Elixr Plague (Episode 3): Pandemic Page 4

  That told Desmond all he needed to know: Mapp was onto something big. Everyone in the manor knew the feds were tapping all communications into and out of the Martin residence. As the world descended into chaos and the government lost more and more control over its own population, Desmond and his advisers agreed the law would be less and less meaningful to those attempting to enforce it.

  Some scientists from the UN, and especially the talking heads in the media, were calling the Elixr debacle ‘the apocalypse.’ One fool even went so far as to call it an ‘extinction level event.’ As cities around the country descended into riots, chaos, and orgies of self-destruction—not including the utter disaster areas of the larger urban centers—Desmond was sure the illegality of a wiretap without a warrant would be overlooked when the dust settled.

  If it settled.

  He nodded. "Okay. I'll be over in a minute."

  "Jolly good—see you then.”

  “Samuel,” Desmond called out.

  "Yes sir?" The professional, clipped voice of Edith’s backup boomed over the speakers. "What can I do for you?”

  “Find Teddy—tell him we’re making a trip to the research facility."

  “Checking the tunnel now…everything appears copacetic, sir. I’ll alert Mr. Gallagher and make sure the team is assembled and waiting for you at the tunnel entrance."

  "Very good. Thank you, Samuel.” He turned to Catia. "When I get back, I want to go over making sure your people are taken care of, too.”

  She smiled, a hint of sadness in her expression and stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss again. “I love you.”

  He leaned down and fell into the warm embrace of her soft lips. He hated leaving her alone in the manor, hated leaving her side for any reason. But especially with a small army of federal agents camped out on his property, just waiting to wreck any real chance he might have at fixing the Elixr mess. They were long past the point of willing to listen to reason. They had their orders, their families were suffering, and their country demanded action—he could see it in their faces. They were only going to leave with him in chains or his head on a plate.

  It'd been several days since they’d first camped out on his property—much like he assumed they’d camped out on all of his properties around the nation. He wondered if his international holdings were under the same scrutiny, but had lost reliable communications with his overseas assets.

  For now, the messengers from the American government not 50 yards from his house was the annoyance he had to deal with first. As he left his wife in the observation room and headed down toward the basement elevator, he wondered again why the agents and marshals in his front yard hadn’t yet been reinforced. Surely they wouldn't just sit around and wait forever.

  Teddy and his security team had been practically shouting from the rafters for more than two days now that the feds would eventually make an assault—in an attempt to drag Desmond in for questioning. But surely they wouldn’t have waited more than three days. And the group outside his front gate, while more than large enough to handle most no-knock situations, wasn't nearly big enough to neutralize Desmond’s own private security forces. They had to know that, too.

  So why in the world are you waiting?

  He stepped inside the elevator and pressed the basement access panel. He leaned in, and the retinal scanner flashed in his eye. The doors shut with a soft chime and a swish of rubber on metal, and he began his descent into the basement of his manor, some four stories down.

  When he’d first purchased the property that became Martin Manor—and the nearby defunct Air Force Base—he’d hired engineers to design a secure access tunnel, wide enough for four men to walk abreast. It stretched from the manor’s basement, across the quarter-mile of open space, into a lower level of the Air Force Base. He’d paid the engineers and construction crew extremely well and they’d all signed nondisclosure agreements with enough legal threatening to make a Supreme Court Justice weak in the knees. The federal agents outside showed no sign of being aware of the tunnel’s existence.

  Desmond's mouth curled up in one corner as the elevator came to a stop and the door opened with another soft chime. Teddy and a handful of his most trusted lieutenants stood in full battle rattle, looking like a SWAT team. Each wore bump helmets and tactical night vision gear flipped up and carried rifles and pistols. True to Samuel’s word, they were ready and waiting for him when he stepped out of the elevator.

  "Ready for a little ride?" asked a smiling Teddy.

  "Are you driving?” ask Desmond, skeptically regarding the military hardware his men sported.

