Elixr Plague (Episode 1): Vector Page 6

  Me: Damn you, yes. Stop hurting her! I wasn’t going to tell anyone!

  His phone chirped the instant response. Unknown: We won’t. But you might. We noticed your modifications. That was not part of the bargain, Dr. Yang.

  Norman’s heart skipped a beat, and he stared at the phone for a long moment. How? How could they have traced his steps? It wasn’t possible…he was one of the premier geneticists on the planet, he’d developed the technology himself to inject the virus…no one knew it better than he did...how did…did they have a mole at the lab, or had they hacked his computer?

  Unknown: Are you still there?

  Norman pulled his mind back from the dizzying possibilities of how the kidnappers had discovered his duplicity. He punched the floor, then hit it again and again until his knuckles were raw and bleeding. It was his own damn pride that had caused them to hurt Kelly…if he had just done what they’d wanted—

  Unknown: I do not like repeating myself, Dr. Yang.

  "Yes, yes, you son of a bitch…" He tapped out the reply.

  Me: What do you want?

  Unknown: A test subject.

  Norman froze. "Oh, God…no…no, no, no!" His fingers fumbled against the smooth glass of the phone’s screen. Autocorrect kicked in several times.

  Me: No! Whatever you’re doing, please don’t inject that into my daughter! Please, I’ll do anything, anything! Just tell me!

  The response was chilling as it was immediate.

  Unknown: You don’t even know what we gave her. Perhaps it was a better version of your Elixr?

  "How could it be better, you—wait, you already gave it to her?" He tapped away furiously.

  Me: What? What did you do to her? When was it administered?

  Unknown: Relax, Dr. Yang. We specified the transmission virus was only targeting genotypes and haplogroups originating in the Levant. Only Jews will be affected. Your daughter isn’t Jewish is she?

  Despite his guilt, Norman leaned back against the sodden bed and sighed, closing his eyes in a prayer of thanks. Whatever twisted and evil plans these fools had for the world, they were clearly only after Jews. Kelly was half Chinese, half American—her mother was mostly of northern European ancestry.

  Me: No, she’s not Jewish.

  Unknown: Then you have nothing to fear. You see? Twelve hours in and she is still fine.

  "Twelve hours?" Norman cried, leaning over his phone. Several pictures of his baby girl, strapped to a gurney with IV tubs trailing from her arms and monitors all around her appeared on his phone. She looked pale—likely from blood loss, her left hand was ensconced in a hastily wrapped, wine dark bandage.

  Unknown: For your edification.

  The latest text appeared with an attachment. A .PDF file that contained all the vital stats taken from Kelly every 30 minutes after her injection with the modified Elixr virus cocktail.

  Norman devoured the document, noting that her blood pressure spiked a few hours after the injection, but other than an elevated temperature—again possibly the result of the amputation—she appeared fine. He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, and put a shaking hand to his face.

  The next text message was the hardest he’d ever typed.

  Me: When can I have my daughter back?

  When he didn’t get an immediate response, Norman stood and began pacing, talking to himself, arguing that he’d done everything he could, that it wasn’t his fault, that they would have hurt her no matter what he’d done…

  As the minutes went by, he messaged the kidnappers again and again, and received nothing but silence in return. Screaming, he flung the phone across the room.

  "I have to get her back," he muttered to himself as he paced the room. Clothes and toiletries were trampled into vomit as he shuffled aimlessly, hoping for another text. "Oh, God…Kelly…my sweet girl…"

  The phone buzzed again, propped against the wall where Norman had thrown it.

  Unknown: What did you doing to the virus?

  He picked up the phone and stared at it. Something struck him as odd about the question. It didn’t sound like whoever he’d been dealing with. They had never shown any curiosity about the transmission virus or the genetics—they only wanted to possess it…and test it. And the grammar was all wrong. He tapped out a response.

  Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about. You wanted Elixr, I gave it to you.

  Unknown: No, I am not being one of those zealots. They are being dealing with…something. I grabbed her phone. I am a geneticist and I know you did something—I don’t care why…but am I need knowing WHAT you doing? What sequence being you modify? It is important.

