Author: Brett Battles
Category: Thriller
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The sergeant grabbed the door with his free hand and started to close it, but stopped when the driver said something. A big ball of fluff gently sailed out the door and into the sergeant’s hand. A stuffed bear. He gave it to the girl, and it seemed to calm her down.
There was more conversation. At one point, the sergeant pointed down the road, twisting his hand one way and then the other as if giving directions. When he finally shut the door, the truck took off.
“This is Ellie,” the sergeant said when he returned.
“Hi, Ellie,” Miss Collins said. “Is it okay if I hold you?”
The girl hesitated for only a moment before letting Miss Collins take her.
“Let’s go inside and get you something to eat, huh?” Miss Collins said.
As she turned, the stuffed bear Ellie was holding knocked against one of the other supervisors and fell to the ground. She didn’t realize it until they were almost at the cafeteria door, when she suddenly looked around and started to hyperventilate.
“Bear! Bear!”
“What, sweetie?” Miss Collins asked.
“Bear!” The girl motioned with her hand back the way they’d come.
Brandon scooped it up and hurried over as Miss Collins was turning to see what the girl was talking about. “Here you go,” he said, handing Ellie her stuffed animal.
She immediately hugged it to her chest.
“Thank you,” Miss Collins said.
“No problem.”
The girl gave him a smile.
“Make sure to hold on tight,” he said.
She hugged the bear to her chest and smiled again. “Never let go.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Never let go.”
WHAT A DICK.
Jack couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy. Come on. He’d been on the road for more than three hours, and had been awake for…well, he couldn’t remember exactly how long now, but a long time. And on top of that, his headache wasn’t going away.
All he’d asked the guy at Camp Kiley was if he could park his truck off to the side, and sleep in the cab for a little while before he headed back out.
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t allow you to do that,” the man had said.
Sure, he sounded polite, but he was being an asshole. He’d then gone so far as to give Jack directions to some lodge about ten miles away.
Up here? On the mountain? On these roads? That was too far. Jack was exhausted and hungry, but when he asked for some food? Forget it.
“I’m sure you can get something to eat at the lodge,” the man had said.
How hard would it have been to just give him a sandwich or a piece of fruit, even. A piece of goddamn fruit? They wouldn’t have had to do anything but throw it through the window.
If Jack hadn’t reined himself in, he would have gunned the engine and spun the tires on the way out to show his anger. But an idea had come to him, and if he was going to follow up on it, any show of aggression would’ve put them on alert.
The road between the camp and the highway curved around a hill not long after he left. As soon as he was out of sight of the asshole and his friends, Jack pulled the truck to the side of the road and killed the engine. Before he could open the door, though, he tensed, his eyes squeezing shut.
It felt like a nuclear explosion had just gone off in his head.
Once it eased enough so he could function again, he removed his thick plastic hood with its built-in mask and stumbled out the door. From one of the truck’s exterior compartments, he removed the kit with the aspirin and tried to dry swallow three pills. It was harder than he expected. His throat felt tight, constricted.
The headache. It’s messing up my whole system.
He grabbed a half-empty bottle of water from up front, and used what was left to wash the aspirin down. He leaned against the truck, his eyes closed, and willed the pills to take effect. No such luck.
In fact, the only response he received was a growl from his stomach, notifying him that the aspirin was a poor substitute for food.
He looked across the road. Out there, through the trees, was Camp Kiley, and all the food his stomach could hold. Beds, too. Dammit, they’d have to let him use one.
Stepping away from the truck, he had the fleeting thought that there was some reason he should stay away from the camp. But it was in and out of his mind so fast that by the time he reached the trees, he had forgotten all about it.
THAT BIG BUILDING—that had to be the one, Jack thought.
The only problem was, most of the people at the camp were inside it. If they spotted him, especially that asshole who’d sent him away, they would probably chase him off again without giving him anything. Easier to sneak in and take what he wanted, but that probably meant waiting longer than his empty stomach could stand.
After scanning the rest of the camp, his gaze settled on the two rows of rectangular buildings. They were obviously dormitories. Maybe he couldn’t get to the main food supply just yet, but if the residents of Camp Kiley were anything like how he was back when he’d gone to camp, some of them would have a little food stashed away in their bags. More than enough, he thought, to tide him over until the kitchen cleared out.
He started with the dorms along the back row since they were hidden from the building the others were in. Moving from bed to bed, he rummaged through each bag he found, but netted only a single candy bar in the first building he checked.
What was wrong with these kids? Hadn’t they ever been to camp before?
Once more, he had the sensation he was missing something, that this situation was different than normal camp. And once more it faded away.
As he entered the second dorm, he felt something in his throat, like maybe he’d swallowed wrong when he’d chomped into the chocolate. He tried to clear it, and ended up coughing for several seconds. Ironically, it actually did the trick, though it left him with a tingling sensation in his chest, like he might have to cough again before long.
