Elixr Plague (Episode 2): Infected Read online

  Edith gripped the backpack straps tight, partly out of fear that things had gotten so bad so fast, and partly out of a sense of sudden claustrophobia. The teeming masses in New York City were all around her, towering over her, tunneling under the streets through miles of unending miles of subways…she needed to get out, to breathe, to escape. She suddenly needed her parents’ farm in southwestern Virginia more than ever before in her life. She needed the mountain air, the pines, the slow creeks, runs, and streams feeding the New River.

  And now she had to activate Centurion. Jesus. Martin was scared. “Yessir—” she said. Her Virginian accent popped through, something which she tried so hard to keep back in the hills and hollers. Edith cleared her throat. “Er, sure, Desmond. Centurion—I’ll call him.”

  “Good.” Desmond Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I want the animals who ruined me to suffer.”

  Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan

  Jillian Downer tried to be nice about the fact that the cashier had just sneezed on her, but she wasn’t really in the mood. She called him a bad name in her head, grabbed her gas station egg sandwich and coffee, and headed back to her car, keys in hand. Even though he’d claimed it was cool because he caught it from a guy who claimed to have gotten the Elixr itself, it was still rude.

  Besides, no way some counter jockey from the local quick-mart would be rubbing shoulders with people rich enough to have already gotten the Elixr treatment. It just wasn’t gonna happen—they moved in completely different orbits.

  “Son of a biscuit,” she mumbled, putting her breakfast in the front seat so she could go fill up the gas tank. The guy behind the counter had looked like death warmed over. Probably the damn early season flu going around. Just her luck.

  First, she’d missed out on her chance to be one of the first in Sault Ste. Marie to get Elixr because she’d overdrawn her checking account and couldn’t pay for a ticket to Chicago, the closest distribution city. Then, three people on her team at work had quit after they managed to get the treatment, saying if they were going to live forever, they were going to have some fun first.

  “Yay for you,” she grumbled, shoving the gas pump into her car. She squeezed the handle and set the lock, making sure it had started pumping fuel first, then returned to the driver’s seat. They’d dumped all the extra caseloads on her—

  CLICK.

  She looked up and closed her eyes. “Figures.” Jillian turned back to the pump and reset the handle. The stupid little lever on the handle locked, but before she could take her hand off it, the damn thing clicked off again.

  “Really?” she demanded of the universe. “I just want to eat breakfast. I’m already late for work as it is. Frank’s gonna kill me…is it too much to ask to just let me fill up my frickin’ car?”

  Standing there babysitting the gas pump, Jillian frowned. Nothing seemed to be going her way lately. Ever since she’d missed her chance at a first-hand Elixr treatment. She knew she’d get her dose eventually, as people spread the gene-editing virus through natural contact, but Jillian hated waiting for something as important as everlasting health. She didn’t believe the hype that Elixr granted immortality to those who contracted it, but she’d seen the reports on how it made your immune system like, invulnerable.

  A thought occurred to her as the gas tank filled up. Maybe the cashier had been infected with the treatment? There were reports that lots of people who got the first dose came down with flu-like symptoms. They’d been talking on the news about that, and how the people in the First Wave were supposed to get better right away. She smiled. Maybe she’d just gotten her Elixr after all!

  The pump clicked to an aggressive stop this time, signaling that her tank was actually full. Jillian replaced the handle, buttoned up her car and climbed in behind the wheel, her mood brightening as she smelled the breakfast sandwich in the passenger seat.

  “Think positive, be positive,” she said to herself as she pulled out of the gas station. She hit every green light on the way to work from that point on and pulled into her law firm’s parking lot with a wide smile on her face. She didn’t care that she hadn’t had a chance to eat her breakfast at a red light—she’d made great time today and actually made it to work on time. Barely. But that had to count for something. Maybe the universe wasn’t out to get her after all…

  Settled at her desk in the paralegal’s corner of the office, Jillian unwrapped her sandwich and booted up her computer. As expected, several new cases appeared in her queue. Her mood deflated somewhat, Jillian finished her meal and got to work. It was going to be a long day of research and brief reviews. Fridays were always long—she lived for the weekend.

  “Okay,” she mumbled around the last bite of lukewarm egg biscuit. She keyed up the first case, a simple DUI. She took a sip of coffee to clear the concrete from her throat and swallowed. “Let’s do this.”

  2

  Centurion

  Elmhurst, Illinois

  Seneca Roberts finished his set before putting down the dumbbell and wiping sweat from his hands. He gave himself a few seconds to catch his breath, then checked the phone. The caller ID was one he’d been expecting for the last two weeks after the botched Elixr release parties, or whatever the fuck Martin wanted to call them.

  The name on the phone was only two letters: E.T. He slid a thumb across the screen to answer the call. “Send it.”

  “We’re activating Centurion,” a woman’s voice announced, with a hint of a southern accent. The line went dead.

  Seneca stared at the phone. “About time.” He thumbed through the apps on his phone and found the one he’d programmed the night Desmond Martin had warned him to get ready—right after some terrorist fucks had blown up the lead scientist on the miracle drug Martin was pimping.

