Elixr Plague (Episode 1): Vector Page 8

  "Five…four…"

  Rashid smiled. He put his arm around Samir’s shoulders and pulled his protege close. "This is for Mira."

  "Three…two…one!"

  The crowd fell silent, the pumps screamed, and the screens came alive as the first doses of Elixr pumped through the system in a live streaming update of data.

  The cheering was ear-splitting and continuous. How the sheep bleated!

  Rashid had to yell at his people again to prepare for departure over the noise. He was certain that despite the huge security presence, with sixty-thousand people going insane, someone was going to get killed. He grinned. Those people celebrating their good fortunes—and the fortunes they’d spent—had no idea what fate lay in store for them over the coming days. Well, certainly not those with Jewish blood, the ones for whom the modified virus would be hunting.

  Rashid stripped off his technician’s overalls, revealing the casual street wear of a local Angeleno. Samir did likewise, though his face wore a troubled look as he glanced at his phone.

  "What is it?" Rashid asked, securing his primary weapon, a compact Glock.

  The people in the arena still screamed and celebrated, and Rashid didn’t hear all of Samir’s answer. Something about a problem with the team assigned to kidnap Yang’s daughter.

  Rashid frowned. If the bungling fools managed to botch her execution…

  He took Samir’s proffered phone as the squad assembled by the emergency exit. One last glance at the control panels showed the machine had pumped 80% of the Elixr into the system already, and it show no signs of anything that might stop the last 20% from following normally. On the video screens, the lines of people waiting their turn at the inoculation stations snaked all around the great open floor of the arena. The idiots danced and gyrated in line, wearing sunglasses and ridiculous, glittery paper hats on their heads as foil confetti fell from the ceiling in a sparkling shower.

  Turning his attention to Samir’s phone as his men opened the emergency exit and ran for the exterior doors, he froze. Instead of seeing the regular status updates that he required from all his independent cells, he saw a collection of bizarrely worded texts—they sounded more like pleas—sent over the past few minutes. There were pictures, too. Of what, he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t the girl he’d ordered kidnapped, the girl who’d forced her father to turn a life-saving miracle drug into a Jew-killer of Hitler’s wet dreams.

  "What is this nonsense? What do they mean, ‘zombies’?" He wouldn’t be surprised if his men had simply shot the girl, then went out looking for fun in the resort. He’d paid a great deal of money to the managers of that particular area in the Dominican Republic—the resorts had a string of bad press with the deaths of several American tourists in recent memory and were desperate for an influx of cash, wherever it came from.

  But that didn’t mean his men could ruin a good thing by cutting loose in a foreign country. Rashid frowned. If he didn’t hear from them soon, he’d have to send Samir down there to find out what the hell was going on.

  His most trusted lieutenant shrugged. "I do not know, but as you can see, they are not answering me."

  Rashid shook his head. There was a reason the men on the kidnapping team weren’t among the mujahideen who’d been selected for the distribution center attack. It mattered not what tomfoolery they were up to this time—as long as the girl was dead, all the loose ends were snipped clean. He’d been appraised of her father’s demise just before the attack on the Staples Center, so everything had come to a proper conclusion.

  Still…

  He hated the idea that something had gone wrong at his brand new facility in the Caribbean. He hadn’t even had a chance to inspect it personally. It grated his sensibility.

  Perhaps it would be good to take a visit, get out of the country while the attack has time to blossom? Rashid tossed the phone back to Samir, then clapped the younger man on the shoulder, his mind made up. Perhaps sitting on the beach or in a cabana, sipping a cold drink while watching the frantic news reports from a stricken nation would be just the thing to relax and unwind after such a long, costly campaign.

  He waved Samir forward. He had much to think about, but first they had to escape. "Let’s go!" They opened the final exit door down the maze of access hallways in the belly of the Staples Center and emerged into the biggest party anyone in Los Angeles had ever seen.