Whatever. Just find the food!
The new building proved to be a bit more lucrative. A bag of Doritos, two bottles of water, and a large, half-eaten chocolate chip cookie.
Nothing of note in the third dorm. In the fourth, three sticks of string cheese and another bottle of water.
As he moved toward the front row of four buildings, he heard the crunch of snow not far away. He pressed himself against the side of the nearest dorm, thinking he’d been seen. But the steps continued moving at a steady, unhurried pace, and a few seconds later the door of one of the buildings in the back row opened.
Jack decided then and there that maybe he had enough food to hold him over. As quietly as he could, he snuck back into cover of the woods, and found a downed tree to sit on while he enjoyed his stolen meal.
Surprisingly, he only got a few bites into the chocolate chip cookie before he found that he wasn’t all that hungry anymore. He tried to set the cookie on the log beside him but somehow missed, and the cookie fell onto the thin layer of snow that covered the ground.
He closed his eyes. His headache was worse than ever now.
The next thing he knew, he found himself on his feet. He looked around for the log, but it was gone. Confused, he searched for something familiar. Trees and more trees and…
The dorms. He could just see them between the pines off to the left.
How the hell did he get here?
He tried to remember, but nothing came to him. I need someplace to lie down for a bit, that’s all. He looked at the dorms again, and recalled the warm beds he’d seen inside. I’ll just stretch out on one for a little while.
He staggered forward, his hands grabbing at the trees to help keep him upright.
He was ten feet from the edge of the woods when his hand missed the trunk it was aiming for and he tumbled to the ground.
He made an effort to get back on his feet, but was barely able to raise his head off the snow.
This is all right, he thought. Rest for a few minutes, th
en you can…
Sleep came first, but Jack never rose to his feet again.
MASON LEWIS HAD been one of the first kids to arrive at Camp Kiley. Being older—he was fifteen—he had a better understanding of what was going on, but that didn’t make it any easier. His nights had been spent mostly awake, and his days in shock.
Being basically a good kid, he appreciated the fact that Mrs. Trieb and the other supervisors were doing their best to keep everyone distracted. But their latest effort, organizing a game of Bingo in the cafeteria, wasn’t working for him. So he’d excused himself, saying he needed some fresh air, and went back to his bunk in cabin seven.
Mason had been on a cross-country flight from his mom’s place in Boston to his dad’s in San Diego for the holidays, when his plane had made an emergency landing in Denver due to the imminent closing of airports across the country. He and one other kid had been jammed into a car and driven to the camp.
When he reached his cabin, he went straight to his bed, intending to stretch out for a little while, but as he sat down he noticed that his suitcase was unzipped. He had definitely not left it that way.
Angry, he pulled it open and hunted through his things to see what was missing, but everything seemed to be there. What the hell?
As he zipped up his bag, he caught sight of the suitcase belonging to the guy in the bunk next to him. It was open, too. Looking around, he saw that all the bags were open.
There was a thief among them. What else could it be?
He needed to tell Mrs. Trieb and Sergeant Lukes right away, as much to find out who did it, as to make sure he wasn’t the one accused of stealing.
But when he returned to the cafeteria, news about someone searching through the dorms wasn’t the only thing he brought back with him.
MUTATIONS OF THE KV-27a virus were bound to happen. Its creators at Project Eden had known this, and, from a strictly academic point of view, were curious to see how these would manifest. They had neither resources nor time to conduct a thorough study, however, so they would never know that one such occurrence happened in Boulder, Colorado.
There, a young emergency medical technician was infected by a strain of the virus that not only caused severe headaches, but also clouded the victim’s mind and greatly impacted his sense of judgment.
The technician would not be the last to contract this variation, as his diminished sense of right and wrong allowed him to pass it along. An unfortunate occurrence for those he infected, especially because this particular version had one other notable difference from the main strain.
The accelerated incubation period between initial contact and full-on symptoms.
Twenty
ISABELLA ISLAND, COSTA RICA
5:20 PM CST
“I DID NOT see it until it was almost in the surf,” Henri Boucher said over the radio. He was another resort guest, a Frenchman, currently on watch over the north end of the island. Just before calling in, he had spotted a boat approaching one of the beaches. “I am sorry. It is small so not easy to see.”
“It’s okay,” Dominic said. “How many are on it?”
“It looks empty, but I cannot be sure. The area, it is blocked from the sun by part of the island, so have many shadows, you know?”
“Whoever was on board could have already jumped off and swum to shore,” Robert said to Dominic. “I’ll take some people and do a search before it gets too dark.”
Dominic nodded grimly. “Be careful.”
As Robert left, Henri’s voice came back over the radio. “It is almost to the beach. Hold on.” There was a long pause. “Oui, it is there now. I do not see anyone moving, though.”
“Keep your eyes on it and report if anything changes,” Dominic said.
