At night, I think better prone,” he said.

“I certainly hope so,” Sheila said.

Groaning a little, he lay back on the sofa. Three minutes later his eyes were closed and his mouth was open, though he wasn't quite snoring.

“Down for the count,” Trey said.

Sheila, who'd come over to sit opposite Trey at the table, regarded Jack's sleeping form with something like affection. “How come I feel like we've acquired a teenage son?” she asked.

Trey said, “He'll still be a teenager when he's sixty.”

“That's true for most of you research types, isn't it?” Her voice was light. “Heading off into the field, leaving your lives behind, staying forever young?”

“Right now,” Trey said before he could stop himself, “‘forever young' is about a million miles from how I feel.”

Sheila looked at him. There was something new in her expression.

“Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me what's happened to you.”

Meaning:
Since you were infected. Since I cut that thing out of you.

Trey took a deep breath. He'd been waiting for her to ask. He'd known she suspected something.

What he hadn't figured out was how he was going to answer. Whether he was going to lie to her—say, “I'm fine,” and change the subject—or trust her to understand. Open himself up.

Looking at her pale, beautiful face, the intensity and intelligence of her gaze, he knew he couldn't lie. Subterfuge wasn't in her makeup, and tonight he couldn't summon it, either.

“When you took out the larva,” he said, “something got left behind.”

Her gaze strayed to where she'd performed the surgery, then back up to his face. “The site was clean,” she said.

He smiled. “Yes, you did a beautiful job for someone who expected her patient to die. It's almost healed already—but I didn't mean there.”

“Then where?”

Slowly Trey reached up and pointed to his head. “Here,” he said.

Then he hesitated and spread his hands over his chest for a moment. “Or here.” He shook his head. “I don't know exactly. Just somewhere
inside
.”

Sheila's eyes were narrowed. “Left . . . what?” she asked.

“The hive mind,” he said.

She kept her eyes on his, steady, unblinking. But the faintest flush rose to her cheeks.

“I asked Clare Shapiro at Rockefeller about it,” he went on. “She agrees with Jack that such a thing exists—that the minds of bees and wasps stay connected somehow. That they can communicate over great distances in ways we don't understand.”

Trey paused, remembering Shapiro's unrestrained impatience at having to explain something so simple to a neophyte. “Listen,” she'd said. “
Of course
apocritids are capable of communication between members of the colony—that's because each bee or wasp isn't really an individual. Each is a separate part of one superorganism that incorporates data from thousands—or millions—of different viewpoints and makes a decision based on that data.

“A million units,” she'd said, “but one controlling mind.”

Now Sheila said, “Tell me.”

He struggled to answer, as he'd known he would. “I feel like it's watching me, and also looking out through my eyes,” he said finally. “Though not always. Not every minute. Sometimes it's quiet.” He paused. “Like now.”

“It's looking elsewhere?”

He shrugged. “Maybe that's it. But even then, I can sense it. A heaviness. An
awareness
.” He raised his hands from the table in frustration. “It kind of . . . moves inside me.”

She was silent.

“And when it's fully present,” he said, staring down at his coffee mug, “it does more than watch. I feel like it's
taking
.”

“Oh, Trey,” she said. He looked up to see that her expression was full of sorrow. She reached across the table and took his sweaty hands in her cool ones. Over on the sofa, Jack stirred but didn't awaken. Somewhere in the distance, a car downshifted, its engine roaring, falling silent, then roaring again, much farther off.

Still holding his hands, Sheila broke the silence with a single word.
“Taking,”
she said, her gaze sharpening. The scientist reasserting herself. “That makes me wonder.”

“Yes. Me, too.”

“We got the larva out early.”

He nodded.

“So what does the hive mind take
from the rest of its victims?” she asked. “The ones where it stays until the end?”

Trey stayed silent.

“What is it learning about us?” she said.

Still he didn't speak.

“And what will it do with what it learns?”

*   *   *

AT AROUND FOUR
Sheila started rubbing her eyes, a childlike gesture. “I can stay up with you,” she said.

Trey smiled and shook his head. “No. You'll be of more use to all of us if you get a little rest.”

She stood, then leaned across the table and kissed him. Just a quick kiss, her lips warm on his, before she pulled away.

Something in her expression made him say, “What?”

“I kiss . . . multitudes,” she said and headed off to bed.

*   *   *

TREY WAS DEEP
in his own thoughts when the phone jangled. It was just past six. After two rings he got to his feet and walked over to the kitchen counter. Jack hadn't moved on the sofa, but his eyes were open.

The call was coming from a blocked number. With a sigh, Trey picked up the receiver and said, “Yeah?”

“Gilliard?” said the voice on the other end. “George Summers.” Then, after a brief pause, “Department of Agriculture.”

Trey said, “Yeah. I remember you.”

“Is Parker there?” Summers's voice sounded stretched, tense, and Trey wondered if he, too, had spent a sleepless night.

“Guy should check his cell phone every once in a while,” Summers added.

Trey said, “Yes, he's here.” He glanced at Jack, who was sitting up, alert now. A movement at the periphery of Trey's vision showed that Sheila had come to the bedroom doorway and was listening as well.

Trey held the phone out to Jack. “It's Summers.”

Jack took it, then pointed and mouthed, “Speaker.”

Once Trey had pushed the button, Jack leaned back on the sofa and said, “You knew. All that time bullshitting us in your office, and you knew.”