Gupta shined his flashlight on the window at the end, picking out the distinct, dark line of liquid zigzagging down the wall beneath the ledge and across the linoleum floor, up the hallway toward them.
“There it is,” he said.
The thin line snaked along the floor, several tributaries branching off on their own paths, almost as if consciously dispatched, like scouts. The line drifted toward the left-hand wall, running along its base, eventually disappearing under a door.
They advanced slowly, squatting down and examining the vine-like trail as they went.
“You took a sample from the storeroom?”
Jones nodded, his breathing getting heavy now, steaming up the Plexiglas plate in front of his face.
“It seems to be the same stuff. I’ll take another sample anyway.”
He turned to face the two soldiers holding position farther down the hallway. “Check in this apartment, please,” he said, nodding at the door beside him. They moved forward quickly. Hesitating for only a few seconds, they kicked the door in and ducked inside.
Jones could hear their muffled voices coming from within, verifying each room was clear before moving to the next. Heavy boots, the sound of doors being thrown open, then nothing as they made their way farther in.
Gupta and Jones looked at each other. They waited awhile and then finally Gupta called out, “Are you OK in there?”
Nothing.
“Is it safe for us to come in?”
Nothing. Then, finally, the sound of boots approaching, hurrying back. The sergeant emerged from the dark interior breathing heavily, his face damp with sweat.
“Sergeant? What is it?”
“There is a live one in there.”
Both men quickly followed him back inside toward a back room, negotiating the cramped confines of the family home in their bulky containment suits. Light from a flickering candle sputtered a faint dancing glow across the sparse room. Jones noticed one of the other legionnaires, doubled over, apparently fighting an urge to vomit against his faceplate.
On the bedroom floor, across a threadbare rug, the black line weaved its way toward a large, dark puddle from which hundreds of other short feathered tributaries had branched out. As Jones took a step closer, he could see—amid the sticky dark-brown pool—what appeared to be a hand.
“It hasn’t liquefied all of this person yet!” He hunkered down beside the hand and, closer now, could see why. “Ah…it’s just a prosthetic.”
The sergeant pointed toward a door leading off the room. “The live one…he is in there.”
Gupta stepped toward the open doorway, hesitating momentarily before leaning in.
And then Jones heard his breath catch and a gurgling that sounded very much like gagging.
“Dr. Gupta?” asked Jones. “Someone in there? Alive still?”
Gupta took a moment to respond. “What’s left of him.” He stepped back out of the doorway, turned his back to Jones, and retched noisily.
Jesus. Jones stepped forward, grasped the doorframe, wary of what he was about to see. If a veteran like Gupta can’t handle it…
He poked his head around the doorframe.
“Oh God…”
An old man was sitting on a toilet. But not sitting as such. Maybe he had been, once, but now all that was left of him was his torso from the hips upward. He was slumped back against the tank, one hand holding the edge of the toilet seat. His hips and legs—the bones—mimicked the seated position, but were now mostly stripped of tendons, skin, and muscle, as inert and lifeless as strap-on artificial limbs.
The old man was staring at him with wide, bloodshot eyes that were leaking tears down his dark, craggy cheeks.
“It’s…OK… It’s OK!” Dr. Jones found himself shouting. “We’re here to help!”
The man opened his mouth and a pink froth began to bubble over his lips. He said nothing—just a hoarse rustling wheeze of breath came out.
The only other sound in the small bathroom was the intermittent noise of internal soft tissue dropping from the gradually hollowing-out interior of the man into the toilet bowl.
Chapter 9
Leon lay in bed with his laptop balanced on his chest and a can of Coke within reach on his bedside table. He had a headache brewing and had already taken one of the two aspirin his mom had given him.
He’d spent the last hour surfing DarkEye and UnderTheWire. The forums there were beginning to buzz with excitement over the African plague story. The virus had picked up an informal name among the conspiracy-heads. They were calling it Ebola-Max. It made the outbreak sound like some kind of potent new energy drink.
The various forum posters were loving it, lapping up the unfolding story like it was a Christmas gift. Leon had caught himself beginning to latch on to their gleeful tone. There were posters who were already talking about their survival strategies, how they had “apocalypse bolt-holes” all sorted out and ready for something like this. How they had water and food stashes set aside and an arsenal of firearms ready to defend themselves.
Jeez, they’re really getting off on this.
He moved on to Facebook. It seemed the discussion had already begun to spill from the dark underbelly of the internet to social media. There were several threads discussing where the “West African Plague” had sprung from. The opinion gaining most traction was that it was a genetically engineered pathogen. A bioweapon. The usual likely suspects were all being trotted out—the CIA, the North Koreans, Mossad, the Russians.
Another theory that was picking up likes was that it was of extraterrestrial origin. Sci-fi fanboys were quoting that movie from a few years ago, Prometheus, talking about “alien goo” designed to “reset” the planet’s biomass with an alien-friendly “eco-matrix.” The kind of pseudo-science garbage that gullible idiots with barely any scientific knowledge could grab hold of and quote easily, trying to sound smart.