  A single tap and the phone automatically sent messages to the eight other men on his team, all of them retired Delta or SEALs, all of them still in their prime. Some had been forced out of the service for conduct unbecoming, others had been injured and cast aside by an ungrateful government, and then there was Seneca, who’d failed a mission through no fault of his own, but been disavowed and discarded in the same breath. The fact that he’d clawed his way back from hell despite the government’s best attempts to forget him landed Roberts on several lists, none of which were advantageous to one’s health.

  “There, it’s done.” He received immediate ping backs from six of the eight men, but the phone had indicated that the other two had definitely received the message. Sighing, he stood and dropped his phone onto the weight bench. He walked across his single-car garage and took a glance out the high window inset into the reinforced rolling door. The street outside his home was quiet, which was weird this early on a Friday—there should be several people out and about, on their way to work.

  Several days back he’d seen ambulances going up and down the street—one even stopped at a house a few doors down from his—but there had been very little traffic in the last 24 hours. It was starting to feel creepy.

  He walked back across the garage and stood in front of the home-built workbench against the far wall, on the other side of his blacked out Jeep Rubicon. Amid the scattered tools and bits of off-cut lumber from recent projects, he found what he was looking for. Covered in sawdust, an old olive-drab ammo can waited for him.

  If one listened to the doom and gloom on the news channels, the reason his street appeared deserted was people were hiding in their homes, and a good number of them were sick—infected with the virus cocktail Martin had used to create the miracle Elixr. Something had gone wrong though, and instead of making people healthy and ageless, it was killing them—he’d heard the day before that over 10,000 people worldwide had already died from what they called Elixr Syndrome.

  Seneca lifted the ammo can and brushed the sawdust off, then unlatched and pulled the lid back. Underneath some random nuts and bolts, used as low-tech decoys, he found a foil-lined box. Discarding the ammo can with a rattle on the workbench, he unwrapped an inexpensi
ve cell phone. A quick search among the loose fasteners in the can uncovered the slim, foil-wrapped battery.

  He stared at the two pieces of the phone, one in each hand. As soon as he connected the battery, he knew someone, somewhere would start tracking him the second it pinged the nearest cell tower. Whoever watched it would have no idea—at first—whose phone it was, or why it was turned on at precisely that moment, but over time, someone, or more likely a group of someone’s, would investigate and it would lead unsavory people to him. To his home.

  He looked out the window again at the quiet suburban street, lined with mature elms and walnut trees. He watched the maze of somewhat bare branches move in the morning breeze and squinted at the neatly manicured lawns that abutted the road. He’d worked a hard life to be able to live in a place like this, with all the conveniences he could want on his modest income. A safe, comfortable place.

  He glanced down at the phone in his hand. I throw it all away when I plug this battery in.

  In the end, the decision was easy. He connected the battery because he was on retainer for Desmond Martin, and his retainer was six figures, paid quarterly. He was worth every dollar, and Martin knew it—and all that money was sitting in a host of bank accounts untouchable by everyone except maybe some of the worlds greatest hackers. He connected the battery because he liked his work—no, he loved it—he lived for it, the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase, the knowledge that another bad guy was removed from the world when he completed his mission…it wasn’t just a job, it was who he was.

  With a slight click the deed was done, and the phone powered up. It rang as soon as the OS booted.

  “What took you so long?” demanded Edith Traviers.

  “Had to find the damn thing,” Seneca replied, all business. “This the real deal?”

  “I wouldn’t be talking to you on this number if it weren’t.” She sounded out of breath—not scared, but definitely not the calm, cool demeanor he’d dealt with every other time. “Are you ready?”

  “Martin called me a couple weeks back. Right after the initial shitshow got started in London. I’ve been stocking up.”

  “Good. Gather your team and secure transport to the manor.”

  Seneca could tell Ms. Tightass was about to end the call. He spoke quickly to forestall the disconnect. She could be a pain, and kinda bitchy, but she sounded hot. “Hey—is it really as bad as they say on the news?”

  He grimaced as the words tumbled out of his mouth. It was an uncharacteristic question from a man like Seneca Roberts. He was briefed on the mission and he accomplished the mission—that was how he operated—and that was how he had become a rich man, a corporate cleaner, a hitman, a mercenary. One of the best, too. But something about this Elixr mess made his skin crawl, and he found himself feeling like he was being watched more than once over the last two weeks.

  Her answer was short and brutally frightening. “It’s worse.”

  He stared at the phone after the line went dead. “Well…shit.” He tossed the phone on the bench and went inside his house to find a bottle of water. He opened the cap, drained half of it in one swallow, then belched. “Shit,” he said again, staring out the kitchen window at his neighbor’s yard.

  Seneca had spent the past two weeks preparing, so it wasn’t long before he was back in his garage weight room, standing on the foam mats he’d applied to the floor, holding a large duffel bag in each hand. On his back was a plain hiking backpack he’d picked up online a week ago and stuffed with all the emergency supplies he could fit.

