The Liger Plague (Book 1) (5 page)

The smell of the sea filled his nostrils. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean and ruffled through the leaves. The skyline canvas was streaked with purple clouds, and he wondered if a system was moving through. He imagined that many of the people down on the Cooke’s terminal were quite upset at not having caught their ferry back into Portland. Many of them most likely had hotel reservations in town or had loved ones waiting for them on the mainland. The same was true for those people at the Portland terminal waiting to come over to Cooke’s. Hopefully, this threat amounted to nothing, and life on the island could soon return to normal.

And yet something inside told him that this was no idle threat.

Tag nodded to the people walking down the hill as he made his way up the private street to his house. Luckily, his was the only house on this road. Surprisingly, they seemed not in the least dismayed by the sight of a man in uniform walking with a backpack. After 9/11 it seemed in step with the times. He pulled up to his front lawn and noticed that all the lights had been turned off, meaning that Monica and Taylor had already left for the festival. His wife’s car was nowhere in sight and not even in the garage. He walked up the path and let himself in the front door, immediately spotting his wife’s leather bag sitting on the coffee table. Knowing how forgetful she’d been lately, he was sure she’d left her phone inside it. He had to constantly remind her to take whatever she needed before she left the house. Today her scatterbrained tendencies might have saved her life. Who knew if RF transmissions could actually stimulate targeted brain cells? He didn’t want to take any chances no matter how crazy or implausible the idea seemed. He rooted around inside her bag until he found her cell phone and then proceeded to remove the battery and toss them in the woods far behind the house.

He went down to the basement and checked on his stash of supplies locked in the closet of one of the outer rooms. The basement space was his one regret. Though he had a good deal of supplies, food and water stored away, and a good many weapons locked in a gun safe, he hadn’t found the time yet to make it a safe room in case of an emergency. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

Once he’d inventoried his supplies, he took one of the pistols with him and headed upstairs to the bedroom, where he changed into something more casual: shorts, a polo shirt, and boat shoes. He returned downstairs and took two sandwiches out of the refrigerator, wolfed them down, and then headed out to the garage, where the golf cart sat. They usually took one car on the ferry and parked the other one on the Portland side, and then used the golf cart to get around Cooke’s while they vacationed on the island.

He felt oddly calm, considering the dire circumstances facing him and his family. It almost seemed as if nothing on the island had changed. He started the golf cart and headed down the street, proceeding toward the center of town. The closer he got, the more people he saw milling about the streets and filing in and out of the local bars, shops and restaurants. Art Fest was most definitely in full bloom. Street vendors, musicians, balloon-twisting clowns, face painters, hot dog carts, pretzel peddlers and artist booths lined the sidewalks. A large crowd loitered around the streets and parks, and police barriers had blocked it off from vehicular traffic. Tag parked the golf cart on one of the side streets and headed toward the community center, where his wife had her glass sculptures display set up. Despite all the happy faces around him, he knew that the island would quickly descend into chaos if an insidious virus spread among these citizens. The key to maintaining crowd control would be to try to keep everyone inside their home or hotel once it struck, effectively preventing the spread of the infection. The biggest question was what to do about those people who had come over for the day? Where would they go?

At the end of the street, which was the highest point on land, he could see clear past both sides of the island, as well as the ferry terminal. Hundreds of people loitered around the landing dock in hopes that the ferry might return and take them back to the mainland. If the ferry system remained suspended, where would all these people stay for the night? There were only two hotels on the island, and they were completely booked throughout the summer months. There were five bed-and-breakfast establishments, but they couldn’t begin to handle the crowds that had traveled to the island for Art Fest. If something happened—and God forbid it did—these poor people would be stranded and on their own.