  “Of course," Teddy replied, his smile broadening.

  "Then no, I'm not ready," Desmond said, flashing his own smile.

  Teddy laughed and led the group to a waiting service bay. A technician was going over the final check out for that little electric cart—it looked more like a stretched convertible Smart Car than a golf cart, but Desmond wasn’t judging. Painted white and emblazoned with the blue Martin Enterprises logo on the doors, the car could comfortably seat six and attain speeds of close to 50 miles an hour. Desmond climbed into the passenger seat, while Teddy sat behind the wheel, and the others piled into the remaining seats.

  Teddy tapped 13” touchscreen mounted into the carts dash, and pull the security camera feed from the other end of the tunnel. A four man squad of men, hand-picked for duty in the research facility, stood at the tunnel entrance, all armed like Teddy’s squad.

  Teddy pressed a button on the dash. “Boomer, we ready?”

  Desmond watched as one figure in the group of four raised a hand to the side of his helmet and nodded. “Roger that. You're good to go," a rough voice answered.

  “Any sign from our friends?" Teddy asked.

  The figure on the screen shook his head. "That's a big negative. The G-men are still sitting out there with their thumbs up their asses.”

  "Copy that. We’re Oscar Mike," Teddy said. He killed the transmission, shifted the cart into gear, and pressed down on the gas pedal.

  The little electric car accelerated with smooth, nearly silent power as Teddy turned into the main tunnel. It stretched perfectly straight into the distance. A single red light blinked at the far end of the tunnel, barely visible at this distance. The smooth white concrete walls had been polished and tracks gouged into the walls to house electrical conduit pipes. Lights at regular intervals flashed overhead as Teddy accelerated to the car’s top speed for the straightaway. They zipped down the tunnel and Desmond smiled, thinking of the agents some 20 feet above them, standing around freezing their asses off in the cold weather, waiting for something to happen.

  "Why the sudden rush to get out here?" asked Teddy over the sound of wind whipping past the open-topped car.

  "Jerry's on to something…" Desmond allowed.

  Teddy turned and glanced at Desmond for a second. “He find out who fucked with Elixr?”

  "I hope so," Desmond said, his voice low.

  "Request permission to join Centurion for the reprisal mission."

  Desmond watched Teddy as the man drove, his jaw working, casting small undulating shadows under his cheekbone. Teddy was nothing if not determined. He’d lost contact with his sister in Los Angeles after Elixr had been released. He’d made it clear on more than one occasion that he wanted payback of the most violent kind against those who’d tampered with something that had the potential to be such a wonderful gift for all mankind.

  Desmond sat back in his seat and watched as the tunnel stretched on before them. "I'll take it under advisement."

  He didn't want to lose Teddy—the man was far too valuable to his personal security team, but he knew that Teddy would also be a valuable asset to Centurion. Desmond frowned. And he hadn't heard that Centurion had even assembled yet. Only one of the eight-man team had arrived at the manor so far. It'd been almost two days since they'd been activated. Something had gone wrong, but it was too early to tell what. It was far too early for him to initiate backu
p plans. He just had to wait and see a little longer.

  Unfortunately, patience wasn't one of Desmond Martin’s virtues.

  5

  Doublecross

  New York City, New York

  Almost ten minutes had gone by without a text or call from Yuri—she did get another warning from the pilot—when Edith saw a light appear at the end of the alley. She turned, raising the rifle. Whoever held that bright-ass flashlight, they were moving fast, right at her. Impossibly fast. Her finger slipped onto the trigger, but before she decided to pull, the person—riding a nearly silent motorcycle—appeared through a reflected light and coasted to a stop in front of her.

  The rider lifted the black visor on his dented helmet and Yuri’s pockmarked face grinned back at her, though his smile never reached his eyes. “There you are!”

  Edith lowered her weapon, but reluctantly. Something was off about Yuri. More than usual. “What the hell is this?”