The evening before, they had moved the radio down to the room behind the terrace bar, since the area had become the main gathering point for the Isabella Island survivors, or, as Robert had started calling everyone, the Bellians. The name had yet to stick.
Dominic stepped out of the room, and looked across the bar to see who was nearby. “Mark!”
The lanky, brown-haired engineer from Toronto glanced over.
“Can you find Luis then meet me back here?” Dominic asked.
“Sure.”
As Mark left, Dominic caught Renee’s attention. “Take over on the radio for a little while,” he told her.
“Something up?” she asked.
“Everything’s fine,” he said for the benefit of anyone who might overhear. There was no sense in getting the others worked up if the boat turned out to be nothing. Once she was in the back room, though, he told her the truth, then said, “Robert’s checking if anyone might have already reached shore. I’m going to go take a look at the boat.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Somebody has to do it.”
Back in the bar, he found Luis and Mark waiting for him. “You guys up for a little hike?”
IT WOULD HAVE been faster to take the speedboat around the island to the beach, but due to their limited supply of fuel, they’d decided no boat would be used unless absolutely necessary. For the same reason, all the generators, save the one powering the refrigerators and the radio, were shut down after dark. At nighttime, it was all torchlight or sleep.
So they took the slower route and walked across the island on one of the many resort-maintained paths. Unfortunately, the beach in question was not one of the better ones Isabella offered, so there was no path that went all the way there, and for the final quarter mile, they had to cut their way through the jungle.
“Henri, we’re getting close to the beach. If you see movement, that’s probably us,” Dominic said into his walkie-talkie.
“Okay, I will watch for you.”
“Renee?” Dominic asked.
There was a click. “Right here.”
“Any news from Robert?”
“Hasn’t spotted anyone yet. He’s circling around toward you, so you might run into him.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
Part of the problem with this particular beach was that, depending on the tide, there was little room between where the waves crashed down and the brush began. Throw in the uneven rocky ground just below the water, and it was enough to keep most people away.
Dominic and his two companions came out of the jungle at the east end, about a hundred and fifty feet from the boat. It was smaller than he expected, probably no larger than a standard rowboat. In fact, it probably was a rowboat. It rolled side to side as the wave crashed unevenly into it, pushing it farther up the short beach.
“I don’t see anyone,” Luis said.
“Yeah, it looks empty,” Mark agreed.
Dominic noticed movement in the vegetation at the far end of the beach. He was just starting to think someone had made it to shore when Robert and three others stepped out onto the sand.
“Robert, you see us?” Dominic said into his radio while waving his free hand above his head.
“Gotcha,” Robert replied. “Any footprints over there of someone who might have run by?”
Dominic and the others looked around. “Nothing.”
“Clean over here, too.”
“Tell your guys to hang out there while you meet me at the boat,” Dominic said.
“Got it,” Robert told him.
Dominic told Mark and Luis to wait, and then set out across the beach.
The boat was fifty feet closer to his position than Robert’s so he reached it first. It wasn’t quite what he’d first thought. Though the size was right, it was a little more robust than any rowboat he’d been in. A personal fishing vessel would be his guess.
He looked at the surrounding beach. No footprints anywhere. Maybe someone just forgot to tie it up and it drifted out on the current.
He walked over to the side and peered in. There was a pile of rope in the front, and an old fishing net. One oar was lying against the hull, but there was no sign of a second. In the back was a jumbled
tarp. He reached over and pulled up one end.
With a start, he dropped the canvas and jumped back.
“What is it?” Robert asked. He was about twenty feet away now.
“Stop!” Dominic yelled.
Robert halted. “What?”
“Go back! Don’t let anyone near here.”
“Dominic, what is it?”
“The boat’s not empty.”
Dominic had looked long enough to know the body under the tarp belonged to a woman, but how old she had been, he couldn’t have said. There was no mistaking what had killed her, though. They had all seen similar bodies on TV over the last few days.
The Sage Flu had come to Isabella Island.
Twenty-One
COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO
7:34 PM MST
THE RECORDS CHLOE and Josie found at Malmstrom Air Force Base said that Brandon had been flown into Peterson Air Force Base, which shared space with Colorado Springs Airport. Unfortunately, there was no mention of where he had been taken after that.
The Resistance’s jet landed at the airfield shortly after seven thirty p.m. Chloe went up into the cockpit as they taxied toward the central part of the facility, and scanned the buildings that lined the tarmac to see if there was any indication of which one they should start with.
Five nearly identical buildings straddled either side of the control tower structure. A few additional buildings were located at both the south and north ends. Nothing, though, stood out as the place where she and the others could pick up Brandon’s trail.
“We might as well start at the control tower,” she told Harlan.
The pilot guided the plane across the airfield, and stopped just short of the sign on the ground that said WELCOME TO PETERSON AFB.
“I’m not sure how long we’ll be,” Chloe said.
“Could you use some extra hands?” Harlan asked as he and Barry powered the plane down. “We’d like to help.”