Zoo II (7 page)

I’m torn between two
women: the most important one in my life, and quite possibly the most important one in the world.

Getting the captured feral human onto our plane was no easy task. It took five of us—five grown men—just to carry this one petite, flexi-cuffed young woman out of the jungle and back to our waiting vehicles. Unbelievably strong, she kept kicking, thrashing, and trying to bite us the whole time.

She also ranted in her scratchy, eerie voice. One of our guides happened to speak a few words of Tswana, the indigenous language she was using.
“Someone help me!”
he translated.
“I am a person, not a wild animal!”

Technically, I suppose she was correct. But I’ve worked on the HAC crisis for many years now and have faced down more deadly predators than I can count. And she is by far the most ferocious and terrifying one I’ve ever seen.

As we finally got the woman secured into one of our SUVs, Dr. Woodruff said, “I just figured out who this pain in the ass reminds me of.” He has a wicked sarcastic streak. “Helen, my ex-wife.”

Of course, the name stuck.

Our convoy sped back through the mayhem of Johannesburg to the airport. We buckled “Helen” into a seat in the rearmost row of our Boeing C-40 military transport plane, her arms and legs strapped in as if she were in an electric chair. An emergency oxygen mask around her face kept her from biting or spitting.

We got airborne as quickly as we could, and not just because time was of the essence. We all knew that what we were doing—kidnapping an innocent foreign citizen and transporting her overseas against her will—put us in a legal gray area, to say the least.

We’d been flying for nearly thirty minutes before I remembered—in all the chaos and confusion of the past hour or so, I’d completely forgotten about my satellite phone, and the ring that alerted the pack of feral humans to our presence.

When I finally checked it, I saw I had a new voicemail, from a blocked number.

Hearing Chloe’s voice, my relief was indescribable—until I listened through to the end.

Sounding remarkably calm, my wife explained how their apartment had been overrun by animals a few days ago. How she and Eli had managed to escape after her father and stepmother were killed. How they’d spent a night in a shelter from the streets but now were safe.

“We’ll be staying with some, uh,
friends
for a while,” she said. “Friends of the Earth. I can’t tell you where exactly. But I also can’t wait to see you, Oz. So you can…
hold me in your arms
. Okay, I love you. Bye.”

I knew immediately my wife was in trouble.

One night, years ago, “Hold Me in Your Arms,” a painfully cheesy 1988 love song by Rick Astley, came on at a bar where Chloe and I were having one of our first official dates. We joked that being forced to listen to such an awful tune on an endless loop would be even worse than an animal attack. Since then, “hold me in your arms” has become a kind of inside joke between us, a code phrase we use anytime something is bad or corny or scary.

Or, in this case, I could only presume,
dangerous
.

My wife wouldn’t say those words unless something wasn’t right. I’m certain of it. And those “friends of the Earth” she’s staying with—who the hell are they? What is she talking about? Why “can’t” she say where she is? What is she scared of?

All I know is, I need to find her and Eli right away and get them out of there fast.

“Freitas!” I shout, marching up the aisle to his seat. “We’re changing course!”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” he asks. “We’re en route to INL.”

That would be the Idaho National Laboratory, the federal government’s largest research facility with a dedicated biological sciences unit, nestled in the state’s secluded eastern desert. There we’ll poke and prod Helen and use every known test in existence on her.

“First we’re going back to Paris,” I say.

I tell him about the voicemail. What Chloe said. The coded message. My gut instinct that something is very wrong. And that even if
I’m
the one who’s wrong, my wife and son are still all alone in a foreign city overrun by wild animals.

“Oz, we can’t go there right now. It’s too far out of our way. We’ve got a feral human on board! Don’t you understand that? We have to get her to the lab ASAP.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“There is no one in the world more committed to solving this crisis than I am,” I fire back, my voice rising. Sarah and some of the other scientists are starting to look over at us. “But you’re asking me just to forget about my family? Imagine if it was yours!”

Freitas sighs deeply. “I consider the entire
planet
to be my family.”

As a fellow man of science, I know what he means. And I respect it.

But as a husband and father, I think it’s absolute horseshit.

“You promised me—
promised
—that if I left the Arctic, came along on this wild goose chase of yours, and helped you people stop HAC once and for all, you’d ensure my family’s safety. Remember that?” I’m nearly trembling with rage now. “I’m not
asking
you, Dr. Freitas. I am
telling
you. Before Idaho, we are going to France!”

Freitas rubs his salt-and-pepper beard, clearly torn. Maybe I’m getting through to him. Every eye in the plane is now on us—including Helen’s beady, bloodshot ones.

“Oz…I’m sorry. I am. But, no, we simply don’t have the time or resources to—”

I slam my hand against the cabin wall—and pull out my sat phone.

“Oh, really? Let’s see how fast those resources dry up when word leaks to the press that HAC has started spreading to
people
now, too—and that Dr. Evan Freitas of the U.S. Department of Energy has been personally keeping that information under wraps!”

That’s my trump card. I’m not bluffing, either. Hell, I’d give away the codes to the nuclear football if it meant saving Chloe and Eli. And Freitas knows it.

