I knocked, then pounded, on 312. Eventually Wilton opened
the door.
“Inside,”
she hissed. “Quick.”
She flipped
the lock and turned around to head back to her terminal. In my terrified state
of mind, I barely looked at her legs in shorts or her butt as she leaned over
her keypad. I know, I know, but part of my brain was still a guy.
Then I
looked over her head into the enclosure.
The fungus had taken over. I
couldn’t see the tree, or the pot it was planted in, or the back of the small
room. It pressed against the glass, and it was pulsing, like a balloon being
pumped to its bursting point.
“What the
hell?”
“I shut
down all the feeding tubes. This is just in the last hour.” She checked a
monitor. “I thought that would kill it, but instead it’s metastasizing—almost
like it’s looking for more food.”
The fungus
fell back a few inches, then lurched forward again. “Is that going to hold?”
“It has
to.” She glanced toward the airlock door. “I just hope that does too.”
“What is
this?” I jabbed a finger at the glass. “You say you’re trying to find a cure
for diseases, but how is this helping anyone?”
Wilton sank
into a swivel chair and swung around, peering at data on her screen. “It’s
biological warfare. Fahringer is owned by a defense contractor. It’s all under
the radar, because it’s illegal, but—hey, these days . . .” She tapped some
keys. “Cooking up the recipe is easy. Controlling it is a little harder.”
Wait a
minute . . . “What’s going on?”
She sighed.
“I know who you are. I’m with Red Watch.”
Oh hell. Red Watch was an
environmental activist group. They “liberated” test animals from scientific facilities,
burned GMO crops, and occasionally shut down expressways with protests. I
didn’t agree with their tactics—hey, I like a hamburger every now and then,
even though Rachel glares at me when I cover it with Heinz 57—but I’d
encountered them over the years. “So what the hell are you doing about this?”
Wilton
glared over her shoulder. “Look, I’ve been undercover here for seven months,
trying to keep my job and keep an eye on what’s going on in here. Red Watch
doesn’t pay us. It’s all volunteer. If I started sabotaging projects right away
we’d never get anywhere or know anything. And I’d be filling prescriptions in a
Walgreens somewhere.”
Yeah. I’d
met one Red Watch spy helping to breed giant mutant chickens for chicken fights. Another one had been out at Brookfield Zoo, watching experiments at
turning feral monkeys into dangerous mutants. The first time I’d run into them
they were monitoring a rogue scientist manipulating a virus that turned people
into zombies.
And all of
them had been watching. Waiting. Documenting what they saw. But not doing
anything about it until they were forced to.
I used to
be a reporter, and my job had been to get the truth out accurately—but quickly.
Red Watch talked a good game, but they kept their information to themselves. Yeah,
they’d posted a video about the zombies, but then they went deep underground.
“Fine.” I
wanted to spit on the floor. “So what can you do now?”
“I’m
trying.” She peered at the glass. “I don’t want that stuff outside any more
than you do.”
“All I want
is for Rachel to be safe.”
The fungus
pulsed again, as if trying to break through the glass and escape.
I stepped
back. Okay, I wanted to be safe too.
Wilton
stood up. “I have to go down to another lab to try something. Stay here and
watch the thing, and keep an eye on this monitor.” She pointed. “If that that
line goes up to orange or red, call me.” We exchanged numbers, and she left.
I called
Rachel. She still had her phone. “Anything new?”
“I tried
running water over it.” Her voice was muffled by the mouth mask. “Some of it
sort of melted away. We’re going to try turning on the sprinklers.”
“Wilton’s doing
something in another lab. She’s with Red Watch, by the way.”
“Those
assholes.”
“Yeah. The
fungus is some sort of bio-warfare project, according to her. Anyway, she’s
doing a test. Or something. Don’t get desperate.”
“I’m going
to have to strip down before the sprinklers come on. That’s pretty desperate.”
I checked
the color on Wilton’s monitor. Yellow. “Call me before you do that. So I can,
uh, keep an eye on Hurzberg.”
“I’m dying
and all you can think about is cheap thrills? Jerk.”
“Love you
too.” We hung up.
The fungus
billowed like a balloon, as if straining against the glass holding it in. The
light dropped down to green, then flashed back up to yellow again.
Then it
went to orange.
What the
hell did any of this mean? I tried to read the data on the other monitors, but
it might as well have been in Klingon. I crossed my arms, uncrossed them,
paced, sat down again, paced some more, and resisted the impulse to call Rachel
again.
Then the
fungus started seeping out of the bottom of the airlock door.
Holy shit.
I jumped up, kicking my chair over, and grabbed my phone. “Wilton? Hey, it’s
me. It’s out. What do I do?”
“Oh hell.”
Wilton’s voice was calmer than mine, but I could hear a tremble in the back of
her throat. “Stay away from it. I’m working on something. Just—stay clear.”
“Yeah, no
problem there.” I hung up and ran from the room. I pushed the door shut and
heard it lock.
