Pandemic

Ling rolled his dolly of drinks toward the glass refrigerator.

  Bo Pan turned quickly to follow; when he did, he bumped into Paulette Duchovny from Minneapolis. Bo Pan’s hand came up immediately, reactively touching Paulette’s bare forearm.

  “Oh!” he said. “Sorry, sorry.”

  Three hours from that moment, Paulette would be back in Minneapolis. Two days after that, she would infect seven other people, including her son, Mark, and her daughter, Cindy. Mark and Cindy would lock up the house and stand guard as Paulette transformed into something that was not fully human. Before the sun set on the fourth day, Paulette Duchovny would do what a voice in her head told her to do — she would murder a family of five in their home, ending the slaughter by gutting a three-month-old baby.

  Paulette smiled at Bo Pan. “That’s okay, no problem.”

  He nodded again, then walked to the refrigerator. Ling was already there, the glass door pinned open by his dolly. He was pulling bottles of Coke out of the plastic bins, then reaching into the refrigerator to place them behind the bottles that were already there.

  Ling saw Bo Pan, then took a step back and gestured at the open refrigerator. “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Bo Pan said. He grabbed a Coke.

  “Oh,” Ling said, then reached down to the floor and picked up a black fanny pack. The pack’s pouch looked like it held something cylindrical, perhaps about the size of a travel mug.

  He offered it to Bo Pan. “You dropped this.”

  Bo Pan’s heart hammered in his chest. It couldn’t be this easy to get an object past the TSA. It simply could not. The CIA was here, somewhere, they were watching, waiting for him to take it. They would start shooting at any moment.

  Bo Pan took the fanny pack. As he did, his left pinkie touched Ling’s right thumb.

  In three days, Ling would be dead, a leaking bag of fluid slowly sloughing off of a prone skeleton. The infection would not properly work with his particular physiology, and he would slowly dissolve in a chain reaction of apoptosis. But before he died — and after he became contagious — Ling would stock a total of twenty-two airport refrigerators. He would leave mutated neutrophils on over three hundred bottles, neutrophils that would be nicely refrigerated until a hand touched them, or a pair of lips brushed against them.

  Bo Pan turned and walked away, waiting to hear screams of get down on the floor! But all he heard were the normal sounds of an airport. He walked to his gate just as his group was boarding.

  The last thing Bo Pan did before getting on the plane was to hand his ticket to Enrique Calderone, who lived in the Boystown area of Chicago.

  In three days Enrique would grab a kitchen knife and chase his lover through their apartment building, slashing him on the shoulder, the forearm and the temple. His lover would run, leaving a long trail of blood, before finding a fire axe, which he would swing at Enrique’s stomach, burying the blade in Enrique’s ribs just under his left arm. Enrique would bleed to death a few feet away from his building’s laundry room.

  As for the people on Flight 245, some of them would prove to be unlucky as well. By the end of the two-hour flight to Newark, seven of them would have touched a surface previously touched by Bo Pan. His neutrophils would already have penetrated their new hosts’ skin, would already be cutting open stem cells, rewriting DNA and starting the cycle anew.

  Two of those people were on their way home to New York City. They would take the PATH train to Penn Station, then get on the F-train, one of them headed to the Upper East Side and the other to Queens.

  Another passenger would transfer to a flight to North Carolina.

  Another would board an El Al flight to Morocco.

  A fifth was catching a red-eye to London.

  The final two, like Bo Pan, were heading to Beijing.

  He took his seat, almost giddy with success. He wore Ling’s fanny pack in the front. The pack would never be out of his sight or his touch.

  After twenty-two years in America, he was finally going home. In fourteen hours, he would land as a national hero.

  Unfortunately for Bo Pan, his body would not be able to handle the infection’s final transformation changes. He would not become one of the “Converted.” The process was already weakening an artery in his right temple, creating an aneurysm. In fourteen hours, yes, he would land as a hero of the people. In fifteen hours, that artery in his head would rupture, causing a stroke — he would die of a hemorrhage.

  Bo Pan’s infection, however, would live on. Live on in the most densely populated nation on the planet.