A message popped up in the corner of his screen. It was his dad. Last time he’d tried getting in contact via Facebook Messenger had been months ago. It had been awkward, forced and, well…embarrassing. His dad had wanted to talk about what had happened, why he’d done it, trying to justify the whole thing. Leon didn’t want to hear about it, really didn’t want to know what “her” name was, and didn’t care if they were history or not. It was just plain awkward.
He tried ignoring the message. Then the notification jingled again. Another one. Reluctantly, he opened the message box to see what his dad had written.
> Hey, Leo…big guy, you OK?
> You busy downloading pix of Latisha-X?
> Hey, buddy? MonkeyNuts? U out there?
Leon shook his head. Truly pitiful. He was trying every damned trick in the book: old between-him-and-Leon nicknames, text-spells, trash talk, trying the whole “We’re just guys together, huh?” thing.
Leon’s dad was a complete asshole; he’d cheated on his mom with some young woman at work. Sure, his mom might have been difficult sometimes, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Leon did feel a little sorry for his father. They were all here in London, and his dad was alone over there and, he guessed, feeling lonely.
> Why r u still up so late, buddy? Gaming? Getting your ass kicked, huh? ;-)
Leon rolled his eyes at his dad’s ham-fisted gamer lingo. There was something desperately sad about those few words sitting on the screen, trying to sound cool, fun, friendly. His dad, selfish though he was, was still his dad.
> Hi, Dad.
Leon tried resuming trawling the net, looking for breaking-news stories on the virus, but his attention was now on the task bar and, sure enough, a minute later the message icon flashed for his attention.
> Leon. Relieved you responded. You OK over there in Britain?
> Fine. How’s home?
As soon as he’d hit Send, he regretted using the word. Ho
me was here, London—now.
Better get used to it.
> States are fine. Leo, look, I’m worried about this virus in Africa. You know about that?
> Yes. I watch the news.
> The govt here is taking this thing VERY seriously. They’re talking about locking down borders, points of entry. From what I can see, it doesn’t seem like the Brits are reacting as quickly.
Leon found himself sitting up in bed. He set his can of Coke down.
> It’s all the way over in Africa, Dad.
He waited a full minute for his dad to reply. No longer multitasking and filling the wait time looking on some other page.
> Leon, you know with my job I have “high-up” friends in the govt, right? Well, they’re all acting real funny about this. I think they’re spooked. Which means this is maybe a BIG deal. They’re getting ahead of the game. Making plans. I’m worried that you guys are going to be unprepared.
Leon felt the first tickle of fine hairs on his forearms stirring.
> So? What do you want me to do about it?
> I’ve texted Mom, tried calling her. She won’t answer and I’m pretty sure she just deletes my texts without reading them. I want you guys to just be ready, ahead of everyone else, if this thing really does turn out to be serious. OK?
> Is it going to be serious?
> I don’t know, Leo. But all the high-ups seem to be getting twitchy. Remember what I told you about herds and watchers?
Leon’s dad’s job had something to do with the commodities markets, something to do with watching out for early trend indicators. He’d once tried to explain to Leon that the money markets were as fickle and skittish as a herd of gazelles. That every herd had watchers, outliers, that kept a beady eye open for lions as the rest grazed…and that his job was effectively watching the watchers.
> Yeah, I remember.
> Good boy. Mom won’t listen to me. But I know you will. I want you to be ready, just in case this thing IS a big deal. Tomorrow get in some supplies, food and water. Get cans and bottles, OK? Nonperishables. Mom’s parents live out in Norfolk. Why don’t you suggest to her you guys go out there to see your grandparents this weekend?
Leon felt his head thumping. His migraine was coming back to have another swipe at him. He took the other aspirin and knocked it down with the last dregs of his Coke.
> Leon? Will you do that for me?
A small part of him wanted to tell his dad to just leave him alone. That he’d surrendered his rights as a father, to hand out advice, to be listened to, the day he’d decided that a little fun at work was more important than his family.
> OK.
> You know, I love you and Grace still. I miss the two of you so mu—
Leon shut down his browser and closed the screen of his laptop. He lay back on his bed in the dark, and watched the sodium glow of the streetlamps outside and the passing flare of car headlights play across the low ceiling.
His dad was full of crap. But…
…he did tend to be right about stuff.
Chapter 10
“Come on, wake up.”
Grace was gone from Leon’s room before he could groan in response. She left his bedroom door wide open, so he could hear her banging around noisily in the kitchen. He got dressed and came out.
She was at the breakfast table, a Pop-Tart half-eaten on the plate in front of her, flicking through a magazine. “That African plague of yours?” She nodded at the small television under the window. “They think someone in France might have it now.”
“What?” Leon took a bowl from the cupboard and sat down at the table. At the bottom of the screen, a scrolling news update asked:
Has the African plague reached Europe?
