Those Who Remain (Book 2) (15 page)

I unlock the briefcase and take the vial out, uncorking it. My eyes close as my mouth opens. I raise the vial…

“Don't say what's inside the briefcase. Don't tell anyone about it, Alex. Don't place them in that position.”

“What position?”

“Of despair. Of temptation. People will want to rob you of it. Some might start with noble intentions of helping you, but as soon the inevitable happens, they'll place their selfish reasons above the greater good. To save a friend, a loved one, or themselves. So don't tell anyone, no matter how good or trustworthy they might seem.”

“You do not want them to suffer temptation, but have no worries about me? What if I use it?”

“You won't, little brother. I know you won't.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

The vial goes back into the briefcase. I turn around and search for a few things: duct tape, pen and paper. The letter is short. It makes no mention of the cure. Perhaps that's a mistake, but I trust my brother's instincts. I only say there is hope for safety in Canada. I tell them about the CDC facility prepared to face this type of situation and where it is located. If there is any hope for a cure, I write, it will be there. To be accepted inside I instruct my future reader to mention Alistair Spencer's name and show them the steel briefcase.

With the briefcase firmly in my right hand and the shotgun in my left one, I climb inside the abandoned car. I turn the ignition key and close my eyes for a second, as the engine roars to life.

I drive until the fever dulls my senses and blurs my vision. When my temperature boils my veins, I stop the car in the middle of the road. The briefcase goes above the bags of food. I want looters to find it. I glue the letter with duct tape on it.

With my right hand I feel the lumps forming around the bite. My heart beats faster.

Back at the driver's seat, I open the shotgun's barrel. My fingers shake as they slowly, unsteadily, fill the gun with the last round of ammo.

I cry. Openly, freely, and with abandon. I think of my parents, of my ex-wife, of my brother. I think of my choices, of teaching my students and facing my brother’s dark actions. I think of the mundane things I did, like grading a paper while listening to music. Of smoking and drinking with my college buddies after a rough game. I remember signing my divorce papers, burying my father and mother and reading my brother’s prizes and achievements on the front of a magazine one day, and on another, watching the news of his dubious alliance with a dictator. I remember the humiliation of being associated with a madman, a human rights criminal. The anger on seeing him again after all those years, only to be forced on a journey to fix his mistakes. The feeling of bitterness, the realisation everything was always about him, ever since we were children. I was never going to be the focus of his attention, no matter how much I wished for his approval.

The sadness of leaving him behind, of seeing his body swarmed by the creatures he created. The first victim of my selfishness.

I recall my angry friend at the airport and how I used him to survive. I think of Cobra, and her sacrifice to save someone so unworthy. I see that little girl watching me with fear and suspicion. Most of all I remember Lorraine and her town, as I abandoned every person in there to a fate I brought upon them.

Perhaps I should just let it go. Just wait for the virus to take control of my brain. There is no shame in being afraid of death. I have no reason to be prideful. No reason to keep any delusions about myself anymore. But I soon realise what scares me the most is not the possibility of not existing anymore, but the horror at the possibility that I might still be aware inside the body of a monster. What terrible things will I commit under the control of my brother's creation?

The irony does not escape me.

The barrel tastes bitter and cold. My teeth rattle against it. I close my eyes.

I tried, Alistair. I was arrogant, and prideful. I was scared and lost. But I tried. Perhaps the next person will do a better job.

My finger reaches the trigger.

The Doctor VIII

January 8th, Friday, 11 am

We walk for days. My wound begins to hurt, and while the boots Tigh gave me help prevent blisters, the harsh wind and the accumulated snow from yesterday’s storm tire me quickly. My lips are cracked and probably blue. Of two cars we find, neither work.

To make matters worse, we cross paths with two infected eating a dog on the side of the road. When one of them hears us, he runs directly at me.

I make the mistake of closing one of my eyes while aiming. The shot misses. The diseased man almost reaches me when another shot hits him squarely in the head. Tigh saved my life, once again.

To my surprise, the Sergeant doesn’t criticize me. Maybe he feels too tired to waste energy on correcting my dumb blunder.

When my cheeks are about to freeze, we find a black SUV abandoned in the middle of the road. It’s fairly new and appears to be in good condition. We approach it, Tigh always with light steps, but I admit my own are clumsier and less careful. After a whole morning of walking, staying tense every second is too tiring.

Please be working. I don’t want to walk anymore.

On the driver seat there’s a dead man; he’s wearing a brown suit, smeared in guts, blood and dirt. His head is half blown to pieces and there’s a shotgun fallen between his legs. A suicide.

I sigh, closing my eyes for a second. Tigh opens the front passenger door, and examines the inside.

“There’s a lot of food here. Plenty of camping equipment too,” he says, pointing at the back seats.

Someone’s tragedy is another person’s good fortune. While he works on getting the body out, I open the luggage trunk to examine the bags. Between equipment and food, something else catches my eyes: a metal briefcase, shining against the sun. I stretch out my arm, finding a space between the bags, and take it out.

It’s heavy, but what really surprises me is a note attached to it with duct tape. The handwriting is neat and careful, despite the drops of dry blood between the words. I walk to Tigh and show it to him.

