Some Fine Day (27 page)

The wall to our right is floor-to-ceiling glass, and I glimpse banks of computers humming away in the dimness, busy analyzing oceans of raw data from the storms raging thousands of feet above our heads. They keep sensible hours here, and the place is deserted.

“We’ve run the epidemiology models. Assuming the most conservative scenario, the answer is seventeen, Nordqvist. Seventeen days for the virus to burn through the population like wildfire. Worst-case? Nine days.”

Now we’re at Agrosciences. Another six-digit number, and we enter a realm of complicated-looking equipment with little flashing lights and big price-tags. I imagine my mother at work here, white-coated and peering through a microscope at the latest genetically modified carrot. Rafiq told me they conduct some of the livestock research here, but the animals themselves are housed in Biosciences.

“Germ warfare is banned by the Treaty of Nu London,” I say.

Rebekah gives me a withering look. “Don’t be naive.”

We fall silent as a guard passes in the other direction, checking locks on the empty labs.

“So what, you went to the surface to catch some experimental
primates
?” I ask when he’s passed us, trying to not think about the symptoms she described, the almost unimaginable suffering. Because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll shoot her on the spot.

“No, like I told you, I was there to study the storms and any emerging life forms. Actually, it’s thanks to you we had an opportunity to recruit subjects for a small-scale vaccine trial. And of course to monitor the course of the infection. Until I intervened, they were going to shoot everyone.” Rebekah shakes her head. “What a waste.”

“How did the trials turn out?” I ask, pathetically eager to grasp at any shred of hope she can offer.

We come to a stop. The door in front of us is different than the others, heavy steel with no window. It bears the universal biohazard sign, spiky circles set in a bright yellow triangle. When the door opens, I feel air rushing in; the whole division is under negative pressure so if something leaks, it won’t be pulled into the ventilation system outside.

“Not well,” Rebekah says, as we step through.

The hole we dug for ourselves was so deep as to be barren of all life beyond what we brought with us. The long-term evolutionary implications of this are, of course, unknown.

I’m standing in a small room. Light blue surgical scrubs hang from hooks under a sign reading: “Caution: Ultraviolet Light. Wear eye protection.” Two showerheads protrude from the far wall next to a bank of lockers with stenciled names, and the place has an acrid chemical odor.

“Not well? What does that mean?”

“It means they were a disaster. Put these on.”

Rebekah hands me a pair of plastic booties that fit over my shoes.

“Beyond that door is Biosafety Level Two. Please don’t touch anything. We don’t have to worry about decon right now, that’s for people coming out.” She looks at me long and hard. “I hope you were listening when I told you what this thing does. How fast it spreads. I’m sorry about your friend, but if you try to bring him out of here, you’ll be murdering tens of thousands of people. Yourself included.”

“Growing a conscience, Rebekah?” With the cameras gone, I remove my jacket, take out the gun. “Tell me who else is in there.”

“This late? Just the subjects.”

She keys in a code and the second door unlocks. A light on the side turns from red to green. My stomach tightens as we walk through, from fear but also the stench. I’ve never been close to so many live animals before.

Hundreds of cages line the walls, three high. The chickens and pigs get excited when they see us, clucking and grunting, but the cows just stare. They all look healthy, as far as I can tell.

“We were curious to see if it could jump species,” Rebekah says. “The answer, unfortunately, is yes.”

“What about the toads? What’s your grand plan for them? Some kind of mutant army?”

“That’s classified.” She’s more confident now, on her home turf. This is a woman who’s used to being in charge. I’ll have to disabuse her of that notion, but not just yet.

We pass the final row of cages. Just beyond is a computer work station and a rack of deep freezers, each bearing a biohazard symbol.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Virus and tissue samples. Vaccines one through fourteen.” She glances at me. “A new one we haven’t tried yet.”

“Open it.”

“What if I refuse?”

I point the gun at her. “Don’t be naive.”

“You can’t help him,” she says, swiping her Pii through a reader on the side of the freezer. It opens with a rush of cold mist. She reaches in, pulls out a plastic vial. “Lucky number fifteen.”

I put out my hand to take it and she suddenly pivots, slamming into my gun arm. I saw her start to twist and braced myself but the plastic booties have no traction and my leg slips, sending us both tumbling to the linoleum floor. She’s fast and strong and desperate, but I’m all those things too, plus a couple decades younger.  She gets one hand on the gun barrel, and then I elbow her in the side of the head, right in the temple. I prefer elbows since they hurt a lot less than punching someone with your fist. Her eyes instantly roll up and her body goes limp.

It takes me about four seconds to realize what a bad mistake I’ve made.

Because there’s still another door to get through. And I have no idea what the access code is.

I lie there cursing for a minute, then crawl around until I find the vial, which had rolled into a corner. I check Rebekah’s pulse; she’s alive but unconscious, and might stay that way for hours.

Why the hell did I hit her so hard?

I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. I’m so close. So close.

I walk to the steel door to Level Three and rest my forehead against it. Will is on the other side, and he’s probably dying right now. I don’t know if I can do anything about it, but I have to see him, one last time. To say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.

And then I hear a toilet flush. On the other side of a narrow door next to the freezers. It’s a faint but unmistakable sound.

It occurs to me that Rebekah lied when she said there was no one else working here tonight.

I silently ease open the door. Creep inside.

To my right is an immaculate sink, equipped with anti-microbial soap dispenser. To my left is a urinal, and one closed stall. I bend down. See two bootied feet.

When the stall door swings open, I’m ready, leaning against the mirror with my gun leveled at his belt buckle. This frightens men far more than aiming at the head.