Then I
headed back down to the end of the hall—where Rachel was. Again I had to pound
my fists on the door until Hurzberg let me in. “What are you . . . oh, god.”
He peered
over my shoulder. I turned.
The fungus
crawled across the floor, a gray mass of ooze. “I locked it!” I stomped a foot.
“I swear I locked it! It got out through the airlock, and I never touched
that!”
“Whatever.”
Hurzberg grabbed my shoulder. “Inside.”
He slammed
the door. I rushed to the window. Rachel sat on the floor, legs crossed, the
blanket over her shoulders, her mask on the floor next to her feet.
“Are you all right? Did it work?” I
leaned against the glass.
“A little.”
She held her infected arm outside the blanket. “Does this look better to you? What’s
going on?”
“It, uh . .
. escaped.” I looked back at Hurzberg. “It’s coming down the hall.”
“Great.” Hurzberg
sat down and opened a drawer. “We’re not getting out of here.” He lifted a bottle of brandy and a plastic cup.
“Anyone?”
ATTENTION!
ATTENTION! The voice blared around the room. IMMEDIATE EVACUATION! LOCKDOWN ON
LEVEL THREE! ALL ELEVATORS AND STAIRWELLS CLOSED! STAND BY FOR INSTRUCTIONS ON
FARHRINGER.INT. ATTENTION! ATTENTION . .
.
Hurzberg
took a swallow of brandy and then stared at the data streaming up and down his
screen.
Rachel
stood up. She knocked on the glass. “Hello? Still locked in here.” She hugged
her blanket tight. “I mean, if I’m going to die, I’d rather be out there than
in here. Also, I’d like to get dressed.”
“You’re not
going to die.” I hoped that was true. “Wilton is working on something—”
Hurzberg’s
phone buzzed. “Ben?” It was Adler. “Goddamn it, how did it get out?”
“I don’t
know!” Hurzberg gulped some brandy. “Maybe it was Jurgen! He didn’t lock the
door or something—”
Asshole. I
leaned forward. “Hey, Dane, it’s Tom Jurgen. First, I did close the close the
door. Second, what are you doing developing bioweapons for the military? I’ve
got all of it right here on my phone.”
Adler’s voice
lowered. “This is important research. And it’s confidential. We’ve got to
contain this.”
I grinned.
“Thanks. You just confirmed everything.” I didn’t have any data, and I wasn’t
actually recording. I just wanted to spook him. I only hoped that Wilton had
been sending data to Red Watch.
The door burst
open. Wilton. She carried an insulated shoulder bag, zipped up on the top. “Okay.
I might have something. But that stuff is coming down the hall, and it’s
getting thick. We don’t have much time. They’re going to burn this place down
soon.”
Hurzberg
secured the door behind her. “How much is out there?”
“It’s
getting bigger.” Wilton unzipped her bag and began setting up an assortment of
syringes and needles and test tubes filled with the fungus across the desk.
Then she lifted a sealed jar holding a liquid that was thick and dark as oil
fresh from the ground.
“What is
all that?” I leaned against the table.
“Do you
want some brandy?” Hurzberg filled another cup.
“Not right
now.” Wilton sorted everything out. “Okay, the fungus is a parasite. It feeds
on the host. Like Jim Gold. And right now, Rachel.”
Oh god. “So
what can we do?”
Rachel banged
her fist on the glass. “Hey! I’m still right here!”
“Yeah.” Then
Wilton pulled her left boot off.
Her foot
was covered by the fungus.
“I got
infected.” Her voice was quiet. “A couple of hours ago. I thought I was being
careful, but it must have slipped over the edge of my boot.”
“Oh god,
Wilton.” Hurzberg stared.
“On the
bright side . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Now we have a test subject.”
“For what?”
I looked at the dark oil.
Wilton
tapped her phone. “I’m sending the data to you, Ben. I’ve been working on this
on my own. It’s just a question of getting the dosage right.” She uncapped the
jar and fitted a needle into a syringe.
“You can’t
do that!” Hurzberg reached out to pull her hand away.
“I have to.
I helped create it. And we don’t have much time. I’m starting with a low dose.”
She dipped the tip of the needle into the liquid and pulled back the plunger.
“Ben, check the data I just sent you. I’m starting with dose No. 5.”
“Are you
sure this is a good idea?” I looked at Rachel.
“Wait!” Rachel
hammered the glass again. “Don’t do this for me! I’ll just chop my arm off or
something!”
“We have to
know if this works. If this stuff ever gets out again, they need to know how to
treat it. And they’re going to send in flamethrowers. I heard Adler talking
about it.”
I blinked.
“How? Did you call him?”
“I hacked
his phone a long time ago. I can read his text messages.” She pulled up her
shorts and rubbed a small alcohol wipe on her butt. “Okay, here goes . . .”
“Wilton!”
Hurzberg shouted from his computer, where he’d pulled up her data. But Wilton
jabbed the needle into her skin and pressed the plunger down.
Goddamn it.
