The Gemini Virus (28 page)

Dennis had told her Scooter was still in the cabin, where they’d left him with two huge bowls of dry food and a bathtub full of water. He made his sister promise to take care of him after.…

“So anyway,” Mel said, “that’s the big news for today. Once word gets out, you guys are going to be heroes.”

“Scooter, too,” Dennis added.

“Of course.”

“Does the CDC know yet?” Andi asked.

“Yes, the director’s been told. And I’m sure the president knows by now, too.” She reached down and patted Andi on the ankle. “So I’ll come back in and check on you in a little while. I’ve got some rounds to make.”

Mel turned and went out. As the door glided to a close, Elaine said, “She also told me you guys should be discharged in two or three days.”

“Thank God,” Andi said. “Real food again.”

Dennis looked all around the little room—a room he was sure he and his family would be leaving one at a time, on gurneys with sheets pulled over their heads. He had traveled to the very edge of mortality, seen the yawning darkness beyond.

“What are you guys going to do when you get out of here?” Elaine asked, snapping him from his trance.

The house,
he thought dimly.
Carlton Lakes
. They couldn’t stay away forever. Sooner or later, they had to go back and face whatever awaited them.

“Go home, I guess,” he replied.

Andi turned and looked at him pensively. She knew what he was thinking. She could feel it.

Maybe the nightmare wasn’t over yet.

*   *   *

The six-person technician team was waiting for Beck when he burst through the lab’s double doors.

“Here, quickly!”

The samples were immediately taken from him and prepared while he put on his protective gear. The others worked together as a group, but they knew Beck only by reputation. He’d been here twice since the outbreak began, and on those two occasions he spoke exclusively to Kevin Little. Both times Beck struck Little as being uncommonly pleasant.

When the samples were ready, Little inserted them into the electron microscope. Magnification was pushed to 4000X. They had many from alternative sources, human and otherwise, to use for comparison.

Little said, “I believe these are one and the same.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

Beck felt a surge of excitement. “Okay, now I’m going to ask you to use the big gun. Let’s take a look at it with the AFM.”

Atomic force microscopes were the most advanced instruments ever created for viewing minute particles. Developed in the 1980s, they utilized a probe consisting of a cantilevered silicon tip that reacted to piezoelectric energy created by the tip’s close proximity with a sample, such as capillary or electrostatic forces. From these minute movements, a computer image was drawn with resolution on a nanometric scale—more than a thousand times more detailed than that of optical diffraction microscopes—and with true tridimensionality. The resulting pictures had startling clarity, with the particles in question often bearing beautiful geometric shapes that defied their deadly nature. AFMs also had the advantages of requiring no stains or heavy metal coatings—thus doing no damage to the sample material—and could be used without the expense or trouble of a vacuum environment.

Little grinned. “Trying to get the virus to smile for the public?”

“Well, that, and I also want to make certain the match is beyond question. In this case, good enough isn’t going to be good enough.”

“I dig.”

“And I want an image to send to Sheila Abbott. She’ll want to see it.”

“You got it.”

“With a little luck, it’ll end up on CNN or something.”

Little chuckled. “I’ll make sure the virus combs its hair.”

The AFM sat on a square table in one corner and looked similar to an old portable record player with its lid raised. It even had a large silver disk in the center. Little fired up the computer and ordered everyone to put their masks back on. Six samples were set carefully under the conical tip—two from Beck’s Catskills find, two from infected lab animals, and two from separate human victims. The whole process took about an hour, and no one in the group spoke a word as they waited for the images to unfold on the screen. Once that happened, all remaining doubt evaporated. The inconsistently shaped spheres, the rods and cylinders with their peculiar DNA cases, the graceful tail fibers …

“Bingo,” Beck said.

“Sweet,” one of the assistants whispered.

“I’ll be damned,” Little said. “By Jove, Beck, you’ve done it again.”

“Yeah, I guess so. And it’s very unlikely that this one was artificially engineered.”