  Norman shook his head. What the hell was going on that would cause the kidnapper to leave her phone behind? And now their pet scientist was talking with him? He rubbed his face with a grimy hand. His head spun like a top and his stomach threatened to give him another round of dry heaves. He leaned against the closest wall and slid to the flood, his legs splayed out.

  Unknown: Please, the next text read. It is important.

  Norman clenched his teeth. Me: More important than my daughter? Let her go and I’ll tell you.

  The phone chirped. Unknown: I am being sorry, but she already is…gone.

  Norman panicked. Me: What? I saw the video—she was alive!

  Unknown: That was taken some time ago. She died about two hours ago. If it is being any consolation, she is being dead before the others could do what they having been planning. It is better this way, trust me.

  The phone fell from Norman’s hands. His daughter, his sweet, innocent child…dead. Because of him. Because of Desmond Martin’s ego—he had to save the world. And Norman had to show the kidnappers that he wasn’t helpless, that he could fight back. Both hands came to his face as he broke.

  "Kelly…oh, God…” A moan escaped his mouth, and he fell over to the floor. He didn’t hear his phone’s text alert the first or second time, but the third one got his attention.

  Unknown: Are you there? What have you done to the formula?

  "Shut up!" he screamed at the phone. Me: What have I done? YOU killed my daughter! Go fuck yourself!

  Unknown: No, YOU killed the girl! They are being injecting her with your modified Elixr…it killed her and will being turned her into this!

  A picture appeared on his phone, of Kelly, her skin gray and sickly, kneeling over a man in a lab coat. Blood ran down her chin and what looked like a flap of skin hung from her mouth. Her eyes, once bright and clear, were blood red, and the pupils reflected light, like a dog in the night. Her dark, lustrous hair hung limp around her neck and shoulders. The veins on her face stood out jet black, in contrast to her pale skin. It was his daughter, and not, all at the same time. But it wasn’t Kelly. She’d never looked like that before, it wasn’t human.

  "Kelly?" Norman whispered, his thumb caressing the image of his daughter, changed somehow into…he didn’t know what.

  Unknown: WHAT DID YOU DO?

  Norman laughed. Me: Why should I tell you?

  Tires squealing down the long winding drive out his bedroom window made Norman get up and look. A sleek black sedan that hugged the road accelerated up the steep incline like a panther closing in on its prey.

  Desmond.

  Norman’s mind raced. Desmond Martin had more money than God—he had contacts in the defense department, he knew people. Very dangerous people. He could hire mercenaries to hunt down the kidnappers and exact revenge. He would do it for Norman—he’d always doted on Kelly like a favorite uncle.

  Unknown: Please, Dr. Yang, you must tell me—I have a chance to stop this. The captor was back, replacing the scientist.

  Norman scrolled up to the picture of not-Kelly kneeling over the prone man. The time stamp was only a few minutes ago.

  Me: You said my daughter was dead. How can this be her?

  Unknown: I was there when she died. And I was there when she came back.

  "When she came back?" Norman shook his head. A high-pitched whine ca
ught his attention. It sounded like a swarm of angry hornets. Tires crunched on gravel—Martin had arrived outside.

  Unknown: Tell us how to stop this. This is your final chance.

  "What, are you guys passing the phone back and forth?" He laughed through his tear-blurred vision. Martin would be inside any second and Norman would tell him everything. He would fly into one of his famous rages—not at Norman, but at the kidnappers, the terrorists. Norman smiled. Martin would avenge Kelly. The kidnappers would be hunted down and their deaths would be neither short nor easy. Martin would pay top dollar to ensure that.

  Me: I’ll stop this, Norman tapped out, when I tell Desmond Martin and he hires a team of ex-Navy SEALs to hunt your asses down and kill each and every one of you. You will beg for death.

  The whine came back and grew. Norman looked out the open window and saw a pair of white drones, each carrying a rectangular payload. Whatever it was they carried, it was so heavy it threw off their balance and they nearly collided. They swiveled until their front mounted cameras faced Norman’s bedroom.