Technically, Cooke’s Island was a borough of Portland. On numerous occasions it had attempted to secede from the city and become its own entity, but the islanders had recently voted, by a razor-thin margin, to remain part of the city. If a full-fledged quarantine took effect, which was the official policy in an emergency situation such as this, there would be no officials from the city crossing over to organize the frightened masses. As it stood, only two police officers were stationed here that could coordinate efforts. Tag figured it would be up to him to create a contingency plan for the island and to fully see it through, especially now that he’d been given the antidote to the virus.

Despite the lack of ferry service, the crowds strolling about seemed happy and not yet concerned about the postponed service. Either that or they were not yet fully aware of the shutdown. The bars and restaurants appeared full and humming with activity. People walked around eating gelato out of cups and snacking on hot dogs and thick slices of Sicilian pizza from Nunzio’s. Many had cell phones up to their ears and were speaking to friends or loved ones as they walked or pushed baby strollers around. The sight of all these people using their cell phones sent a chill down his spine, and he wondered what to do. Should he try and convince them all to get off their phones? More than a few would tell him where to stick it, he knew. And he couldn’t blame them. Who’d ever believe that a radio frequency could trigger a debilitating virus lodged in their brain? Even he didn’t fully believe it. Not the best way to instill calm and order in the general public, especially when the goal was to keep everyone
on
the island and not in a panicked rush to get off it.

He walked along the sidewalk and toward the community center, keeping his eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. The early evening air felt warm and dry, and a cool ocean breeze made it even more comfortable. As he approached the community center, he could see the long line of people standing in front of the door, waiting to get inside. He saw that it was five past seven. The Center must have extended its hours because of the surge of people still trying to get inside.

Rather than walk in through the front and cut the line, he took a right down the alley and headed for the back door. He turned the handle but discovered it was locked, so he banged his fist on the wood until someone opened it. Walking inside, he could see a large crowd of people shuffling past the booths, gazing intently at the various works of art. Rectangular in shape, the community center seemed the ideal place to house the festival. Patrons filed around in an orderly, clockwise fashion, taking in the various exhibits before moving on to the next booth. He looked around for his wife and found her at the far corner of the room. A large crowd had gathered around her booth, examining all the colorful glass-blown sculptures she’d arranged in hierarchical fashion. He recognized the sculptures as strains of Ebola, Marburg, anthrax and avian flu among the many other lethal viruses known to man. The idea of creating glass art sculptures in the shapes of lethal viruses struck him as unsettling, original, and breathtakingly beautiful at the same time.

He strode over, wondering how to handle this sensitive situation without causing a scene. His nerves felt jangly and on edge. The crowd of people stood three deep in front of the booth, and he could see that his wife was clearly enjoying her moment in the sun. Politely, he pushed his way through the crowd and saw that Monica had spotted him. Smiling, she waved for him to come over. He smiled halfheartedly in return, but something seemed not quite right. As soon as he moved to the front of the line, he clearly saw what people had been staring at. He felt his knees go wobbly and knew instantly, and with complete certainty, that this threat was no hoax.

“You made it up early, hon. I didn’t think you’d get here until later tonight,” Monica said.

“Can I have a quick word with you, babe?”

“Hi, Dad!” Taylor said from the back of the booth, where she’d been polishing some glass works.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, not able to take his eyes off the glass sculpture sitting on the table, knowing full well that she hadn’t been the one to create it. His pulse raced, and for a second he felt dizzy with fear.

His wife scooted out from behind the booth. He guided her by the elbow and led her to the middle of the room, where it was less crowded. A sense of urgency filled him as he tried to think of the words to say.

“What the hell is that thing sitting on your table?”

“Whoa! Looks like someone’s had a bad day!” she said, laughing. “Tough day at the conference, Tag?”

“Look at me, Monica! I’m not kidding around!”

She stared hard at him, knowing full well when he was being serious. “What’s going on with you, hon?”

“Answer my question!”

“That glass sculpture was sent as a gift from my gallery in D.C. They must have heard that I was going to be the guest of honor at Cooke’s Art Fest this year and wanted to send a token of their appreciation for having done business with them.”