  He took a long look around the garage. He’d hoped one day to maybe find a woman to share it all with…

  Seneca shook his head. Even less chance of that shit happening now that Desmond Martin had unleashed the fuckin’ apocalypse. He stomped across the padded mats by his workout gear and opened up the Jeep’s rear hatch. First, his bag of freeze dried and dehydrated food went in. Next the duffel of weapons and ammo, and then he shrugged out of the backpack and tossed that in the back seat as well. He reached into the small cargo area behind the back seat and checked the three Jerry cans full of gas—topped off just a few days back. Everything was still in good shape. He went back for a case of water and a medical kit waiting in the kitchen to fill the last space in the back, and he was ready to roll.

  A glance at his watch showed it had been less than ten minutes since he’d taken the call from Edith Traviers. He smirked. “You still got it.”

  Seneca walked over to the weight bench to retrieve his personal phone. Ward and Plum still hadn’t answered his summons. That wasn’t good. The rest of the team had already switched over to Martin’s secured phones. Either something was wrong, they were hungover, or they were getting laid. None of those options were valid excuses at the moment. Desmond Martin paid them a lot of money to be at his beck and call, and with the bonus for having his whole team assembled enough to cover Seneca’s entire retirement in one shot, he wasn’t fucking around—even if they were.

  “Damn,” he muttered, refreshing the screen to see if there was anything he’d missed. His eight-man team was only six at the moment. Ward wouldn’t be a problem, he lived in Saint Charles, a bit further west of Chicago from Seneca’s own home, but still only a short trip for a personal visit.

  Plum, on the other hand, would be a bigger issue. He’d holed up in a little town southwest of Milwaukee after getting kicked out of the Green Berets. Seneca knew if he had to pick up Plum’s surly ass in Wisconsin, there was no way he’d make it to Martin’s castle of a house in Michigan on time.

  Seneca scratched the stubble on his jaw. He pulled up the map on his phone. Well…he had two options to get to Beacon Point from western Chicago—three, if you counted a ferry ride across Lake Michigan.

  He could head south around the lake and up through Michigan, then cross Lake Huron at the tip of the mitten and make the short drive across the UP. Or…he could go north into Wisconsin, follow Lake Michigan, then drive east along the length of the UP to Beacon Point.

  The Michigan route was about an hour faster…but he’d have to back track from Wisconsin and go through Chicago…no, from Plum’s house, it’d be easier to just follow Lake Michigan and drive the length of the UP to reach Beacon Point.

  He walked over to the garage door and hit the button to raise it. As he stood there listening to the little motor whine, he watched the view outside expand panel by panel as they lifted up and over his head. Seneca realized he didn’t really have a choice. He’d go get Ward, then race north and collect Plum. Seneca Roberts never left a man behind when he was in Delta and he’d sure as hell not start just because the friggin’ world was falling apart.

  Seneca was about to turn for his Jeep when he saw a body on the ground in the front yard across the street. He knew it wasn’t one of his neighbors, the Millers, because the body was white. But as he put his hands on his hips and stared at the corpse, he realized it didn’t matter who it was—if people were dying of Elixr and left to rot where they fell with no sign of first responders…

  He let out a long, slow breath. “Well…shit.”

  3

  Negotiations

  New York City, New York

  The pilot shook his head, the bulbous helmet he wore wavering back and forth. “No ma’am, I’m under orders to get you to LaGuardia and nowhere else. I can’t fly you home first—I need time after I drop you off to get my family to safety.”

  Edith held her breath for a moment before she replied, hoping to stem the obscenity that was about to cross her lips. She’d always prided herself on her ability to maintain control in all situations. It was a skill that had served her well with the mercurial Mr. Martin.

  “I understand,” she said at last into her helmet microphone, adjusting the boom to better fit over her cheek. “But while you work for me, you have to do as I say, correct?”

  The pilot shrugged, an aggravating gesture when seen from behind. He glanced at the instruments in the cockpit before looking out the
domed glass in front of him again. “Normally, I’d be the first person to agree with you, ma’am, but…”

  “But what?” she asked, forcing her hands to smooth her business skirt to keep from balling into fists.

  “It’s the end of the fuckin’ world, lady,” he exploded, his voice high with fear. “Look around! New York is about to be locked down by the army—we could get shot down!”

  She looked out the window and narrowed her eyes. The pilot wasn’t lying. Smoke rose from a dozen fires—some intentional, some the result of the hundreds of car accidents occurring right that second as millions of people scrambled like rats on a sinking ship to get out of New York before the military put a choke hold on it—before the sickness took over, like in London.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her face—a difficult task thanks to the flight helmet. God damn it.

  “Look,” she tried again, speaking over the constant whine of the engine. The pilot cocked his head, listening. “I know things are…fluid…at the moment.”

  The pilot snorted.

  Edith pushed forward with her argument. “But you know who I am, right?”

  The pilot turned in his seat and glanced at her over his shoulder, his face covered by the sun shield attached to his helmet. He turned back to face forward. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

  “And you’ve worked for me for several years now.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And you know who I work for.” Unlike some employers, name dropping with Desmond Martin didn’t imply a threat. On the contrary, Martin was known far and wide for lavishing money and favors upon those who helped him—or his employees in the course of their duties.