  Every light in the city seemed to be on, making it almost as bright as daylight. Thousands of people clogged every street he could see for blocks around the arena, hoping to get a whiff of Elixr when the doors opened, so impatient were the poorer masses of Angelenos to get their hands on Desmond Martin’s miracle cure-all.

  Rashid took a deep breath, unafraid. After all, none of his ancestors were Jewish, so there was no reason for the virus to target him. But he would become a willing carrier, as soon as he could inject himself and his team, and he would gladly spread it everywhere he went, leaving a trail of dead Jews in a silent, untraceable wake.

  "Is this not a great time to be alive?" Rashid screamed. Several dozen of the people closest to him cheered in response and welcomed Rashid and his men with open arms and drinks in glowing cups as they made their way into the jumping, dancing, gyrating mass of humanity.

  11

  Rubicon

  Los Angeles, California

  Staples Center Arena

  Desmond Martin raised his arms and sixty-thousand people screamed in adoration. Despite the gruesome events at Yang’s house just a few short hours earlier, this was by far the best, most glorious moment of his life. They had come for Elixr; they had come for hope…they came for him.

  He basked in the glow of their reaching hands, their smiling faces. These people were the First Wave—at least on the West Coast—simultaneously first in line to receive the benefits of Elixr, and also the first people who, as willing carriers, in turn would spread Desmond’s creation among almost everyone with whom they came into contact in the next few days. And those people would then spread it to anyone they encountered in the few days after that...and so on.

  Genetic engineering being the wild west of the biological sciences, not everyone would develop the CRISPR virus in 2-3 days. Lab testing on monkeys, and even a small sample of the unreported human trials indicated that some people would be fully infected and shedding Elixr viral spores in a matter of hours, while others took almost four days to “catch” Elixr.

  Yang had been adamant that he develop the virus to self destruct in a week or less. After that, people wouldn’t be able to infect anyone else, and in reality, the trials had proven that everyone, regardless of how fast they caught Elixr, stopped spreading it between four and seven days after the initial infection.

  What that meant was, in certain locals, after the release of the viral strain among the public through the First Wave in that area, towns and regions would be free of Elixr—at least active strains—within a week or two at the most, accounting for travel from other areas. The Luddites who refused the treatment on religious grounds or sheer stubbornness to resist change simply had to stay inside for a few days to a week to avoid any consequences. Those that wanted to be absolutely sure they never got exposed to Elixr had to wait about half a month, and then everything would be fine—statistically.

  Desmond put all the details from his mind and danced around the stage, shouting at random, whooping it up and fueling their frenzy as the clock ticked down to zero and the rotating strobe lights all went solid, lighting up the half dozen inoculation stations.

  As the first people to get the Elixr injects cheered, raising their bandaged arms in triumph, foil confetti rained down in a dazzling display over the whole arena and bass heavy music reverberated around the cavernous space, enhancing the party atmosphere.

  Then his head of security stepped up next to him and grabbed an arm. Hard. "Sir, you need to come with me."

  "What—why?" Desmond asked, the smile refusing to fall from his face. This was his moment. H
e’d be damned if he was going to let Teddy down him now.

  "There’s been…problems…with the other distribution events. Sir, please—"

  "What problems?" Desmond demanded, all joviality gone. He tried to shake his arm free, a move that took considerable effort considering Teddy’s strength. "Did France back out of the deal?" The French President had been openly opposed to Desmond’s plan from the get go, and had committed to a hard fought battle in the EU to ban the distribution events all together, but in the end saner heads had prevailed—along with a few truckloads of Euros.

  Teddy looked around, his eyes sharp and restless. Lights and confetti flittered and glittered all around them, making it hard to see more than thirty feet away. His grip tightened on Desmond’s arm. "Sir, I need you off this stage—"

  "I’m not—"

  "Now!" Teddy ordered, the cords in his neck taut.

  "Okay, okay—let’s go," Desmond acquiesced. He’d never seen Theodore Watkins, an ex-Green Beret the size of a small mountain, so anxious. The man had fought his way across half the Middle East—single handedly, if one believed the stories—and had been unflappable, until tonight. Desmond shrugged out of Teddy’s grip and adjusted his suit.

