“They’re zombies,” suggested Goat.
“Sure, if you want to use that word. But I don’t know. Zombies. I always think of black guys with bug eyes in those old movies. Down in Jamaica someplace.”
“Haiti.”
“Haiti? Okay. Haiti. Wherever. Those are zombies. Is that what they are?”
“Dr. Volker said that he studied zombies in Haiti. The witch doctors there use a chemical compound to—”
“None of that matters. It’s what, voodoo? The Red Mouth isn’t voodoo and it’s not magic.”
“Then what is it?”
“If I tell you, you’ll laugh.”
“Believe me,” said Goat, “I won’t laugh.”
“It’s god stuff. I read a word once in a book. Celestial. You know what that means?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what this is. I know that because it’s what Jesus spoke about. It’s the meek inheriting the earth. And he knew. Those Romans opened Red Mouths in his flesh and he spoke the real truth. And he came back from the dead, too.” Homer shook his head. “Maybe Jesus was the first zombie. That makes sense to me.”
Goat almost asked him if he was serious or if this was some kind of twisted joke.
He didn’t.
And therefore Homer did not have a reason to kill him.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
WHAT THE FINKE THINKS
WTLK LIVE TALK RADIO
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
“We have Solomon from Philadelphia,” said Gavin.
“Great to talk with you, Gavin. Love the show, just love it.”
“Always great to hear. So, talk to me, Solomon, what do you think’s going down in Stebbins?”
“It’s UFOs. This is exactly what happened at Roswell.”
“How so, Solomon?”
“First they make an official statement and then they recant it right away.”
“Sure, but the first statement was about an outbreak of a new kind of virus.”
“Which they recanted.”
“Viruses are terrestrial.”
“Are they, Gavin?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s all part of the conspiracy. Something crashed in Stebbins and that’s how the virus was released. It was something in the blood of the aliens. Something normal to their world but not to ours.”
“And the government is covering it up?”
“Absolutely. They want to use that virus as a bioweapon. That’s where these governments have always gotten their bioweapons. You think HIV came from people having sex with monkeys?”
“No, I don’t, but—”
“There you go. HIV, bird flu, swine flu, Ebola … the reason they’re so dangerous is because we have no natural immunity to that stuff. And why? Because it’s not from here.”
“How does that account for things like the black plague and the Spanish flu of the early twentieth century?”
Solomon laughed. “C’mon, Gav, you of all people have to know that they’ve been visiting us since before they built the pyramids.”
“Ah.”
“And this whole cover-up? That fake news story by Billy Trout? The rumors of soldiers shooting people in Stebbins? That’s just the military covering up the fact they have a crashed UFO. It’s textbook, Gavin. This is Roswell all over again.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
THE SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Mr. President,” cried Sylvia Ruddy, “I think we have something!”
Everyone in the Situation Room whipped around toward her and all conversation died.
“Tell me,” said the president in a way that was an order flavored with a plea.
“Dr. Price at Zabriske Point received the Lucifer 113 samples. I have him on video conference.” She spoke into the phone. “Dr. Price, I’m putting you on with the president.”
A moment later Dr. Price’s thin, ascetic face filled the big view screen. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue but bright with excitement.
“Tell me something I want to hear,” said the president. “Do you have something for us?”
“I—We believe so. My whole team has been tearing apart the 113 variation and we’ve learned that Dr. Volker used new mutations of Toxoplasma gondii, which had always been a key component of Lucifer. Those mutations were part of his process of the neurological control functions of the bioweapon. While the genetically reengineered green jewel wasp larvae drive the aggression of the infected, the toxoplasma control the brain. That’s part of the process of shutting down higher function while keeping active those nerves and processes responsible for walking, grabbing, biting, swallowing, and so on.”
“Cut to it, Dr. Price,” the president said tersely.
“This is context, Mr. President. It explains what I think might work. Using the older form of Lucifer we were experimenting with parasites that would essentially attack the modified parasites. We had a great deal of success with Neospora caninum, which is a parasite similar in form to Toxoplasma gondii, but one found predominantly in dogs. Under standard microscopic examination, the N. caninum sporozoite—which is the body of the parasite—closely resembles the T. gondii sporozoite, and both diseases share many of the same symptoms. However—and this is where we may have hit on it—the N. caninum infection has a much more severe impact on the neurological and muscular system of test subjects.”
“How so?” asked Blair, and once more that dangerous spark of hope flared in his chest.
“The N. caninum variations we’ve been developing as a possible response to Lucifer create a certain set of symptoms—all of them in extreme degrees—that include stiffness of the pelvis and legs, paralysis distinguished by gradual muscle atrophy in which the muscles essentially seize up and can’t move. A secondary set of symptoms include severe seizures, tremors, behavioral changes, weakness of the cervical muscles near to the neck, dysphagia—difficulty swallowing—and eventual paralysis of the muscles involved in respiration.”
“Which means what, damn it?” snapped the president.