“Fine. But I have a better idea,” he says at last. “I’ll have the White House send a diplomatic security team from the embassy to find them. Your wife called your government satellite phone, right? That means we can track the location of the call. What would you do alone in Paris anyway, Oz? Let the highly trained men with guns save your family. You’re a scientist. We need you in Idaho. To help save the
world
.”

I’m steaming mad, but I have to admit, Freitas makes a compelling case. And short of barging into the cabin, there’s not much else I can do to redirect our plane.

I slide my sat phone back into my pocket. All I can think about is how badly I want to see Chloe and Eli again. And “hold them in my arms.”

As I hurry down
the movable stairway that’s been pushed up against our plane, I cover my mouth and nose with the collar of my shirt. A dust storm is brewing about ten miles away, and the air is starting to swirl with dust and grit.

A fleet of military and government vehicles is on the tarmac of Hill Air Force Base waiting for us: a few tan Jeeps, some black Suburbans, an ambulance, and a giant fluorescent yellow truck emblazoned with
INL C
RITICAL
I
NCIDENT
R
ESPONSE
T
EAM
.

Sarah and our colleagues and I have barely stepped off the aircraft when a group of federal scientists wearing white full-body hazmat suits scamper aboard.

With Freitas directing them, they soon reemerge with Helen, strapped onto an upright wheeled gurney liked the kind used to transport Hannibal Lecter in
The Silence of the Lambs
. Except this one is covered with a clear plastic quarantine tent, and Helen is screaming and thrashing against her restraints worse than ever.

Even the stone-faced Marines there to protect us betray hints of fear.

After Helen is loaded into the rear of the hazmat truck, Freitas, Sarah, and I are directed to the lead Suburban, where I’m surprised to see a familiar face.

“Look what the feral cats dragged in,” says Mike Leahy, extending a meaty hand, the wind tousling his wavy silver hair. A high-ranking section chief with the National Security Agency, many months ago he acted as my unofficial government liaison and security escort. And let’s just say…we didn’t always get along.

I grimace as we shake hands. “Good to see you again, too, Mr. Leahy.”

Our convoy is soon tearing down I-15, an endless two-lane desert highway, toward the laboratory. We
should
be able to see the Teton Range rising to the east, but it’s obscured by that approaching dust storm.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Leahy says from the front seat. “When word started to spread back in DC that you were bringing back an infected human? It gave us quite a chuckle. But no one’s laughing now.”

“I’m glad,” I say, “but you’re wrong. ‘Infected’ implies some kind of disease-causing organism. Like bacteria, or a virus. We don’t think that’s the case here. Our working theory is, Helen’s prehistoric-like behavior is somehow being triggered by pheromones, just like the animals’ is.”

“‘Helen?’” Leahy scoffs. “You actually named that thing?”

“That
thing
is a human being,” Sarah snaps. “With a
real
name we may never know. Show a little respect.”

Damn. I’m liking Sarah more every day.

We ride in silence, and my mind immediately drifts back to Chloe and Eli. Freitas let me listen in as he called President Hardinson’s chief of staff from the plane and got his personal guarantee he’d send a team to track down my wife and son in Paris. Now there’s nothing else I can do but wait and pray that Chloe and Eli are found.

“That sandstorm sure is moving fast,” says Sarah, gesturing out her window.

I look over—and my eyes nearly bug out of my head.

A smaller cloud of dust seems to be rolling across the desert right toward us.

“What…what in the hell…?” Leahy stutters.

As the cloud gets closer, I realize it’s not a weather phenomenon at all.

It’s a charging herd of wild mustangs. Dozens of them.

“Aw, shit!” Leahy exclaims,
grabbing his walkie-talkie. “Be advised, we got horses on our flank!” he barks into it. “All units—shoot and evade, shoot and evade!”

I hang on tight as our Marine driver slams the gas, and the entire convoy swerves off the highway and begins to speed up.

A mustang’s top speed can reach over fifty miles per hour, but I’m confident we can outrun them. I feel even more hopeful as I watch other Marines in each of the escort Jeeps slide their M14s out their windows and unleash a torrent of automatic gunfire at the galloping broncos, quickly felling one after another.

But it’s still too little, too late.

The remaining horses blast right through our line of vehicles. Glass shatters, metal groans, blood splatters, and bones crunch as thousands of pounds of car and horse collide at highway speed.

Two Jeeps, the ambulance, and one Suburban are toppled immediately, tumbling in different directions.

Then the Suburban I’m riding in is hit—and spins wildly, doing donuts in the desert dirt. Our driver, a female Marine, struggles to regain control as we’re thrown around the car’s interior like clothes inside a dryer.

“Go, damnit, go!” Leahy yells as the Marine pounds the accelerator, kicking up more dust behind us. He pulls her sidearm from her holster and fires frantically out the broken window at the mustangs as they regroup and charge again.

We can’t get away fast enough. Neighing and snorting, the colts ram us again, head-on, with incredible force, first knocking the Suburban onto its side and then flipping it onto its roof.

