People often say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. That’s bullshit. Some events a person just can’t recover from. They don’t make you stronger, they make you weaker, no matter how hard you try to cover it up or how strong you try to act. That happened to me when I was 25. It doesn’t matter what it was. Don’t go trying to find out. It’s water under the bridge. When you came to live with me, I was well on my way to drinking myself to death. Probably would have been in the grave within a few years if the rigs didn’t get me first. I told the woman on the phone that I was in no shape to care for you. I figured it was more dangerous here than wherever they would take you. But she wouldn’t listen. She sent you on anyway. I’m glad she did. For my sake. Caring for you saved me. Changed me. After what happened to you, I thought you would do what I did, shrivel up and die inside. But you didn’t. There’s a fight inside you that’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Not on a rig, or in the jungles of Vietnam and Cambodia, or on the streets of London when the bombs were falling.
This world broke me. I found my peace at the bottom of a bottle. Drinking was my crutch. Don’t let it be yours. Don’t take the road I took. Drinking and drugs only make you forget for a while, dig you deeper in the hole. Don’t depend on them, Desmond. Get yourself clean. Leave the drinking behind. Quit the rigs for good. I don’t know where in this world you belong, but it’s not here. Live a life that makes you proud. As the years pass, it will be the wind in your sails. Regrets will sink you.
Orville
Desmond folded up the letter and watched the fire burn down until the flames receded into the pit. Sitting in that field in Oklahoma, he made a promise to himself: he would stop drinking for good. And he would do as Orville had suggested: he would leave this place and never come back. He knew where he had to go.
He took the shovel from the truck, tamped out the last glowing embers, scooped up the fire’s remains, and deposited them in two five-gallon buckets. He filled the hole back in, drove the truck another half mile to the banks of the Canadian River, and slipped his waders on. He washed the blood off the tarp in the river, then cut it into small pieces and scattered them, along with the ashes from the buckets. For half an hour he dropped the remains in the river, watching them flow out of sight. Then he washed the truck bed out with bleach and cleaned his hands.
At a grocery store in Noble, he loaded up on supplies.
He camped in another field that night, though he didn’t light a fire.
First thing in the morning, he visited a lawyer. He brought his uncle’s will and the deed to the house. The man was a professional, fair on his fees, and amenable to what Desmond suggested, though he said it was highly irregular.
Two hours later, Desmond signed a series of documents, which the receptionist notarized. The three of them walked to the courthouse for a brief meeting, which went as expected.
Desmond drove out of town that afternoon, heading for a place he’d never been but which would change his life forever: Silicon Valley.
Chapter 53
Peyton opened her eyes. Slowly, the room came into focus: metal walls, a narrow bed, and a glass partition. Her head throbbed. She felt hung over. She sat up, and a wave of nausea greeted her. After it passed, she still felt a slight motion, almost like a vibration. She recognized the feeling: she was on a ship.
A man with a badly scarred face and long blond hair was sitting in a metal chair beyond the glass partition, reading a tablet.
“Good morning,” he said, an insincere cheeriness in his Australian accent.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Conner McClain.”
Petyon studied him a moment. “What do you want?”
“Information.”
Peyton wanted information too. She sensed that this man had it. “You started the outbreak in Kenya, didn’t you?”
“We merely accelerated the inevitable.”
“Pandemics aren’t inevitable.”
“You know they are, Peyton. You’ve said so yourself.”
“I’ve said that pandemics have been inevitable—throughout human history. Not anymore. They can be a thing of the past. I’ve dedicated my life to that work. And you’re destroying it.”
Conner stared at her, a mildly amused expression on his face. “There’s one person in this room who’s going to make the human race safe from pandemics. And it isn’t you. Your life’s work is a drop in the bucket compared to our plan. We’re implementing a real solution—one final pandemic to end all others.”
One pandemic. “They’re related, aren’t they? The flu pandemic and the hemorrhagic fever in Kenya.”
“You’re smart enough to know the answer to that.”
“Why?”
“Fear.”
The pieces came together then. They had released the flu strain in isolated parts of Kenya a week before they had released it around the world. In the later stages of the virus, it presented like an Ebola-like hemorrhagic fever—an outbreak deadly enough to get every government’s attention. They had wanted to demonstrate what would happen around the world in a week if the virus wasn’t cured.
“You have a cure, don’t you?”
He flashed her a condescending smile. “We’re not monsters, Peyton. We have the means to stop the virus as soon as governments figure out their place in the new order.” He turned away from her. “Now as much as I’ve enjoyed our talk, I have some questions I need you to answer.”
“Screw you.”
“Your friend Dr. Watson has lost a lot of blood. My people tell me she needs surgery, urgently.”
Peyton stared at him, rage simmering. This man was responsible for Jonas’s death and Lucas Turner’s and so many others. He couldn’t be trusted.
“Give me answers, and we’ll help her,” Conner said.
“I don’t believe you.”
He turned the tablet around, showing Peyton a video feed of Hannah on an operating room table, a tube running from her mouth, the wound at her shoulder exposed and prepped for surgery.