“Howdy, Miles,” I say. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

He gapes at me, long eyelashes fluttering in amazement.

“Jansin?”

“Just move your ass. I’m in a hurry here.”

“What did you do to Dr Carlsson?” he asks in a choked voice as we exit the bathroom.

“Nothing she didn’t richly deserve. Don’t worry, she’s coming too.” I grab one of Rebekah’s ankles and drag her to the door. Lift the titanium chain holding her Pii and hang it around my own neck. Slip the vial into a pocket. “After you.”

“But what are you
doing
here?” he whines, typing in the code. I watch closely and memorize it, as I’ve memorized all of them up to this point. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

The door swings open and we enter the staging area for Level Three. Yellow signs inform me that this is a Restricted Area, and only Authorized Personnel will be admitted. More decon showers, similar to the ones before Level Two. The main difference is a row of positive pressure space suits hanging from one wall. They’re made out of blue rubber and come with a self-contained air supply.

“We have to wear those,” Miles says.

“No, we don’t,” I answer.

“But. . . this is Level Three.” He seems scandalized.

“I’ve never trained in one, and they’re way too bulky.”

He looks at me like I’m insane, then starts getting undressed.

“Miles?”

He glances up.

“If I’m not wearing one, you’re not wearing one.”

Now he just looks horrified.

“Open the door,” I say.

“Oh boy, you’re gonna be in trouble,” he mutters. “This is
so
messed up.”

He has a good eighty pounds and at least ten inches on me but it doesn’t seem to occur to him to resist. I think he’s the type that just does what he’s told and doesn’t think very hard about it. A lot like Jake.

“Grab her under the arms,” I say, pointing to Rebekah. “And take me to number eleven.”

Miles mumbles something that sounds like a prayer, punches in the code, and awkwardly hauls his boss’s dead weight backwards through the door.

The room beyond looks like a typical research laboratory. It’s long and rectangular and filled with more freezers, as well as incubators, centrifuges, and a row of biosafety cabinets that resemble small ovens. Everything is white and sterile. He leads me to the end, Rebekah in tow, and we pass through another door, this one unlocked.

The dark heart of the labyrinth.

Miles drops Rebekah, and her head lolls to the side, revealing pink scar tissue. He’s breathing hard.

The space is empty. Except for five boxes, each about ten feet high and twelve feet wide. They have shatterproof glass windows with built-in work surfaces and holes with heavy rubber gloves attached, so a person standing outside can put their hands in the gloves and do things inside the box without actually coming in skin contact with what’s inside.

“Level Four quarantine,” Miles says. “I’ve never been in here without a suit.” He sounds like he’s about to cry.

They’re built so there’s no line of sight between one box and the next, ensuring that the inhabitants would experience total isolation. I approach the first box, heart pounding so bad I can feel it in my temples, a dull throbbing pressure. My hand closes tight around the vial in my pocket. I can hear the soft whirring of the filtration system, which scrubs even the tiniest microparticles from the air before it’s discharged outside.

The box is empty and so is the one after that.

The third box is occupied.

I peer inside. There’s a cot and a steel toilet in one corner. Some kind of slot in the back where I guess they push food and water through. An old guy is lying on the cot, curled into a fetal position. His back is to the window, and all I can see is matted tufts of white hair.

The next box is empty.

I look back at Miles. He’s as far from the boxes as he can get, standing by the door, watching.

I reach the last one.

There’s two people inside. What looks like a girl, although she’s so misshapen and puffy it’s hard to tell. She’s holding a boy in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. He’s blonde.

I press my gun hand against the glass, tap gently. She turns, looks at me with reddened eyes. Confusion flashes across her face. Her nose is crusted with dark blood.

“Jansin?” she mouths silently.

I can’t hear her, but I recognize my name. And then I realize it’s Nileen.

I press both hands to the glass, pound on it.

“Miles! Get your ass over here. Is there an intercom?”

He nods.

“Turn it on!”

Miles hesitates, but when he registers the murderous expression on my face, he comes running. Flips a switch under the work surface.

“Oh, God, Nileen. Oh God. I didn’t know. . . How’s Will?”

She stares at me. Strokes the boy’s neck. Shakes her head.

“It’s OK, I have a new vaccine.” I hold up the vial. “Maybe this one will work. This one will definitely work.”

Nileen shakes her head again. Struggles to find words. There’s something wrong with her skin. It appears
loose
. Like it’s starting to slip down her skull.

“Get me a hypo, Miles. Now, do it!” I yell, as he scurries off. “I’ll get one for you too, Nileen, don’t worry. There’s more in the freezer.”

“Jansin,” she whispers, and a thin line of darkness trickles from her ear. She’s bleeding out right in front of me. I look around the quarantine cell and really see it for the first time. It’s a mess. A scene out of a nightmare.

“You don’t understand,” Nileen says, and even under the gore and bloating, there’s a hint of the pretty dark-eyed teenager she used to be. “It ain’t Will.”

She turns a little and I see the boy’s face for the first time. He’s thin, with wide-spaced brown eyes and a pug nose. No more than thirteen. He’s looks vacant, like he has no idea where he is any more. Like he’s already checked out.

I realize I know him. Of course I do. He’s Ezzie’s little brother.

Miles runs up with the hypo and I grab him by the throat and press the gun against his forehead.

“Where’s number eleven?”

Miles’s eyes widen in terror. “That’s number eleven!” He points to the boy. “That’s number eleven. Please God, Jansin, don’t shoot me!”

My temples explode and water fills my eyes in a rush as I shove Miles away and steady myself against the glass.

Honey,
I’m not even a hundred percent sure it’s him
. . .
no names, just numbers
. . .