Shattered glass rains down around me as I dangle upside down, pinned, suspended by my seat belt. Beside me, Sarah and Freitas are also hanging—it looks like the impact of the crash has knocked them both out cold.

I start to get woozy. Images of Chloe and Eli flash through my mind. If I’m dying, I definitely want those two to be my final thoughts.

My head flops over in the other direction. Through the dusty haze I can make out the yellow hazmat vehicle.

It’s also been tipped over and is being pummeled just as mercilessly by multiple mustangs, its white-suited passengers as helpless as we are.

One of the horses manages to bash open the back doors—and the animal suddenly rears up on its hind legs in terror.

Helen is inside, still strapped to her gurney, but the plastic quarantine tent around her is badly torn, and she’s screaming and baring her teeth at the horse.

Another mustang notices. Then another, then another. Before long, the colts have regrouped and are charging yet again—
away
from us.

The rest of the horses rejoin the fleeing pack and kick up another massive dust cloud in their wake.

When it finally settles, they’re gone.

Wrecked vehicles and bloody horse limbs litter the desert ground. Human moaning wafts through the hot air, along with Helen’s feral screams.

My sneakers and rubber-tipped
cane squeak against the floor as I hobble down this long, sterile hallway. I’m late to one of our frequent all-hands meetings, thanks to a pit stop at the lab’s infirmary to grab a fresh handful of painkillers.

Over the past forty-eight hours, I’ve been popping those little guys like candy.

I push open the door of the conference room, which isn’t easy. The stitches in my shoulder are still sore, and my busted knee still aches. Not to mention my three chipped teeth, sprained wrist, and the cuts and bruises over my whole body.

Seated around the giant marble table, their meeting already in progress, are Freitas, Sarah, Leahy, and most of the other scientists on our team. I say “most” because, between the feral human attack in the jungle and the mustang stampede on the highway, we’ve lost six colleagues in half as many days.

As I gently, painfully, sink into an empty chair, I have to remind myself how much worse my fate could have been.

Dr. Marilia Carvalho, a neuroscientist from São Paulo, is showing a series of colorful MRI brain scans on the large display screen. Since we arrived at the Idaho National Laboratory, we’ve been meeting like this often to share our research.

“But as you can see, while the subject’s neurological structure is still identical to that of a typical human’s, the vast majority of her neurological
activity
is occurring in the cerebellum, the medulla, and the basal ganglia.”

“The so-called reptilian brain,” Sarah offers. “An anatomical holdover from our days in the wild.”

“Precisely. The higher capabilities in Helen’s mind, like emotion and reason, have somehow been switched off. She most likely sees us modern humans as threats because her brain is literally functioning like a Neanderthal’s.”

“But why?” booms Leahy, jabbing his bulky arm cast in the air for emphasis. “That’s the question Washington is paying you all to find out!”

“Our working theory is still pheromones, Mr. Leahy,” says Freitas, who has two black eyes and a broken nose covered with a thick beige bandage. “We believe that explains why, as soon as the mustangs ‘smelled’ Helen, they backed off.”

“But why is it happening to some folks and not others?” Leahy demands. “Why in some
places
and not others?”

Those are all fair questions. But I have an even more pressing one.

“Why hasn’t it shown signs of regressing?” I ask. My colleagues all turn to me quizzically. “And why aren’t any of you more afraid of that?

“Think back seven months ago,” I continue, “when the president signed that emergency executive order, and all those world leaders joined her, putting a global moratorium on cellphone use, power generation, cars, planes. While it lasted, nearly all electromagnetic radiation was removed from the environment, and animal attacks plummeted—within
hours
. Wildlife started returning to normal.”

Nods all around the table. Happy memories from a more hopeful time.

“But look at Helen. She’s been in a completely sterile environment, inside a Faraday shield that blocks all electrical signals, for almost two days—and she’s as feral as ever! We know how to reverse the effects of HAC on animals. But on people? We’re back to square one. Is there an ‘antidote,’ or is it permanent? Shit, maybe it
is
contagious after all.”

For what feels like forever, no one speaks. I’m not happy I just sucked all the air out of the conference room, but I said what I felt I had to.

“It’s almost as if…some kind of irreversible physical changes are happening in Helen’s brain,” Sarah says somberly. “Perhaps we’ve been approaching it all wrong.”

“Perhaps we should hear the latest on everyone’s research first,” Freitas says, steering the meeting back on track.

And so the rest of the scientists present their latest, equally inconclusive findings. Then the group starts filing out. We all have an enormous amount of work to do.

Shakily, I rise to my feet and begin limping toward the door. Freitas pulls me aside, placing a paternal hand on my back.

“Oz, I have some news,” he says, his voice solemn. “About your family.”

“The French cellphone number Chloe called from was identified, along with its last location: an abandoned monastery near Chantilly. Apparently some kind of wacko animal rights cult has been squatting there.”

I know right away they must be the “friends of the Earth” Chloe cryptically mentioned in her message.

“When agents arrived, the group itself was gone, but local police have some leads as to where they went next.”

I can only pray Chloe and Eli are still with them. But I do have additional cause for hope. Among the other items they found in the monastery was our dog-eared copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
.