Three people in masks and surgical gowns stood around the table, gloved hands held in the air.
“How do I know you’ll do it?”
“A show of good faith, Dr. Shaw.” Conner touched his collarbone. “Proceed.”
On the screen, the medical personnel sprang into action, converging on the wound. Others appeared from off-screen, pushing trays with instruments forward, within easy reach.
“You stop answering, or start lying, and we stop operating,” Conner said.
Peyton nodded, still watching the screen, her eyes locked on the blood pressure readings.
“Have you had any contact with Desmond Hughes?”
Peyton looked up. Desmond Hughes—the words were like a cattle prod. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“When?”
“Before I deployed.”
“How?”
“He called me.”
Conner looked confused. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“We tapped your mobile, Peyton.”
“He called me at home. On the landline.”
Conner spoke slowly, still suspicious. “What did he say?”
“Nothing—”
“Answer me,” Conner said, his tone hard.
“He was confused. He didn’t know who I was. He told me I was in danger. Then he hung up.”
“In danger of what?”
“He didn’t say.”
Conner considered her words for a moment. “When did you last speak with your mother?”
“What?”
“Answer.”
“When I landed in Nairobi.”
“What did she say to you?”
Peyton recounted the conversation, as best she could remember.
“When was the last time you spoke with your father?”
“My father? The eighties. I was six—”
“You haven’t spoken to him since then? No emails? No meetings?”
“Dead
people don’t send emails.”
A smile curled at Conner’s lips. He turned away from her.
“When was the last time you spoke with your brother?”
Peyton was shocked by the question. “My brother? He died in ’91.”
Peyton waited, but Conner only stared at her.
“He was a WHO employee working on an AIDS awareness campaign in Uganda. He died in a fire near Mount Elgon,” she said.
“I know how, when, and where your brother died. Now answer my question.”
Peyton stared at the monster’s badly burned face, at the scars that ran down his cheeks, over his chin, and into his shirt collar. “Did you know him? Were you there in 1991?”
Conner touched his collarbone again. “Stop.”
On the screen, Peyton saw the doctors remove their hands. But they didn’t back away. They glanced at each other, seeming to weigh their decision, then resumed the operation. Another person wearing a surgical gown marched into the scene, raised a handgun, and pointed it at the closest medical worker. All three froze.
Peyton swallowed. “I haven’t seen or talked to my brother since the Christmas of 1990, in Palo Alto.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it? One last question. Your login and password to the CDC VPN.”
“No.”
Conner motioned to the tablet, where the medical workers were still standing at the table, waiting. Hannah’s open wound oozed blood. “How long do you think she has? Another few minutes?”
Peyton considered his request. She had the highest level of security clearance: access to situation reports from the EOC, inventory levels at the strategic stockpiles, and notes from the labs investigating new pathogens. For these bioterrorists, her login was an all-access pass to the inside of the US response to their attack. It meant real-time intel they could exploit to kill more people.
“My login is
[email protected] Password: ashaw91#io.”
Conner turned the tablet around and typed quickly.
“You know, the problem with lying about your password is that it’s easily discovered. Seriously, Peyton, I’m gonna need that password. Right now.”
She swallowed and spoke with all the force she could muster. “You know, I’m a member of the Commissioned Corps of the US Public Health Service. We take an oath—to protect the public. So did Hannah. Telling you would violate that oath. I take my oaths very seriously.”
“Dear God. Why does everyone around here have to do things the hard way?” Conner punched a few buttons on the tablet.
Seconds later, Peyton heard the hiss of gas seeping into her cell. She lost consciousness almost immediately.
Conner touched his collar. “Resume. We may need Watson for leverage. And prep an interrogation room for Shaw ASAP.”
Chapter 54
In the observation room on the Kentaro Maru, Conner watched the techs administer the drugs to Peyton Shaw. The questions began soon after, and within minutes, she had revealed her CDC login. He relayed it to the team in ops.
“We’re in,” the operator said over the radio.
“What do you see?” Conner asked. “Do they know yet?”
“No. The tests comparing the viruses have been delayed. Their infection models are way off.”
“Good. Download everything and get out.”
In his stateroom, he watched the video feeds. Desmond was in the middle of some push-ups. The three programmers were camped out beyond the glass, typing furiously. The area around them was starting to resemble the pigsty Conner had found them in: crushed Red Bull cans and microwave meal wrappers littered the floor.
Another feed showed the redheaded CDC physician. She was strapped to a bed in the medical wing. She’d been sleeping since the surgery.
Conner switched the feed to Peyton Shaw. She was just waking up. She staggered to the tiny bathroom in the cell and stood over the sink, bringing water to her face. She gagged once, then moved to the toilet, waiting, but nothing came up. She rested her back against the wall, staring at nothing for a long moment.
Slowly, she stood and stripped off her clothes. Water washed through her dark brown hair, over her curves, down her body. Conner studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous—not like the girls every guy went for—but he thought she had something even more attractive: an unassuming confidence. It drew people like a magnet, put them at ease, compelled them to want to be around her.
