Infected (11 page)

“… begins to mutate and degrade after twelve hours. The virus begins to attack brain and spinal tissue, causing interrupted neural response, seizures, and motor failure. In the early studies using laboratory subjects, these symptoms were apparent between eight and twelve hours after infection. At
thirty-six hours, the virus could not be reversed, even if the antidote was administered. Death followed within thirty-six to thirty-nine hours of infection in every case.”

Tanner gripped her hand. Wordlessly, they exchanged a glance.

“Results have been remarkably consistent across test populations.” Walter looked directly into the camera, his jaw set, his eyes haunted. “A decision was made at the highest levels to begin human testing. Neither I nor any member of my team was consulted in this matter. Testing did not take place on-site. I cannot speculate as to where it took place or who participated. Nor do I wish to say how I came to be apprised of the results. Following an unauthorized test—unauthorized by me, that is to say—in which a subject died, I demanded that the project be suspended pending investigation. I was assured that this investigation was under way and that the parties responsible for the … errors had been removed from participation in the project.”

Walter paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. He rubbed his hand across his face but could not erase his haunted expression.

“Oh my God,” Carina whispered. “Tanner, those symptoms—they’re ours. Everything he described. We have the virus. Somehow Sheila gave it to us.”

“You don’t know that,” Tanner objected, but his face was white. “We’ve been under a lot of stress, it’s been a hell of a day—”

“That doesn’t explain it,” Carina interrupted. “It doesn’t explain
this
.”

She pointed to her eye. The skin around it spasmed, causing her to blink rapidly.

She had no idea how they had been infected, but it made a horrible kind of sense. The virus being developed at Calaveras Lab—the one she was supposed to have important knowledge about, information that could get her killed—the one that Sheila said had gotten Uncle Walter murdered. Had it been in the dart that had knocked her out? But what about Tanner—why was he affected? And they’d had the symptoms well before she had been shot. Was this her death sentence?

“You have it too,” she whispered, touching Tanner’s face.

He covered her hand with his, swallowing hard. “If that’s true … if it turns out you’re right—I just don’t understand how it could have happened.”

“Let’s watch to the end. Hit play.”

On-screen, Walter cleared his throat and took another deep breath. “We’ve been working on a virucide based on research initially conducted by Madelyn Jane Monroe, who died in June of last year. We developed a version of the antidote that completely eradicated the virus from the system, but was very complicated and expensive to produce.

“I and several colleagues were encouraged by the development of the antidote, and were working on attaching it to the virus-delivery mechanism in a time-release formulation. The idea was that when a subject was infected, he would also receive the antidote and we would control the period of time in which the infection would be active. But early testing among animal populations failed almost universally.
The attachment mechanism is extremely complicated. Meanwhile, there was mounting pressure among our military sponsors to proceed with what was, in my mind, an unacceptable pairing of the infection with external delivery of antidote. A schism developed within our group, between those who favored pushing forward with testing in the human population and those of us who wanted further restrictions in place. I became, ah, quite vocal in my objections, and on March eleventh of this year I was dismissed from the team and assured that all of my concerns were being evaluated and addressed. I was told that I was needed on another project.” Walter laughed bitterly. “But seeing as there were already several of my colleagues, all of them far more qualified than I, heading up the new area I was assigned to, it was hard to view this as anything but an attempt to shut me up. I was sanctioned and forbidden to discuss my work. Most worrisome of all to me was that a new leader was assigned to serve in an exclusive liaison capacity, meaning that project reporting went directly, and only, through her.”

Carina felt her gut tighten, certain of what she would hear next. “That employee is Sheila Boylston. It pains me to say that I feel certain Sheila did not discontinue the field studies, but has actually widened their scope. I have further learned that she is receiving funding from outside sources. These include foreign interests. I have reason to believe that discussions are under way to sell the virus to foreign governments for their use in domestic and international battle. Needless to say, there would be no system in place for ensuring the
antidote was made available whenever the virus is administered. Soldiers and innocent citizens would be put at unacceptable risk. My belief is that Sheila is taking bids for the technology and means to profit personally, along with hand-selected members of her team, from the sale of Project Venice data. While this violates lab policy as well as federal law, I am most concerned that the virus could be deployed in uncontrolled environments before year’s end, without the benefit of incorporated antidote. The risks, I cannot stress enough, are enormous.

“I made a decision to continue working on the antidote on my own. After the death of Madelyn Monroe, I gained access to her private work and refined the antidote. I have developed a version that attaches well to the virus. When injected, the virus is effectively canceled out after twenty-four hours in the body. At this time, I have given no one else access to the improved antidote, and I have grave reservations about ever putting it into production. There are too many variables in the battle arena to ensure that soldiers …”

Walter’s voice trailed off, his eyes moving to a point offscreen. “I have detailed my concerns elsewhere. I have also been in touch with Major Nathan Wynnside and am preparing a detailed analysis of Project Venice to date, along with a proposal for the destruction of all data and stores of the virus.

“Project Venice has strayed from our initial charge, which was to assist the men and women of our armed services. We never set out to develop supercharged battle drones, at the same time risking lives and turning people into expendable
weapons. I implore you to consider the implications of allowing this research to continue. I believe you will reach the conclusion I have, which is that the only ethical resolution is complete termination of the project and destruction of all research conducted to date.”

Walter stopped speaking and fumbled with something out of view, ending the video. For a moment neither Carina nor Tanner said anything.