“Look what I found.” I lift the briefcase. “Has a suicide note on it.”

He nods, but seems more interested in making the driver’s seat less covered with guts.

“Hello, my friend, I am now most likely dead.” I read the text aloud so Tigh can hear it too. “But while I was not able to reach my destination, perhaps you will. If you are able to reach Canada, cross its deep forests, you may find the safety I was searching for.”

I look at the Sergeant, searching for his surprise, but he keeps cleaning the seats with a paper towels. The letter isn’t over, so I continue.

“There is an island named Akimi.” The second I read the name Tigh turns to me. “This island is safe from all the chaos around us. A safe haven where you may find peace in a secure CDC facility ready to face these dark days. You only need to take and protect this briefcase, bringing it to the inhabitants of this island. Tell them the briefcase belonged to…”

I stop, eyes wide at the next word.

“What is it?” Tigh asks.

I clear my throat and continue, “Tell them the briefcase belonged to Alistair Spencer.”

Tigh blinks at me. “Do you know this guy?”

“Tigh… Alistair Spencer won two Nobel prizes for his research on virus and bacterial infections. He managed to create a vaccine for HIV. He’s a genius or was….” I eye his rotting corpse. “His work was years beyond anything we had ever seen.”

“So?”

“So, if anyone could make a cure for this disease, it was him.”

Tigh’s eyes gaze at the body he just dragged out of the car and placed on the pavement. “Are you telling me this guy was a renowned scientist? That he shot himself right here, in the head, after carrying this briefcase around?”

I place a hand on my neck, “Yes, I guess. It could be a lie, but why would anyone lie about this? He’s famous in the field, yes, but I don’t think the average American citizen is familiar with his name. The odds of someone lying… I don’t know, seems unlikely.”

“So he’s not American?”

“No. I think he was British, but after his latest research was seen as controversial and unethical he went to work with the Free Republic of Africa. I have no idea why he would be here, of all places.”

We stare at the metal case.

“This… This is weird, right? I mean the odds alone,” I say. “We are going to the same island and this guy is supposed to be on the other side of the planet. Makes no sense.”

“Makes more sense than you realize,” Tigh says, taking the note from my hands and folding it to place in one of his jacket pockets. “My superior commented on the rumors that this disease wasn’t… Well. It wasn’t natural or random. For years now, we’ve been suspecting and expecting a bio-terrorism attack like this, coming from the Free Republic. If this guy works for them, then it’s no coincidence he knows about Akimi. Spy networks work both ways.”

It’s my turn to frown. “Why haven’t you said any of this before?”

“Because….” He sighs. “What difference does it make in the end? We have no way of confirming it, or the forces to retaliate against it. For now at least.”

We stand in silence, looking at the body. If this was really Spencer and this was his briefcase… Something really important was inside. Why else would he ask for people to protect it?

“So… What now? Do you think we can open it?” I ask Tigh, placing the metal case on the seats. “This might be… Well, this might be a vaccine. Or at least his studies on the disease.”

“We need the combination. But I could break the lock.” Tigh’s scowl is deep. “Should I?”

I chew the inside of my mouth. What if this wasn’t a cure, but a hoax instead? The Universe has a way of toying with my hopes and fears. Could I risk being wrong? More than anything, I don’t think I can withstand not knowing what’s inside.

“Open it.”

With practiced movements and ears close to the lock, Tigh tests each dial. After a few minutes the latch clicks open. I reach for it, opening the briefcase wide for easy access to its contents.

Between pile of papers and a notebook full of sketches and scribbles we find a hermetically sealed glass vial with the label “Z-23”. Unsure what this might be, I flip the pages of the notebook in search of more information. Complicated and long formulas fill the yellowed sheets, interlaced with ramblings and other notes that make little sense to me. On the last pages I finally spot a reference for the label. I read the text aloud for Tigh, while he’s busy looking for more supplies.

“In anticipation for the indiscriminate use of the Atroposvirus by my employers, I have formulated a cure that can recover any patient affected by my creation. The Z-23 strain of the virus is viable for mass manufacturing. If things don’t go in my favor, I plan to offer the cure in exchange for safe passage and a pardon for my crimes.”

As my heart pounds against my chest and fills my ears, I flip the page and read the last entry of the journal. “Murabai has lost control of the virus sooner than I expected. My warnings were ignored and now his home country is headed for mass destruction. I have fled into the night, and now find myself without any support or allies. It’s clear I’ll have to flee Africa and Europe to the Americas. This is a race against time. A race I fear I won’t win. My backup plan is my only hope. I should leave, but not without saving my little brother first. After everything, I owe him that. Alistair Spenser, October 31, 2009.”

I close the notebook and look at the vial. Such a simple, fragile thing holds the last hope for humanity. The future is in this briefcase and now I have it in my hands.

“You think this is real?” Tigh whispers with surprising reverence in his tone. “This is really a cure?”

Something clogs my insides, filling it with joy mixed with a terrible sense of purpose. I can’t believe it, but I want to. I need to. Perhaps, even, I should. I don’t know if fate, unseen forces or high powers are responsible for this, but it feels right. It feels real.

“Yes. I do. And we need to take it with us. And protect it at all costs.”