“No way anyone could produce this with modern technology. This was Mother Nature’s recipe.”

“A new mutant of some kind, that has a deadly effect on both deer and humans.”

“Appears so. Just showed up in nature one day.”

“That’s how it usually happens,” Beck said. Then he smiled broadly. “At last we have some answers. Can we get a few JPEG images together?”

“Most certainly.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

He was in the locker room five minutes later, removing his gear. Then he was in the parking lot, putting his earpiece in place.

“Sheila? It’s me.”

“What’s happening with the tests?”

“You’ve got to call the president immediately.”

“It’s a match?”

“Perfect.”

“My God, you’re sure?”

“Yes, no doubt. I’m having the lab send pictures to you.”

He got into the car, started the engine, and glanced only briefly in the rearview mirror before backing out.

“So you’re certain this isn’t a terrorist creation?”

“The kind of equipment they’d need, not to mention the advanced knowledge of how to do it … and maybe most importantly, it’s pretty ridiculous to think they’d start the spread of it by infecting a population of deer in the Catskills.”

“Yeah, okay … I’ll let him know right away.”

“Good. By the way, have you heard from Cara?”

“No, why?”

“She wasn’t at the lab.” He checked his watch. “Maybe she’s getting something to eat.”

“I don’t know. I have to go, Michael.”

“Right. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

TWENTY

DAY 18

As word of the serum spread, the government was forced to prioritize who would receive it—and, perhaps more significant, who would not—while the manufacturing process expanded in excruciating increments. In many instances, children were first in line, then their parents. Beyond those two categories—kids and parents—the key metric was age, with seniors at the bottom of the list if they made the list at all.

It didn’t take long for the public to discover that the original antibodies came from the Catskills hospital, although the staff did an admirable job of keeping the Jensens’ identity a secret. People showed up day and night, demanding doses either for themselves or their loved ones. Bribes were offered, threats made. Amazingly, no contraband samples found their way online. One vial, however, was successfully smuggled out by a young nurse who had cut a deal with a local stockbroker. The agreed price was $100,000—in cash, of course—and the dose was given to the man’s twelve-year-old daughter. It was an unusual incident in that all sides walked away happy—the child made a complete and uneventful recovery, and the nurse eventually put the money toward medical school, which had previously been little more than a pipe dream.

As more laboratories began to manufacture doses, the federal government sent out military units to protect them, and boxes of finished serum were shipped to various hospitals via military transports. Security was also increased around President Obama, Secretary Napolitano, and Sheila Abbott after it leaked that they had made the decisions concerning recipient prioritization.

Lawsuits were filed by the thousands; everyone had a reason why they deserved treatment ahead of everyone else. There were also reports of infected people trying to pass the virus to their dogs in the hope of producing their own attenuated version, unaware that it worked with the Jensens’ dog only because he had received the infectious agent from its original source.

The CDC and WHO made repeated assurances that new doses were being produced as quickly as possible, but it seemed to make little difference in light of the fact that the fatality count had now topped eighteen thousand in the United States alone and was continuing to rise.

*   *   *

William “Buster” Patterson sat in his home office, the huge Macintosh screen glowing into his beefy face, and yawned so hard, he shuddered. He’d been staring at the same Adobe Illustrator document for the last two hours—a meticulously crafted false passport—and was now bored of it. He had already scanned the eventual recipient’s tiny photograph and set it in place. The name he’d been told to use was Kalil Hejazi. Age: 32. Occupation: International Sales Rep Company: MCM Steel. Location: Dubai. Patterson had no idea what Hejazi’s real name was, and he didn’t really care. He was being paid ten grand for the job: a passport and some other papers. He got that much because he was good at it, but also because he didn’t ask questions.