He was the opposite. He repelled people. Repulsed them. He had since childhood. Everyone who saw him instantly had the same reaction. Smiles disappeared. Eyes grew wide, raking over the scars on his face.
Soon, he would create a world where that didn’t matter, where no child would have to grow up a monster, alone, rejected by every person who saw him.
After her shower, Peyton lay on the narrow bed, her wet hair soaking into the mattress. She was scared. For her own safety, for Hannah’s, and for everyone in Kenya and beyond. If the virus went global, it could claim millions of lives. Maybe more. It felt like her entire world had been turned upside down. She had felt that way only once, when she was six years old.
Her family had lived in London then, in a flat in Belgravia. She’d been asleep in her bedroom when the door flew open. Her mother rushed in, shook her, spoke urgently.
“Wake up, darling. We’re leaving.”
Her mother made her dress and leave home with only the clothes on her back. She crowded Peyton, her sister Madison, and her brother Andrew into a black cab, and they sped to Heathrow. The four of them left London forever that night.
The first flight took them to Amsterdam, the second to Paris. A private car drove them through the night to Le Mans. At daybreak, they boarded a small plane that flew them to America.
For a few months, they lived in hotels, never staying in the same place for more than a few nights. Peyton’s mother told her children it was an extended vacation and “tour of America.” But Peyton sensed something was very wrong. Her sister and brother did too.
Periodically, Peyton asked her mother where her father was, why he couldn’t join them.
“He’s busy, dear.”
Peyton tried to listen in on the calls her mother conducted in secret, often stretching the phone cord into the hotel bathroom and shutting the door with the shower running. Peyton could make out only bits and pieces. Someone had lost their dog. A beagle. Her mother was very worried about it. She was constantly asking about finding the beagle, which was strange, because she had never been one for dogs—or animals of any kind.
Finally, after four weeks, her mother sat the three children down and told them that their father wouldn’t be joining them. With dry eyes, she said, “There was an accident. I’m very sorry, but your father has passed away.”
The words destroyed Peyton instantly. Andrew met the news with disbelief that soon turned to skepticism. Then anger. He asked questions their mother refused to answer.
How did he die?
When was the funeral? Where?
The lack of answers only enraged Andrew more. He shouted and argued with their mother.
I want to see him. I can see my own father. I want to see his grave. You can’t stop me.
I want to go back to London. It’s our home.
Andrew became increasingly distant. Peyton was nearly catatonic. Her sister Madison was there for her, holding her as she cried each night for a week. Their mother was stoic, withdrawn. The calls continued. The secrecy only made them trust her less. Maybe it was simply because she had been the one who’d told them, but to varying degrees, all three of them blamed her for their father’s death.
Despite Andrew’s demands that they return to London, Peyton’s mother refused to relent. They settled near San Francisco, in Palo Alto. They changed their last name to Shaw, and Andrew completed his last two years of high school, then left for college, then medical school.
It took time for the family to come together again. In fact, it took more than time—it took Andrew’s death in 1991 to finally br
ing them all closer again. It was just the three of them after that—Peyton, Madison, and their mother, Lin—and they shared a strong bond.
Peyton hadn’t thought about that night in London in 1983 for a long time. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered why she had thought of it now.
She awoke to the worst headache of her life. She returned to the sink and gulped down two mouthfuls of water. Bloodshot eyes stared back at her. She lifted up her shirt, afraid of what she would see. She swallowed hard when she saw it—a rash reaching up from her abdomen toward her chest.
She was infected.
Day 8
2,000,000,000 Infected
400,000 Dead
Chapter 55
Millen sat in a folding chair, taking in the Sunday afternoon sun, watching Elim walk across the dusty field outside Mandera Referral Hospital. The older woman from the village, Dhamiria, helped him as he walked, encouraging him in Swahili. Halima recorded his progress, and Tian moved things around, providing a sort of obstacle course for Elim to walk around and step over. The six-year-old boy delighted in the task.
Millen played music from his phone, which all four Kenyans seemed to enjoy. He wouldn’t have dared expend the phone’s battery without the solar charger, but for the moment, sunlight and power were two things they had in abundance. The music and Elim’s rehabilitation had been their routine for the past two days while they waited on the transport Elliott had arranged. Millen was eager to get home. On Friday night, a few hours after arriving in Mandera, he had slipped the satsleeve on his phone and opened Google News. The first article had shocked him:
US Stock Markets Tank on Pandemic Fears
Growing concern over the scope and severity of the X1 outbreak has finally infected markets. Stock indices in the US declined over 25% today during the short session that ended at 1 p.m. in what is being called Red Friday. The decline is the largest stock market crash in history. The drop eclipsed even Black Monday—October 19th, 1987—when the Dow Jones Industrial Average shed over 22% of its value in a single day. As with the crash in 1987, the rout began with Asian markets and spread west to Europe and the US…