“Why the hell would they send you that?”

“Lower your voice, Taggert Winters,” she scolded, gripping him by the bicep. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

“I’m not being an asshole. I’m asking why your gallery would send you a goddamn glass sculpture?” He could barely control his growing sense of panic.

“First of all, hon, it’s great to see you too.” She gave him a fake smile. “Second, it’s not any old cat but a liger. Didn’t you see the stripes? Okay, so maybe it’s not museum quality, but it’s still pretty amazing all the same. It does the coolest thing too. You press a button under its tail and smoke blows out of its mouth.”

“Smoke?” Tag nearly passed out at the implication.

“Yes, smoke. You push this button at the base, and aerosol starts to come out of the mouth. Quite a beautiful sight.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“What?” she said, turning to check on Taylor.

“That wasn’t smoke coming out of its mouth, Monica,” he whispered. “That was an aerosol containing a virus.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Listen to me. A threat was called in to me while I was attending that infectious disease conference at Harvard Medical School. What you thought was smoke may have actually been some kind of biological weapon.”

She stared at him for a second before breaking out into peals of laughter. “Be serious, hon. I think you may have been working too hard this morning with all your infectious disease pals.”

He wondered for a moment if she was right. Was he losing his mind? The delivery of this blown-glass liger could not have been a coincidence. The caller, Lenny, had specifically used the word ‘liger’ extensively throughout their conversation. Was he dreaming? Had he heard what he thought he heard? The events that had transpired today seemed surreal and nightmarish. He knew something bad had happened here, and he also knew that no one could get off this island for fear of spreading the disease to the mainland. Cooke’s would have to be totally quarantined until the severity of the threat was established and the contagion could burn itself out.

The director of the festival approached them. “Nice to see you, Tag. You’re not going to believe this, but there’s a phone call for you.” She held up the cordless phone and handed it to him.

“Who is it?” he asked the director.

“I have no idea, but could you be a dear and hang it back up when you’re through?”

“Sure,” he said, watching his wife return to her booth. “Who is this?”

“Hello, Colonel. I’m so thrilled that you made it to the island in one piece,” the generated voice said. “I knew all along you could do it.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Take it easy, Colonel. I thought the point of being on Cooke’s Island was to unwind and relax? Get rid of all that unwanted stress in your life.”

“Thanks to you, that’s not going to happen.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Are you going to let an itsy-bitsy virus ruin your day?”

“How did you get over here? All the ferries have been shut down.”

“I passed you on the highway, and boy, did you create a huge traffic jam by trying to outrun the state police. By the time I got in my little dinghy and crossed over to the island, the ferries were all still operational. I commend you on shutting them down. I knew you had it in you. It’s why I chose you of all people, Colonel. You know how to get things done.”

“Did you send that glass sculpture to my wife?”

“Beautiful work of art, don’t you think? Did it myself. Tell your wife thank you so much for bringing it over to the island and activating the virus delivery system. She’s a real trouper.”

“I thought you sent it to the island?”

“Oh no, that would be way too easy and far less fun. Besides, FedEx doesn’t deliver overnight to the island. I had her and your daughter take the ferry over to the mainland and pick it up at her gallery. Makes the game a little more fun, don’t you think?”

“What did you put inside that sculpture?”

“Ingenious device. A battery-operated virus dispenser. Just press the button, and a beautiful aerosol fills the entire room. The viral organism is specifically engineered to contain glass crystals, Colonel, insuring that the agent will float in the air, recirculating for long periods of time and eventually lodging in clothing, where it can then be easily inhaled into the lungs and attach itself to the membrane walls.”

“So what kind of agent are we dealing with?” Tag said, walking away from two art patrons within hearing range.

“Relax, Colonel, you’ll soon find out. This organism has been engineered to produce symptoms extremely quickly in its victim, even by your standards. It’s one of the trade-offs I had to make in order to create my beautiful liger.”