  THAT TODDLIN’ TOWN

  Steve Stanton didn’t know how to handle his hurricane of emotions. Bo Pan would have killed Jeff, Cooper and José, probably with the help of those men at the dock. That alone felt terrifying. Add to that Steve’s guilt over the death of the navy diver. Steve’s creation killed the man, killed a soldier who wanted nothing more than to serve his country — just like Steve had wanted to do. Which, in turn, stirred up confusion; just which country was Steve’s, anyway? He’d grown up American. He’d never even been to China — how could he count that distant nation as his home?

  Fear, guilt, confusion and a final emotion that, in contrast, made the others all the more intense: happiness.

  He was out having a blast with Jeff Brockman and Cooper Mitchell, two men who in their younger days probably picked on and ridiculed guys like Steve. They had no idea that he’d saved their lives, and Jose’s as well. The five unexpected witnesses Steve hired — the two girls, their driver and the two dockworkers — had forced Bo Pan to leave the Moffett’s crew alive.

  By now, Bo Pan was on a plane to New York, then London, and finally Beijing. He would probably never come back. Why would his bosses take the chance that Bo Pan could make a mistake, be picked up and interrogated, when they could just keep him in China and know his secrets would forever stay safe?

  And if Bo Pan’s bosses sent Steve another handler? Well, Steve was the only one who could maintain and operate the Platypus, which meant he was probably safe. As for Cooper and Jeff? Now that Bo Pan had escaped the country with his prize in hand, Steve couldn’t think of a logical reason why someone would want them dead.

  Still, Steve knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering if someone would come for him … and his parents, maybe. Someone who would want to tie up loose ends and silence anyone who knew anything.

  Cooper and Jeff had picked up on Steve’s troubled thoughts and applied what seemed to be their cure-all for any affliction — drinking. The three of them sat in a booth at Monk’s Pub. This was their third stop of the night; Steve was already drunk. They’d had Old Style beer at a dive bar called Marie’s Riptide Lounge, then moved on to far more fancy trappings and expensive scotch at Coq D’Or and finally landed at Monk’s. Steve had lost track of the drinks he’d consumed. Three beers … or was it four? And those two shots … had they contained more than the standard one and a half ounces of liquor? Based on the way his head was swimming, it seemed like they had.

  Monk’s was packed. Music blared. People laughed, shouted to be heard over the high level of noise. Steve wondered if it was loud enough to damage his hearing. One night wouldn’t do that much damage, he figured. Besides, tonight he wasn’t some nerd hanging out with his parents and family at the restaurant, he was partying. And the girls … so many girls, black and white and Asian and Hispanic, wearing jeans and tight sweaters or more revealing outfits they’d hidden under heavy winter coats. Steve glanced over to the bar, to a blond girl with glasses he’d been staring at earlier.

  She was staring back at him. She smiled.

  Jeff smacked Steve in the arm.

  “Too bad about those limo ladies, my friend,” Jeff said. He wore jeans, a black belt and a black AC/DC concert T-shirt that showed off his lean biceps and muscle-packed forearms. “I can’t believe you hired actual models instead of escorts. I mean, they were escorts, sure, but not escort-escorts.”

  A tap on his other arm: C
ooper. He also wore jeans, but with a gray sweater that made him look like a college professor.

  “Jeff is a sad panda because you didn’t hire hookers,” Cooper said.

  “I’m not sad,” Jeff said. “Just saying a little limo-shag is never a bad thing. Hey, Steve-O, you going to pick out something to eat, or what? We need to get some food in you or you’re going to pass out on us, and there’s way more drinking to be done!”

  Steve picked up the menu sitting on the table in front of him. He tried to concentrate on it, but it blurred in and out of focus.

  “Maybe a burger,” he said. “Cooper, are you having a burger?”

  Jeff laughed. “A burger? For that hippie? Maybe there’s some grass in here for him to graze on.”

  Steve looked at Cooper. Cooper shrugged.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” he said. “Jeff can’t quite comprehend why anyone wouldn’t want to consume the flesh of animals raised as captives and then butchered, screaming in agony.”