  “Electric motorcycle. They are calling it Zero. Hah!” The smile faded from his face. “Streets are bad, nyet? We cannot be using cars. So…” he shrugged. “Your building?” he asked, pointing up.

  “Yeah.” She fished the keys to her place out of a pocket and tossed them to Yuri. “Yours now. Penthouse. Get me the hell out of here.” She moved to climb on the odd motorcycle behind him, but found herself staring at a pistol instead.

  “I am being sorry,” Yuri said quietly, almost sounding like he meant it. “I do not know what is being in the bag you carry, but many people are wanting it, I think, nyet?”

  Edith closed her eyes. God damn it. Corporate espionage…of all times…now? She opened her eyes and stared at Yuri as glowing embers drifted down out of the sky. It seemed darker than it had when she’d first exited the burning building.

  “Who is it? Who’s paying you to do this?”

  “If I tell you…” Yuri said with a causal flick of the gun, “they don’t pay me.”

  “How much? Whatever it is, I’ll double it, you know that.”

  Yuri nodded and waved his gun again. “They said you would say that.” He shook his head. “I am having plenty of money. Some things you cannot buy. I am sorry, truly.”

  Edith cocked her head. Yuri was one of the more greedy men she’d ever met—if he wasn’t concerned about money, his new employer had something else hanging over his head. Was he in trouble with the law or did they threaten him or his family?

  “Whatever they said they’d do to you, Mr. Martin will protect you and make sure it happens to them,” she offered. “With interest. C’mon, Yuri, you know the game.”

  “They said you would say that, too.”

  “And you know Mr. Martin will find out about this. You won’t like what will happen, I guarantee it.”

  Yuri nodded, but an element of sadness crept into his eyes. “Da. They said you would say that, too.” His thumb moved, and he cocked the hammer.

  Shit…who will find out if I’m dead?

  “Don’t do this, Yuri…please?”

  The pistol in her face wavered. “Look. I am liking you…” he sighed. “I am too nice. Give me bag, and you go. Okay? Just go.”

  “Yuri…please…” She gripped her shoulder strap and made sure not to raise her rifle. He saw the movement and aimed the pistol at her face again.

  “Handing over the bag now, please.”

  Knowing he’d have to lower the pistol to take the bag, or at least twist sideways to reach across the bike, she took a step to her right and took off the bag, still asking him to reconsider. She knew he wouldn’t, and she also knew he’d take her rifle. She handed them over carefully and slowly.

  “I am sorry,” he said again as he reached for her gear. The pistol wavered just a few inches away from straight on her face. It was all the opening she needed.

  Edith dropped to one knee and drew her pistol from its concealed hip holster. Being short, and now on one knee, her line of sight was aimed up under Yuri’s chin. She didn’t hesitate and took the shot as he looked down, before he could adjust his aim. Yuri’s helmet ruptured and took most of his brain with it to paint the alley behind the motorcycle red.

  Edith jumped to her feet, her ears ringing, and held the bike as he fell off to the side, taking her gear with him in a tangled heap. She looked down and found the kickstand, then grabbed her gear and slung her pack and rifle over her shoulders once more. She took Yuri’s pistol, tucked it in her belt and rifled his pockets, coming up with some keys, a few spare rounds, and a business card.

  Is that Arabic? She pocketed the card and climbed on the bike. The display in front of her told her nothing. She looked at the handles—there was no clutch, and only one brake.

  What the hell is this thing? She knew how to ride, but didn’t often get the chance to thanks to Martin’s penchant for private cars and chaufers. She tightened her pony tail, then leaned forward, kicked at the stand, and twisted the throttle. The bike shot forward, silent as a ghost—the only sound coming from the tires rolling across the concrete and her yelp of surprise and excitement.

  She turned the corner, a wide grin on her face, and nearly collided with a heavily damaged cab, before speeding down the middle of the car-clogged street. She saw a gap and twisted the throttle, feeling the power surge through the motorcycle, and took off like a bat out of hell. Edith zig-zagged her way to the Queensboro Bridge, promising herself to buy one of the electric motorcycles for herself as soon as possible.