  "Lead the way, MacDuff." He flashed another wave at the crowd, now fixated on the shower of confetti and safety pamphlets—mostly instructions for the First Wave to not panic about flu-like symptoms, plan to take it easy for a few days, and enjoy a new, healthier, longer life—floating down from above. Several people in the front row had their arms spread wide and eyes closed, as if receiving divine blessings. He hoped someone got a picture of that—it was PR gold.

  Once the stage access door closed behind him and the noise of the event muffled, Desmond rounded on Teddy. "All right, you’ve ruined the best night of my life—what the hell is going on?"

  The bigger man kept a hand to the earbud in his ear. "Sir, we’re receiving reports of attacks at the other events. London is offline—we can’t find out anything. It’s totally dark."

  "Attacks? Who would want to attack us?" Desmond asked reflexively as Teddy led him into the bowels of the Staples Center, following maintenance access tunnels to work their way to the VIP garage. All along the way they picked up more of the security team and others on Desmond’s company executive list. Everyone looked surprised and more than a little irritated at being pulled from the celebration they’d been planning for so long.

  "What about us?" Desmond asked. "I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary here…are the other domestic sites okay—was this just a European thing?"

  "Unknown, sir," Teddy said, holding a door open. "Everything seems to be running smooth, but I can’t contact the distribution team, so we’re getting you out of here. I have to assume the worst."

  "That doesn’t make sense…" Desmond said slowly, reluctantly stepping through the open doorway. He turned to face Teddy, holding showing his palms. "Hold up—everything went off without a hitch—that couldn’t have happened if there had been a problem. It must be a radio issue."

  "I’ve got my people checking it out now," Teddy advised. "In the meantime, I think we need to initiate the Beacon Protocol."

  "Are you sure that’s necessary?" asked Desmond’s executive vice president of international sales, Marianne Stilton. She ran a hand through her hair as she walked, careful not to drop her champagne glass. “What if all this turns out to be nothing?"

  “It’ll be a fucking fiasco for the press,” one of the others grumbled.

  "Ma’am,” Teddy said, rounding on her as he tried to turn Desmond toward the exit. “Madrid police are reporting shots fired in the stadium where we released Elixr. Frankfurt sounds like it’s an all out war zone.”

  “What about here in the States?” demanded Desmond.

  Teddy grimaced, a look that did ease Desmond’s anxiety at all. “New York and Chicago have reported...difficulties...and what could be an explosion, but the situation’s just too damn fluid, and I can’t get any details. Did I mention we’ve lost all contact with London?"

  "Well, surely someone over there can just walk to the—" began Stilton, pointing at Teddy with a finger curled around her glass.

  "It’s not just the venue we rented, ma’am. The city of London is dark. I’m thinking someone set off an EMP. Pardon my French, but it’s a fucking mess out there, and it’s only gonna get worse. That’s why we need to move. Now."

  A door down the hallway opened and a man in a suit with a combat harness over top stepped through sporting an AR in a one point sling. “Sir!”

  "What’d you find?" demanded Teddy.

  The man shook his head. "A lot of dead bodies. The control room is spotless, but it’s hot—the ventilation shafts were all blocked. Someone wiped out the entire engineering team and stuffed the bodies in the vents. You shoulda seen the blood, man."

  "Jesus," Teddy breathed. He touched his hand to his ear again and paused Desmond in the hallway.

  Desmond shuddered. "Someone killed them?" He’d personally visited the ventilation control room just minutes before going on stage to make sure everything was ready. They’d all been in such high spirits. How could it have happened so quickly without anyone noticing? Would could have done such a thing?

  "Shit—the word is getting out on the news,” Teddy said, glancing at his phone. “The streets are gonna be ugly in a few minutes. We need to get you the fuck out of here, pronto."