“We have it,” Carina whispered. “Whatever it is they made, we have it. We’re infected. And we have so little time before—” Her voice broke. “Before it’s too late.”

“He’s figured out how to make the antidote, Carina. Maybe the version we got—maybe it’s that kind. It’ll destroy itself and we’ll be all right.”

Carina could see that Tanner didn’t believe it any more than she did, that he was saying it just for her. “I just don’t understand why. Unless …”

Unless this was the ultimate threat, the one thing Sheila could hold over their heads to make them do exactly what she wanted: without her, they couldn’t get the antidote.

Without her, they would die.

“Even if we go to Sheila, I don’t have anything to give her,” Carina said. “Walter didn’t tell me anything.”

Tanner pointed to the locker key. “You have whatever is in the locker. What he wanted Major Wynnside to have. All you have to do is tell her that if she gives us the antidote, you’ll tell her where the locker is.”

“Maybe Walter left the antidote in the locker.”

“Seems unlikely. He wouldn’t have had any reason to think you would ever need it.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But if we tell Sheila we’ll trade with her, what guarantee do we have that she’ll keep her promise?” Carina said. “Once she has the key, there’s no reason for her to help us.”

“Do we have a choice?” Tanner’s voice was quiet.

“If we have the virus, we only have thirty-six hours from the time it happened. And I have a pretty good idea when I was infected. It had to be at the salon.”

Carina had been wrapped in a plush bathrobe, reclining in a big chair while an aesthetician gave her a facial, and then—a second woman had entered the room. She was dressed in the salon’s uniform, a pink blouse embroidered with its signature black lotus leaves, and she’d had a murmured conversation with the first woman, who soon left the room. This new woman announced that she would be taking care of hair removal. “When they waxed my brows, it hurt like hell. There was this stinging … it would have been so easy. My eyes were closed the whole time, and they could have injected me then and I’d never have known. I mean, it sounds crazy—”

“It sounds
likely
,” Tanner said. “Remember who sent you to the salon. Who picked up the bill. Who could have easily bribed someone to let her own person come into the room, or even to do the injection herself. There’s a dozen different ways she could have done it, but the bottom line, Car, is Sheila infected you.”

“But what about you?”

“I think that part was an accident.” Tanner blushed. “You came home from the salon, and I picked you up a little after nine. We were up on the roof by nine-thirty, and then—I mean, Walter said that the virus could be passed through saliva.…”

Carina remembered the way Tanner had kissed her with increasing passion, the moment when she knew it wouldn’t
be enough, that nothing less than everything would be enough.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “
I
did this to you. It’s my fault you’re infected.”

“No,” Tanner said grimly. “You can’t think like that. It’s
her
fault. Sheila, and whoever she’s got helping her.”

“So if we’re right, I’ve been infected for …” Carina glanced at the time on the laptop: it was already after eleven-thirty. “They did my brows at six. I remember because the salon was supposed to close at six and they made a big deal about staying open a few minutes late to finish with me. I mean, no wonder, if Sheila paid them off! So that’s—yes … almost thirty hours ago. Which means I’ve only got six left. And you’ve got a few more.”

“Three more. Nine hours.” Tanner grimaced, then forced a neutral expression. “So the virus is already breaking us down, which explains the tremors.” He held out his hand, which had begun shaking again. Almost at the same moment, Carina felt a vein in her neck spasm. The tics were minor—so far—but the idea of them worsening was terrifying.

“Tanner, let me see that.” She reached for the laptop, scrolling to the top of the file list. She found the one she’d noticed before,
Subject Two: Hours 24–38
, and clicked on it. As the file loaded, she didn’t meet Tanner’s eyes; she wasn’t sure she was really ready to find out how she was going to die.

On the screen, a young man in a plain gray T-shirt and khaki fatigue pants stood at the edge of a field. It was an overcast day, a slate sky reaching down to the mountains
far in the distance. The man looked like a soldier, with his hair cut short, his arms and chest muscular under the tight shirt. Then again, he could have been a member of the lab’s security force. His expression was neutral, until his shoulder jerked—twice, in quick succession. A look of confusion passed over his features.

In the corner of the screen, a digital time stamp ticked the seconds. It read 21:18:02. There was the sound of a man clearing his throat, and then an off-camera voice said, “Field test two, twenty-one hours eighteen minutes after initial infection.”

At the crack of what Carina recognized as a starter pistol, the kind used in state track competitions, the man took off running. The camera followed, in the jerky, wobbling fashion that indicated someone was filming while running along beside him, and an obstacle course covering several acres of the field came into view. The man scaled a rope wall, leaping nimbly from the top to the ground on the other side, and instantly began running again. He worked his way through a series of structures built out of raw timber and lumber; some required him to climb, others to crawl or to hang and move hand-over-hand. Everything he did, he seemed to do at a heightened speed; tasks that would be nearly impossible for most people looked effortless. When he finished the course, he jogged back to his original position at the edge of the field. The off-camera voice recited his time and added a single word: “Phenomenal.”

The scene changed to a small room with white walls, gray carpet, and no windows. The time stamp in the corner
of the screen read 35:14:08. The same young man, his hair wet from a shower, was sitting on an industrial-looking cot, dressed in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. The room looked a lot like a jail cell except for the carpet and the presence of a closed door instead of bars. From the angle, it was clear that the camera was mounted to the ceiling. “How are you feeling?” the offscreen voice asked—the same voice as before, but this time tinny and mechanical, as if it was coming from a speaker.