  His phone chirped.

  Unknown: Goodbye, Dr. Yang. Thank you for your help.

  The drones dipped down and moved toward the window. Norman knew then what it was they were carrying—explosives. Martin was almost to the apartment building. Norman caught the flash of reflected light off his sedan’s windshield as it crawled across the ceiling. Norman Yang had time for one last act of defiance. He lunged for the window as the drones sped up, and flung his phone as hard as he could through the gap.

  The last thing he ever saw was his phone sailing through the air between the two drones and dropping out of sight behind them. Maybe Martin would avenge his daughter—he didn’t care that he was himself about to die. If only he’d—

  Norman Yang’s world exploded in white heat.

  9

  First Blood

  La Cañada Flintridge, California

  Ridgeview Guest House

  Desmond Martin took over control from his auto-guided car and slammed the accelerator down, boosting his turbocharged vehicle up the steep hill that served as a driveway to Yang’s apartment. He rented the second floor of a palatial house owned by one of Martin Enterprises bigger investors. Yang was closer to a house sitter than a tenant, but Desmond was careful to never say that to his face. After his messy divorce a few years back, Yang was touchy about stuff like that.

  He turned sharply into the parking space just off the driveway proper and flinched when something smacked his windshield and cracked it. "That fuck was that?" he blurted, focused on the impact fracture in the center of his windshield.

  Before he could utter another word, an explosion ripped through the air and tossed his car aside like a discarded toy. Everything went black.

  When the world stopped rolling over on itself and Desmond coughed enough dust and smoke from his lungs to take a breath, he found himself on his side, his favorite car upended and topsy-turvy, alarms shrieking electronic protest from a dozen critical system failures. His ears rang, and he tasted copper and iron in his mouth. The world swirled before him in yellow and orange hues.

  He had no idea how long he’d been out, but the inside of his car was hazy and warm. Smoke. He was looking out the cracked windshield at smoke…and bright, angry fire beyond.

  He unbuckled with a groan—his head felt like someone had used it as a base drum—and had to kick the car door open, but managed to extricate himself from his now ruined car. "Norman!" he yelled around coughs. A gust of wind unbalanced him as he emerged from his car and he quickly found himself sprawled on the ground next to his car.

  Cursing a blue streak, he got to his feet and attempted to dust off his $1,000 suit. "Norman!" he called again. Taking a few halting steps away from his car, he put his hands to his mouth and yelled once more. "Is anyone in there? Can anyone hear me?"

  Other than the ringing in his ears and the dull, muffled crackle of the fire that consumed what was left of Yang’s house, Desmond didn’t hear a damned thing.

  He raised an arm to block the heat from the fire. "Oh, my God…Norman..."

  The entire second floor—and most of the first—were simply gone. Chunks of wood and charred timbers lay underfoot, smoking in the trees, and on the ground all around.

  Desmond tripped on a charred 2 x 4 and felt his foot crunch something delicate. He looked down and found a pair of thick glasses, under his shoe, flecked with bright red blood. "Norman…" he breathed.

  Sirens in the distance signaled it was time for his exit. As close as he was to the global distribution of Elixr—only seven hours now—he couldn’t risk any complications, which included being questioned by local law enforcement. He retraced his steps through the smoke to his car, patting his sport coat for his phone. He’d have to call Edith and have a driver dispatched.

  "Where the hell is my phone?" he growled, realizing it must still be in his car. He glanced up again at the towering column of smoke snaking up into the sky. It must be visible for miles.

  Shit.

  His watch buzzed with an incoming call notification. Desmond raised his wrist. Thank God for smartwatches.

  "Sir, are you okay?” asked Edith’s voice, tinny on the little speaker. “Your vehicle reported an accident—"

  "I’m fine," he said, watching the smoke. "Norman’s house just blew up…"

  "Is Dr. Yang okay?"

  Desmond coughed and waved away smoke. "I don’t know…I…if he was inside, there’s no way he survived that. It’s like a bomb went off!"