  Jeff crossed his arms, affected a look of utter disgust. “Dead animals are God’s gift to man. Beef is delicious. Bacon tastes good. Pork chops taste good.”

  The waitress appeared, carrying three beers.

  “You boys ready to order?”

  Cooper closed his menu. “Roasted vegetable salad, please.”

  “Cheeseburger,” Jeff said. “Make it moo.”

  Steve stared at his menu, but the words again fuzzed to the point where he couldn’t read them.

  The menu suddenly flew from his hands. Jeff had yanked it away and closed it.

  “Stanton, enough rinky-dinking around,” he said. Jeff turned to the waitress. “My man here is having a cheeseburger, medium. And may I say, your eyes absolutely sparkle in this light.”

  The waitress winked. “Smooth talker. Won’t get you out of giving me an obnoxious tip.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jeff said. “My tip is always oversized.”

  The waitress shook her head, but she had to hold back a laugh. If Steve had said a line like that, he would have been slapped. Not that he could ever actually say something like that in the first place.

  The waitress walked off.

  Jeff pointed to Steve’s glass. “Get at that beer, bitch! It ain’t gonna drink itself!”

  Cooper rolled his eyes. “By bitch, he means Mister Stanton.”

  “Here,” Jeff said, picking up his glass, “let me show you how a real man does it.” He tipped the glass back and drank the whole thing in one pull. He set it down hard enough on the table to make the other drinks slosh a little. He belched.

  “Boom!” Jeff pointed at Cooper’s mug. “Coop, get to gettin’! You, too, Steve-O! Knock it back!”

  Steve glanced to the bar, to the girl, saw that she was still watching, still smiling. He didn’t want the girl to think he was a wimp, so he lifted the glass.

  “I have to drink the whole thing?”

  Cooper shook his head. “No, you don’t.” He shot Jeff a stern look. “This isn’t a frat party, right, Jeff?”

  “Phi-drinky-drinky,” Jeff said. “What’s the matter, Steve? Are you a puh-puh-puh-pussy?”

  Steve looked at the full glass of beer in his hand. If Jeff had done it, then so could he. He tipped the glass back. He swallowed once, twice, then his throat got so cold but he kept swallowing. Jeff screamed “go-go-go” as Steve drained the glass and set it on the table.

  Jeff raised his arms high. “Winnah!”

  Cooper rolled his eyes again, but clapped lightly. “You two can hang out all night. Clearly you’ve got the same testosterone problem.”

  Jeff stood. “Boys, don’t go anywhere.” He walked to the bar, leaving Steve and Cooper alone.

  “So, Steve,” Cooper said, “you having a good time?”

  Steve nodded. His head felt all heavy and loose. “Yes. But I think I may have drunk too much.”

  “I can see that. I’ll make sure you get back to the hotel safe. Now, you want to tell me what was going on back on the Mary Ellen?”

  Steve felt the elation drain from his body. Why did Cooper have to bring that up now?

  Cooper leaned across the table. “If Bo Pan is messing with you, maybe Jeff and I can help.”

  He looked so honest, so open. Steve thought about telling him the whole story, right there and then.

  And then Jeff returned, the girl with glasses at his side. Jeff slid in next to Cooper, the girl with glasses sat down next to Steve.

  “Boys, meet Becky,” Jeff said. “Becky just so happens to be one of my favorite names.”

  Cooper seemed to forget all about the discussion; he looked hungrily at Becky. “A lovely name to accompany a lovely face,” he said.

  Becky laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Her blond hair bounced and swayed.

  Jeff and Cooper seemed so at ease with girls, so natural, like they’d done this a thousand times.

  Jeff reached across the table and grabbed Steve’s shoulder.

  “Steve, Becky and I have a bet,” he said. “She bet me that you can’t drink a shot of Jäger.”

  Cooper groaned. “Jesus, Jeff, what are you trying to do, kill our boss?”

  Jeff slapped the table. “She didn’t think our boss could drink his shot! I said, Becky, you are a dirty whore with the diseased snatch of a smelly pirate hooker!”

  Steve’s jaw dropped, but Becky laughed even harder. She looked at Steve, smiled a sexy smile.