  The door to the VIP garage burst open and Barry the driver skidded to a stop in the hallway, quickly adjusting his black tie and livery suit. "Sir! I-I just saw the news and came to get—"

  "We know!" Teddy barked. "Beacon Protocol is in play. Get him to the airport—go, go, go!" he said, dispatching two of his men to muscle Desmond forward.

  "Oh. Okay!" Barry replied, turning on his heel and bolting for the garage. "We’re ready, sir! Just follow me!"

  Over the sound of running feet on concrete and the shouts of his security detail, Desmond heard his executives calling out in fear and demanding answers as they were likewise manhandled down the corridor toward waiting cars by strong, unyielding men. Above it all, he heard something far worse. The cheering and muffled music from the arena had changed.

  The screams of joy had been replaced with screams of fear.

  The garage blurred past Desmond’s eyes as his two guards shoe-horned him into the back seat of Barry’s up-armored sedan, then slammed the doors and moved to the next vehicle. Without comment, they climbed in and started the car. Desmond turned to the other window as Barry powered up the next-gen electric car. All around them in his team leaders bustled toward waiting vehicles and disappeared behind bullet-proof tinted windows. Headlights flared to life, tires squealed, and the convoy rolled.

  "What the hell is going on?" Desmond asked the car’s cabin as he slid across the back seat during a hairpin turn.

  "Sir, we don’t know who’s behind it," Edith’s voice rang out inside the car. Her Virginian accent was a little more pronounced than normal. She was anxious. That wasn’t a good sign from the usually stoic Edith Traviers. "There appears to be a coordinated global attack at each of the distribution events."

  "Don’t you ever take a break?" asked Desmond.

  "No, sir. Not when you need me."

  Desmond shook his head. "So how many events did we lose?"

  "None, sir…every distribution event occurred successfully—except London—maybe—we don’t know, but that’s because we’ve lost contact with the city itself so we don’t know exactly what’s happening yet."

  Desmond wiped a hand across his face. First Yang, now this. "I don’t understand—if these terrorist assholes were smart enough and so well funded as to attack us all over the world at the same time, why would they let us distribute Elixr at all? It doesn’t compute."

  And I hate not knowing the reason why.

  His new phone—replaced by the spare his security team carried—vibrated in his pocket and a holographic image of Yang’s second in command appeared to flo
at in the air behind Barry’s headrest. Desmond poked at the ethereal [ANSWER] button floating between the front seats. Tiny cameras embedded in the cabin’s trim watched Desmond’s movement and registered that he had "touched" the "button."

  "Mr. Martin, it’s Gerald Mapp."

  Demond braced himself against the door as the car rocketed up the private ramp and bottomed out when it hit the street. "Jesus, Barry—“

  “Sorry, sir, this is my first evacuation.”

  “Sir?” asked Mapp.

  “Yes, what is it, Jerry?” shifting his gaze from the back of Barry’s head to the blur of people and lights outside his window. “I’m dealing with something—"

  "We’ve got a problem, sir."

  "Yeah, I know. The attacks—listen, I’ve heard—"

  "No, sir…it’s Elixr. Well, to be precise, the formula. The genetic code of the CRISPR viral transmission device."

  Desmond’s breath caught in his throat. "What? What problem?"

  "I’m looking at the global release data that we have to see if I can help figure out what happened to our engineers. What Teddy told me...” Mapp paused and swallowed audibly. “Whatever we’re injecting into people—at least in Los Angeles...it isn’t Elixr.”

  Desmond was silent for a moment. "What do you mean, ‘it isn’t Elixr?’” he asked carefully.

  "Sir, it used to be Elixr…but there’s been a subtle modification in the genetic code that’s…well, we’re not quite sure what it does now."

  "No,” Desmond said, shaking his head. “No, that’s impossible. You can’t be telling me that after a year of pressuring the governments of the world to let me deliver Elixr into the open arms of the masses, after all the billions I’ve spent…after Norman was killed...that whatever it was we just released wasn’t even the Elixr that we created?"

  After a long pause, Mapp replied. "I’m telling you, sir, that from the data I’m getting remotely, someone has changed the formula."