“It means, Mr. President, that we might be able to introduce a hostile parasite to the infected that will make them blind and paralyzed. Quite literally it will stop them in their tracks.”
“Good God,” gasped Ruddy. “You’re talking about people.”
Dr. Price looked at her with heavily lidded eyes. “No, ma’am,” he said slowly, “once a person has been infected by Lucifer—by any version of Lucifer—they are no longer people. They are dead meat driven by a parasite.”
“How is this a cure?” demanded General Burroughs.
“No … you don’t understand,” Price said. “There is no cure. Maybe there will be one day, I don’t know. That would take years of research. You asked me how to stop the infected. That’s what this is. A weapon that can stop them.”
Blair watched the president’s face, saw how this news hurt him. He didn’t like the man, but right now he felt deeply sorry for him. And, to a lesser degree, for Price.
“What form would this weapon come in, Doctor?” asked Burroughs. “If it’s some kind of parasite…”
“Actually,” said Price, “the Chinese developed a toxoplasma delivery system in the nineties. We’ve codenamed it Reaper. Lurid, I know, but it was designed to attack and destroy, so we … well, anyway, we acquired it from them and—”
“What’s the potential effect of this Reaper on uninfected persons?” asked Blair.
Price paused on that. “We … don’t know. We’ve never tested this on people.”
“How do we use it?” interrupted the president.
“Airbursts. The modified N. caninum are held in stasis inside a dry medium that can be packed into rockets calibrated for low-level detonation over infected areas. How big is your quarantine zone?”
“The zone is a circle sixty-four miles across,” said Blair.
Price considered, quickly doing the math in his head. “That’s what—twelve-thousan
d eight hundred and sixty-one square miles?”
“And it could expand,” said Burroughs. “How much of this canine stuff do we need?”
“N. caninum,” corrected Price. “Or just Reaper. That’s what we’ve been calling it, too. Easier to say. Hold on, let me make that calculation.”
They watched him as he tapped for several excruciating moments on a laptop. Blair saw a frown carve itself deeply into Price’s face.
“Um … the required parasitic load would depend on population, terrain, and weather conditions. However, if we work with the prevailing winds, we could put enough of the parasite-rich medium in a standard airburst bomb or rocket to cover several square miles. Less in a high airburst in low winds. More in the current conditions. Call it fifty tons of the medium.”
That was ugly news.
“How fast can we get the Reaper material to Pennsylvania?” asked the president.
Price blinked like a bug. “Mr. President … we don’t have that much of the Reaper stockpiled.”
“How much do you have?”
“Between here and one other lab, maybe eight, nine kilos.”
“Shit,” hissed Blair.
“Can you make more of it?” asked the president.
“We can make a mountain of it, sir. Making it isn’t difficult. But it will take time to set up a production process for it, and then there’s manufacture time, bonding with the dry medium, payload assembly … Mr. President, at the very earliest we could have the first batches ready for you in six days.”
Six days.
Those two words hung burning the air.
“Scott,” asked the president in a leaden voice, “do we have that kind of time?”
“Without containment, sir?” Blair shook his head. “In six days we’ll have lost most of the East Coast and the entire South. In six days, Mr. President, fifty million people will be infected.”
Dr. Price had nothing to say. There was no possible response to a statement like that.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL
STEBBINS, PENNSYLVANIA
They went inside out of the rain. Sam Imura and his team—their weapons and gear returned to them, the cuffs removed—along with Dez, Trout, Uriah Piper, Mrs. Madison, and a small handful of the more sober and steady adults. Dez picked one of the smaller classrooms in order to limit the size of the crowd, and she closed the door. Several of the adults in the school clearly wanted to object, but none of them got farther than beginning to say something to her, and then clearly thought better of it.
“Where are the drives?” asked Sam as soon as the door was closed.
Trout started to answer, but Dez cut him off. “No. You first. You tell us what’s happening.”
“We don’t have time for that, Officer Fox,” said Sam urgently, “we—”
“Fucking make time for it.”
Sam turned appealing eyes to Trout, but he shook his head. “You heard the lady,” said Trout. “And if the clock is ticking, better cut right to it.”
Sam glanced at his people, then gave a short sigh. “Okay, in the spirit of us actually getting somewhere, I’m going to shoot straight with you.”
“Figuratively speaking,” murmured Trout.
“Figuratively speaking. Let me preface it by saying that my boss is Scott Blair, the national security advisor. He was the one who advised the president to drop a fuel-air bomb on Stebbins County.”
“Shit,” said Dez. “What an asshole.”
Sam shook his head. “No, he’s not. Put yourself in his place. He didn’t invent Lucifer and he wasn’t part of any group that kept that plague after it should have been completely eradicated. Blair’s only concern is just what his job title says—he advises the president on matters of national security. This plague threatens the entire nation. There was a window—a very small one—last night when it might have been contained. That window closed when Mr. Trout here broadcast his appeal to the world to save the kids here in the school.”
“You’re saying this is my fault?” demanded Trout.