  The bridge ruined her improving mood—it was wall to wall cars, with at least three accidents. She’d expected as much. But she hadn’t expected to have an electric motorcycle. Edith leaned into the curve and hit the throttle, accelerating to a ridiculous speed accompanied by a slight high-pitched whine. Startled pedestrians jumped out the way as she zipped between the stalled-out cars and left the cursing motorists in her wake.

  At the first accident, maybe a third of the way across the bridge, she weaved around the wreck and shot through the edge of the fire that blocked the road. People on the other side cheered, and some shouted, but no one tried to stop her.

  Her watch, linked to her phone, buzzed her wrist. She took a glance at the notification. It was a text from the pilot.

  [Creed]: Something is going on—people are running across the tarmac and fleeing the airport. We can hear gunfire inside the terminal. You need to get here, NOW.

  Edith grimaced and lowered her head, hitting the throttle. Halfway across the bridge, a guy jumped out of a big black SUV and tried to stop her by standing in her path. She took advantage of the fact the bike didn’t have a clutch on the left handle and drew Yuri’s chromed pistol. Two shots—she wasn’t stable enough on the bike to be accurate, but the guy didn’t know that—and he dove for cover along with the curious bystanders. Below, Roosevelt Island slipped under her wheels. To her left, she saw the Public Library engulfed in flames. Things were spiraling out of control.

  The final wreck was near the east end of the bridge, on Long Island itself. Instead of people clustered around the cars arguing, she saw something far more terrifying. People were running from the cars as a fight broke out. Edith rapidly gained ground on the melee and discovered two people had a third pinned to the ground. She gasped as she rode by and saw they weren't fighting, but eating.

  A guy lurched at her from behind a truck, his hands tugging at the BOB on her back, nearly pulling her from the Zero. She wobbled and the rear tire squealed, but she maintained control. A glance over her shoulder showed the guy was chasing her but had a really awkward gait, like his leg was broken or something.

  Then she left him behind, and two more people stood from behind a little Kia, their faces smeared bright red. Their eyes shone in the firelight—like an animal’s—reflecting no emotion or soul at all. A shudder rippled down her spine. They were just like the video she’d seen when they’d finally cracked the code on Dr. Yang’s phone.

  It’s starting. Whatever the terrorists did to Elixr, it’s starting to spread.

  She weaved
between a line of abandoned cars—all with their doors open and a few with blood splattered across the windows—merged on to Northern Boulevard, shifted onto the mostly clear shoulder, and turned the throttle all the way up. The motorcycle’s powerful electric engine whined, and the bike surged forward. She lowered her body to the bike and screamed down the road, heading toward the airport.

  In the distance, she could see airplanes taking off and climbing into the sky, silent little birds flying without flapping wings. The planes were still flying—there was still hope.

  If only the pilot would wait for her this time.

  6

  Last Resort

  Ward’s House

  St. Charles, Illinois

  Seneca pulled back the bullet-riddled, tattered scrap of cloth that used to be a curtain and peered out the remains of Ward’s living room window. The street, covered in debris and a few burned-out cars, appeared empty from his angle. He could hear moaning and the sound of shoes dragging through glass fragments, so he knew they were still out there, but otherwise, things were quiet.

  “I think the locals finally turned in for the night.”

  Ward snorted. “Or they turned into one of those things.”

  Seneca lowered down and put his back against the wall. “What the fuck is happening?” he asked, staring at the bullet holes in the far wall. Ward’s simple bachelor pad looked more like a home in Beirut than Illinois.

  “I need a new house, that’s what’s going on. Hope to hell my insurance covers this shit…think they offer riders for the zombie apocalypse?”

  Seneca looked at his long-time XO and laughed, then stifled it. The last thing they needed was to draw more of those things to the house. He wiped his eyes. It had been a long-ass day—the longest he’d had since leaving Delta—and it wasn’t over yet.