He liked to think of himself as a Reality Adjuster. He didn’t tell any of his clients that, didn’t have it printed on a business card. But the description was accurate enough. He erased truths and manufactured fantasies. It began in the late ’80s when a seven-year career in government intelligence ended with his getting caught, along with six others, for plotting to steal nearly half a million dollars in seized drug money. One of the other six, his superior, reduced his own sentence by ratting out the rest of the team, and Patterson spent four years in the federal tank before being quietly released on probation. He found legitimate employment difficult, so he turned to the dark side and utilized the artistic talents he’d had since childhood. He began by counterfeiting various foreign currencies, then went into documents that ranged from birth and death certificates to social security cards and diplomas. By the time he branched into computer hacking, his reputation had begun to grow. Terrorists became frequent clients, as they paid well and didn’t waste time trying to get friendly. They also mentioned him to their friends, and he was always happy to get more work. Anything to stick it to Uncle Sam.

He adjusted Hejazi’s picture—a nice-looking Arabic young man who, Patterson was sure, was on some government watch list somewhere—and then yawned again and got up. A quick glance at his Movado told him it was almost one in the morning. He thought about going down to Darklands and picking up one of the stragglers, Betsy or Tina or Cherise. One of them usually had trouble finding someone to go home with. Barstool warriors with too much makeup and spongy, sagging breasts. But he knew them and they knew him, and everyone woke up reasonably satisfied in the morning.

As he went down the hallway and into the kitchen, he made the decision to watch something on the Playboy Channel instead. He opened the fridge and removed a bottle of Schaefer from its cardboard carrier. His profession had netted him more than three million dollars over the years, and he still had about half of it sitting in an offshore account. In spite of that, plus the nice condo, the convertible Jaguar, the club memberships, the rest of the Movados, and a whole slew of other crap, he couldn’t acquire a taste for fine wine or Dom Pérignon or anything of that. Just beer, and none of that gourmet garbage, either.

He twisted the cap and tossed it into the sink, then shuffled his large frame into the bathroom. He tilted the bottle back as he stood before the bowl pissing away, and the irony was not lost on him.
You never own beer, you just rent it,
he thought, remembering something he’d heard in a men’s room ages ago. He set the bottle down on the marble shell-basin so he could shake out the last few drops. That’s when the front door was kicked in.

It sounded like a WWE character being slammed to the mat—
BOOM!
Then the announcement that chilled his bones
—“FBI, don’t move!”

Others voices followed—many, in fact. Patterson sprang into action, following a plan he’d gone over a thousand times in his mind but prayed he’d never have to use. He streaked down the hallway and into the office, his hands already out and ready to apply the four-key combination he’d programmed to erase
everything
. It was a dangerous protocol—if he accidentally hit them during the course of an ordinary day, the paired hard drives in his CPU would be completely erased. But it was a necessary evil in his line of work.

He came to a halt at the doorway—another agent was crawling through the window that he’d foolishly left open to enjoy the night breeze. Typical FBI kid—muscular and handsome, with leather gloves, jackboots, goggles, a Kevlar vest.… He already had his weapon out and was pointing it directly at Patterson’s chest, but his eyes were shifting between his target and the computer. In that instant, Patterson realized, they knew who he was, what he did … everything.

“Down on the floor, now!”
the kid barked, now fully inside and blocking the way to the keyboard.

Patterson dodged to the right and continued down the darkened hall. More voices were shouting behind him. He scurried into his bedroom, was relieved to find no one coming through those windows, and locked the door. In spite of his size—he had topped 260 pounds the week before and vowed to do something about it—he dived over the bed onto the floor, then slipped his hand under the pillow and grabbed his own gun. Finding it unusually light, he realized the clip wasn’t inserted and cursed loudly.

He pulled back the drawer on the nightstand as the pounding began. The magazine was, almost comically, under a pile of magazines. His shaking hands managed to ram it into the butt just as the door exploded off its hinges and a wave of agents poured in.

“Gun down!”
one of them screamed. Patterson wasn’t stupid enough to fire at any of them, but he had no intention of going back to prison, either.

He set the barrel on his temple and fired. He had thought often about death but never quite decided what to expect. Darkness and silence? Floating dreamily through time and space? A red-skinned demon with an arrowtail and a pitchfork?