  "Sir, the local fire department has already been dispatched," Edith said in her professional, detached voice. "I recommend you leave the area. I’m sending another car now. Can you walk—are you injured?"

  Keeping his arm raised to his mouth made his shoulder hurt, but he shook his head, anyway. "No—I’m not hurt. Yeah, I think I’m okay—just shaken up. I can’t find my phone."

  "You mentioned that, sir,” Edith said in a neutral, no-nonsense tone. “If you can make it to the next driveway and walk down to the bottom of the hill, I’ll have a car there in...seventeen minutes."

  The sirens grew louder, the smoke darker, the fire hotter. A few summer-dry pines around the property caught embers wafting on air currents and ignited. Desmond looked around. The entire hillside could go up in flames—it had been a dry season. He had to leave.

  "Sir?" asked Edith from his wrist.

  "Sure. Yes, I’ll do it…God…Norman…"

  "We’ll find out what happened, sir,” she said, her voice sounding like a vow. “I’m activating one of our asset recovery teams as we speak. They’ll be on-site in less than an hour."

  "But the fire department...cops…" Desmond mumbled. His thoughts and questions and worries blurred, fighting with memories of Yang, snippets of conversations, triumphs, and failures. Was this related to the global distribution of Elixr? It was only a few hours away now…

  "We have protocols in place for handling things like this," Edith said calmly, her demeanor betrayed by the soft Virginia twang I her voice. "I need you to leave the scene, right now, sir."

  There were more sirens now. One of them warbled to get a distracted driver out of the way. They were approaching the bottom of the hill. He had to move. Elixr, everything Norman had worked for, all these years...it was all waiting. It was all on the line, now.

  "O-okay. Just let me find my phone…"

  "Sir, I can remote destroy it from here. I’ll have one of your backups set up and ready for you as soon as you get back. Please hurry though, I need you to move."

  "Okay, sure, that sounds good," Desmond said, taking a few shaky steps. He leaned against a tree on the far side of the driveway and looked down at his scuffed shoes. They’d cost him a small fortune, and now they looked like $30 work boots with all the scratches and dirt.

  He glanced at his car and groaned. It was a total loss. The force of the explosion had lifted it completely off the ground and tumbled it about thirty feet from where he’d parked.
The sides were all caved in…it looked like a giant dog’s chew toy. Desmond sighed, gently probing his head with his hands.

  Then he saw the flat black shape of a cell phone on the ground near the upturned vehicle. It looked exactly like his phone. Thanking the universe for that stroke of luck, he bent and snatched the phone from the ground, then stumbled into the bushes lining the driveway. He had to slip through and disappear before the authorities arrived.

  "Edith?" he gasped, staggering through the landscaping.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "How are we going to explain my car in front of Norman’s house?"

  After the briefest of pauses, she replied. "Dr. Yang borrowed the car, sir, don’t you remember?"

  "Oh." He pushed a low pine bough out of the way and emerged onto the next driveway over from the one leading up the hill to Yang’s house. To his left, at the crest of the hill, two people—Yang’s neighbors, stood on the front porch of their chalet-on-steroids home and pointed phones at the towering column of smoke visible over the trees.

  Desmond turned and walked as quickly as he could down the hill until the house disappeared from sight. He’d managed to slip away before anyone saw him. Now he just needed to get to the bottom of the hill and wait for his new car.

  "I’ve managed to access the car’s internal server,” Edith reported, her voice tinny, coming from the watch. “We’ve already got our forensics team analyzing the data from the crash. If there’s anything we can use to find out what happened, we’ll know soon enough. The car has been wiped, so there’s nothing to tie you to the scene."

  "What about fingerprints?"

  An explosion rumbled through the trees and a fresh wave of acrid black smoke lifted into the sky.

  "Your car’s advanced batteries just ruptured. An wholly unexpected and supremely unfortunate result of the crash, evidently," Edith reported in a deadpan voice. "There will be no fingerprints or physical evidence left after such a high temperature fire."