The people on the SKY Breakfast sofa were talking about a small town whose name they were all struggling to pronounce correctly. They had a government “expert” on—an epidemiologist—who was giving his take on whether the French thing and the African thing were linked. He looked as if he’d been yanked out of bed, thrown into a suit, and handed a script from which to read.
“…there’s really no need for anyone to be unduly alarmed. To be honest, this is far more likely to be an outbreak of foot and mouth. We’ve had several in France earlier this year and I suspect…”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She left already,” replied Grace. “She’s got an early house showing.”
Leon picked up the remote and put on BBC1.
“Hey! I was watching that!” she protested.
“No you weren’t.”
“I was! There’s a thing on Betsy Boomalackah’s film coming up—”
“I want to watch some real news.”
“…about ten o’ clock last night. At this stage, there’s no further news coming out of the quarantined area around the town. A spokesman for the ECDC said that while there’s no reason to assume a direct link to the African virus, no chances are being taken. Michael Emmerson, the minister for transport, confirmed earlier this morning that scheduled flights going in and out of Nigeria will be canceled for the next few days. And recently arrived passengers from certain points of origin, particularly Nigeria, are being traced and may well be quarantined…”
“This is not looking good,” Leon muttered.
Grace looked up at him. “You want to know why you get migraines all the time? It’s because you stress about literally everything.”
“No I don’t.”
“You’re like one of those little wind-up monkeys with clashing cymbals in their paws.”
“Did Mom see the news?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “She was in a real hurry to get ready.”
“…no further details from the team sent into the town of Amoso. The illness remains unidentified, and there is no information yet on how many fatalities there are. Although experts analyzing the cell phone footage that came out of the town have said that while it appears there are images of bodies in the short video, these may well have been victims of the Boko Haram militia, currently pushing south…”
Leon recalled his brief exchange with his dad late last night. He pulled out his phone to see if he’d sent any more messages, but there were none. He wondered if he should tell Grace he’d been in touch with him last night. Probably not. She’d tell their mom, and then his mom would be crabby with him and spend the next few days telling them both how much of a shit their dad was. Not that he disagreed with all of that, but he’d heard enough of it over the last six months.
He poured out his Weetos and drenched them with milk, not realizing this was going to be one of the last “normal” breakfast times he was ever going to experience.
Soon, very soon, it was all going to start falling apart.
Chapter 11
Normandy, France
The field was littered with the bodies of several dozen cows. Many of them half eaten away, as if a highly potent industrial acid had been liberally poured over their carcasses.
Dr. Danielle Menard stepped cautiously toward the nearest of them, trying to avoid the wet soil, soaked with dark liquid oozing from the large, prone form. As she knelt beside the carcass, she switched on her Dictaphone, holding it close to her mask and speaking as loudly and as clearly as she could through the thick rubber.
“We have dairy cows, about thirty of them. They’re all dead. The bodies appear to be decaying—no… I’d say dissolving, rapidly. Not just soft tissue, but cartilage and hide.”
She leaned closer to the body. “Fur, teeth, bones seem to be the only parts of the body that aren’t being affected. Or maybe whatever process is occurring takes longer with those things.”
She turned off the Dictaphone and stared at the sagging mush in front of her. “This is impossible,” she muttered. No pathogen was capable of this kind of process. If someone had told her this
field had been hosed down with fluorosulphuric acid half an hour ago, she could have willingly accepted that.
But a pathogen?
Dr. Menard stood up and wandered across the field, toward a barn at the far end. Several more of her team were standing in the open doorway, talking in muffled, unclear voices through their oxygen masks. She could only see their eyes through their plastic visors.
“Danielle, there’s more inside,” one of them called out. She couldn’t tell which one of her coworkers it was, but she guessed from the voice it was Dr. Guillot.
“More cows?”
“It’s hard to say. I think so.”
She and Guillot were closer than the other team members. She leaned toward him, their eyes met, and she knew, right then, that he was thinking the exact same thing:
This is the Nigerian bug.
They’d been rushed out here to investigate. Been told to tell anyone who asked that this was a suspected foot-and-mouth infection site. They’d been told to inspect, to observe, and to get a sample. She could hear Guillot’s breathing, the rubber membrane of his mask flapping, and the hiss of air being drawn and expelled with each breath. “Remy,” she spoke quietly. “I’m absolutely bloody terrified. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No one has,” he replied. “There seems to be no species barrier whatsoever.”
“This just doesn’t happen.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“And, my God, the rate at which this thing is breaking down those carcasses.”
“I know.”
Their eyes remained locked, only the hiss and click of their breathing apparatuses breaking the silence.
Finally, Danielle stirred. She ducked inside the barn and began looking around. There were more cattle carcasses here; some of them had clearly still been hooked up to the milking machines when they’d succumbed to the virus, as the pumping machinery still whirred and chugged in the background.