“No, sir. I’m not in the business of assigning blame. Neither, I might add, is Scott Blair. I’m a response to a threat. Blair is probably the clearest-thinking person in Washington. When Volker first defected and gave Lucifer to our government, a set of response protocols were written that appropriately addressed the level of threat. If you spoke with Dr. Volker, Mr. Trout, then you understand how incredibly dangerous this plague is. Look at what happened to your town because of a single person being infected. Homer Gibbon. The spread was immediate and exponential; however, it reached that moment when the window could have been closed on the spread.”
“By killing children?” demanded Mrs. Madison.
Sam gave her a flat stare. “No. By killing everyone in this town. Every single living person. And, ideally, every animal, bird, and cockroach. Anything that could possibly carry the disease beyond these borders.”
“That’s insane.”
“No,” said Sam, “creating a doomsday weapon was insane. Using that weapon in an attempt to punish a death row prisoner was insane. That’s where the guilt and blame are, ma’am. If Dr. Volker’s handler—the CIA operative assigned to oversee his actions—had done his job, then we would not be having this conversation. If Dr. Volker has been properly assessed, he would have been put into a psychiatric facility and kept far away from any materials with which he could do harm. But, as I said, that was yesterday’s news. The truth is that the disease was injected into Homer Gibbon and now it’s loose.”
Mrs. Madison and several of the others were shaking their heads.
“Tell me,” said Sam with dwindling patience, “if you were in charge of the military response to this outbreak, tell me how you would have handled it differently. What could you—what could anyone—have done once this thing was known to be out?”
“Not killed children.”
“Which is what Mr. Trout told the world we were doing, and the president pulled back. The bombs never fell and the kids in this school are alive. Okay, that’s a wonderful thing. No one wants to kill kids. Not even the most extreme hawks. I’ve got a younger brother and a baby stepbrother. It would crush me if anything happened to them. If they were in Stebbins County, I know I would feel exactly the same way you do. It’s impossible for a sane and moral person to feel anything other than outrage, shock, and horror.”
“If your brothers were in Stebbins and it was on you to order the bombs,” asked Trout, “what would you do?”
“The soldier in me would order the drop,” said Sam. “But me—Sam Imura—I’d never want those bombs dropped. I’d hesitate and hope for another solution. That’s what anyone would do. And that is what they call fatal hesitation. Emphasis on ‘fatal.’ That human connection skews the logic and in these situations the logic cannot be skewed. That’s why we have so many procedures in the military—in everything from basic training to missile launch sequences—that are designed to separate the human element from the necessary action.”
“But the children…” said Mrs. Madison, leaning on it, forcing awareness of the implications.
Sam looked around at the faces. “This is the problem. You don’t understand the implications of what you’ve done. Of what you still think is the right thing. You want to save these children, and that’s beautiful, that’s so wonderfully human. But if we can’t get ahead of Lucifer, then these children are going to die anyway. If not today, then when your food runs out. You’ll have to leave the building and all you’ll find out there will be more dead. Dead adults and dead children. That’s the only other way this works out. If we can’t stop Lucifer then everyone will die. Everyone. Everyone’s children. Here in Pennsylvania and everywhere else. Listen to me; hear that word. Everywhere. There is no way this disease can stop on its own. It will continue to spread exponentially. The most conservative estimates of a global pandemic of this disease is total human annihilation in ten weeks, with the deaths of all three hundre
d million Americans occurring during the first five to ten days.” He looked at Billy Trout. “Tell me … how many children are you willing to kill?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
THE NORTHERN LEVEES
STEBBINS COUNTY
Burl and Vic lumbered toward Jake and with every step the world tilted further and further off its axis. Nothing here made sense. Not in any way.
Three teenage girls walking in a storm like they couldn’t even feel the weather. One of them naked.
Then those same girls attacking Burl and the other guys.
Biting them. Eating them.
Jake’s friends—big men—screaming and falling. Dying.
And …
And getting the fuck back up.
It was all so wrong that for a broken handful of seconds Jake forgot about everything else. He lay there in the mud and didn’t think about the pain in his leg, the ache in his chest from coughing up mud, or the need to flee. He lay on his stomach, hands pushed into the mud to raise his chest and head, and watched things come toward him that used to be his friends.
“No.”
He heard the word but for a moment he could not tell who’d spoken it. Jake never felt his lips move to form the word, didn’t feel the push of air as it escaped his throat.
No.
The word hung in the air, telling him everything he needed to understand about the moment and about the future. It answered every question he had.
No.
The rain fell in great slanting lines, popping on every surface.
“No,” Jake said, trying to explain it to the day, trying to be reasonable about all this. “No.”
Burl and Vic opened their mouths. They had nothing to say, though. Instead they shared with Jake the only thing they understood. The only thing that mattered now to each of them. They uttered a deep, resonating, aching moan of appalling hunger. It did not matter that the hunger was new. The sound of their moans made it clear even to Jake’s tortured mind that this hunger ran as deep as all the need in the world. A strange and alien hunger that could never be satisfied.