  They were calling him boss … for Becky’s benefit? To make him seem more important in her eyes?

  The beautiful girl put her elbows on the table, leaned closer. Her shoulder touched Steve’s.

  “You guys are way older than he is,” she said. “Are you sure he’s your rich boss, or are you running a line on me?”

  Cooper put his hand on his chest. “Madam, you offend me. I assure you, Mister Stanton has more money than we could count in a week. Maybe even two weeks. It’s just that much. Not only is he smart, well-off, insanely good-looking, staying at the Trump Tower because he’s fancy and fine, but he’s also an adventurer — we’re back from several days at sea.”

  Steve held up a finger. “It was a lake.”

  “Several days at lake,” Cooper said. “Right you are, boss.”

  The waitress returned, plunked down four shot glasses filled with black liquid. Those were definitely more than one and a half ounces.

  Becky smiled at Steve. “The bet is that if you can drink one of these, I have to kiss you.”

  Steve stared. He swallowed. “And if I can’t?”

  Becky leaned even closer. “Then you have to kiss me.”

  Yes, this was really happening. Drunk or not, this was really happening.

  Steve grabbed the glass, tilted his head back and poured it all in. His mouth rebelled almost instantly — how awful! It tasted like moldy licorice. It burned going down. He felt his stomach roil, but he wasn’t going to throw up in front of the prettiest girl he’d ever spoken to.

  He turned the glass over and set it on the table, the awful taste still clinging to the inside of his mouth and his nose as well.

  Becky put her hand on his chest, pushed him lightly until his back pressed against the booth seat. She turned to her right, then raised slightly and slid backward into Steve’s lap.

  “You win,” she said. She kissed him, slow and warm. Steve’s body seemed to melt. Becky’s hand held the back of his head as her tongue slid into his mouth. He felt himself grow hard instantly, knew that she felt it, too, and she didn’t move away. He heard Jeff screaming something supportive yet obscene, but Steve’s world narrowed to the kiss, to the girl.

  This was the greatest night ever.

  As Steve, Cooper and Jeff partied, they couldn’t know what was happening to their bodies. Jeff, in particular, couldn’t know of the microscopic, amoebalike organisms on his palms, his fingertips. He couldn’t know that on everything he touched — and everyone he touched — he left these moving vectors of disease.

  A waitress picked up a
glass: contact.

  The bartender put his hand on the bar where Jeff had done the same only moments earlier: contact.

  A drunk man bumped into Jeff, then they shook hands to make sure no one was upset: contact.

  Jeff made out with a woman who had put in a long day at the office and just needed to blow off some steam: contact.

  That night, two dozen people would leave the bar with crawlers already burrowing under their skin, already seeking out stem cells …

  … already changing them into something else.

  BOOK II

  CHICAGO

  DAY SIX

  MEN WITH GUNS

  “Hey, Margo,” Perry said. “Aren’t you going to say hello? That’s what you’re supposed to say at this point — hello.”

  Her mouth moved.

  “Hello, Perry.”

  Perry Dawsey smiled.

  The bomb screamed its war cry of descent. Margaret tried to take a step forward, but couldn’t move her foot. She looked down. What little blacktop remained atop the decades-old brick street had melted, all shiny and black, a stinking, gravel-strewn mess that trapped her like an ancient animal in a tar pit.

  Hot wind whipped madly, making roofs sag and smolder. Her blue hazmat suit slowly dripped off her, running down her body to puddle along with the liquid tar.

  Perry drew in a deep breath through his nose, seeming to soak up the hot wind and the fetid air. He looked around.

  “This is where I caught Chelsea,” he said. “The voices stopped, but you know what? It didn’t matter. Those things were already inside of me. Nothing I did made any difference. I shouldn’t have fought them, Margo — I should have welcomed them.”

  Her suit melted away, leaving her naked. Stabbing pains rippled across her skin, the hard sensation of long needles sliding into her muscles, her organs.

  Perry frowned. “Margo, what’s wrong?”

  “It hurts,” she said. “Bad.”

  He nodded knowingly. “I think they’re moving to your brain. I know you don’t want to lose control, but it will be okay.”