My own skin went cold. I wanted a cure for Rachel—one that didn’t involve
cutting her arm off—but this was taking too big a chance.
Wilton
leaned against the table. “Okay. Now we’ll see. It shouldn’t take too long.
Ben, it’s based on my weight, 142. What do you weigh?” She looked at Rachel.
“Uh, 153,
last time I checked.” She glared through the glass at me. “We’re eating too much
pasta.”
“You look
great to me.” Even draped in a blanket, with one arm covered in fungus.
“Jerk.” She
bent forward. “You okay there?”
Wilton’s
shoulder’s shook. “Fine. I’m fine.” She looked down at her foot. “Maybe you
should take pictures to document any change. Maybe . . .”
Before I
could pull my phone out Wilton fell to the floor. “Oh shit,” she moaned, her
body twitching. “I’m okay, I’m okay . . .”
Her head
sagged back as I knelt beside her—taking care to stay clear of her infected
leg. “What is it?” Not that I’m a doctor. But I had to say something.
Hurzberg
pushed me away. “Wilton? Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t—I
can’t . . .” She coughed. “I can’t breathe . . . oh god, oh god . . .”
He started
doing CPR. I stood next to him helplessly. Should I call 911? Would Adler even
let them in here?
Wilton’s
eyes flared open. She gasped once, and then her arms and legs went limp.
I reached
around Hurzberg to check her pulse. Nothing.
Hurzberg
kept working, but after five minutes he gave up. “I don’t believe this. I don’t
. . .” He wiped his eyes. “Damn it, Wilton.”
I
straightened up and looked at Rachel. But she had her head bowed, weeping.
Then I
looked down at Wilton’s foot.
The fungus was
dissolving.
“Look.” I
pointed. “It worked.”
“What?
She’s dead!” Hurzberg lurched to his feet. “How can you . . .” But he stopped.
“The
dosage? Maybe it was too high?”
Hurzberg
forced himself to sit back at his computer. He took off his glasses, rubbed his
eyes, and peered at the screen. “The dosage schedule goes up to 12. She took
No. 5, based on her weight—there’s a schedule for weight. Maybe . . .” He
shrugged. “But how do we test it?”
ATTENTION!
ATTENTION! The words blared in our ears. ALL PERSONNEL ON LEVEL 3! ATTENTION!
SECURITY PERSONNEL WILL BE CLEARING THE AREA! COOPERATE WITH EVERY INSTRUCTION!
ATTENTION! ATTENTION LEVEL 3 . . .
I unsealed
a test tube. “I weigh 168. Ish.”
“NO!”
Rachel pounded the glass so hard I was sure she’d break it. “You asshole!”
“Too late.”
I spilled the fungus over my left palm. “At least this will give us something
more in common to talk about.”
“Oh, we are
so going to talk about this. Forever.” She pulled the blanket over her
shoulder. “If the fungus or that stuff doesn’t kill you, I’m going to.”
“You’re an
idiot.” Hurzberg started running numbers. “And this is unethical. I shouldn’t
have let Wilton do that.”
“And
building a killer fungus is the very definition of ethical science?” I hoped Wilton
sent every bit of data to Red Watch before she’d . . . died.
“I was
following the protocols. I didn’t . . .” He slammed a fist on the table. “I
sound like a Nazi, don’t I? Okay, give me a minute.”
I looked at
my hand. The fungus was already starting to spread. It tickled. “Rachel? Does
it tickle at first?”
“It itches.
Then you want to tear your skin off.” The blanket slid off her shoulder. “I
washed my hand for an hour. What are you looking at?”
“Uh,
nothing.” I glanced at Hurzberg. “Coming up with anything?” I really wanted him
concentrating on his screen—and not my half-naked girlfriend.
“We’ll
start with No. 1.” He looked at my hand. “Wilton was too aggressive. I don’t
blame her, but—”
The door
opened behind us.
I twisted
around. Two uniformed security guards marched in. They wore Tasers on the belts
and annoyance on their faces. “Out. Now. We’re about to start scouring this
floor.”
“I can’t.”
Hurzberg tapped keys. “I’m working here—”
One of the
guards, a short woman with a badge named “Smith” on her pocket, stalked
forward. “Sir, this is an order from—”
I held up
my hand. The fungus was already spreading over my wrist. “We’re staying. Tell
Adler to go to hell.”
Smith
stepped back. “What’s—you have to leave. They’re sending up flamethrowers.”
“Tell them to
wait!” I pulled my hand back. “Until we’re done.”
“Sir.” The
male guard—his badge read “Boomer”—shook his head. “We have to get you out of
here right now. This can’t wait.”
“Hey you!”
Rachel stood in front of the glass. “Take a look at me!”
She threw
her blanket down and stretched her arm out. Naked. Well, maybe she still had
her socks on.
But we
could all see the fungus relentlessly crawling toward her shoulder.
“You going
to burn me down too? Or let me go outside?” She planted a hand on her hip. “Okay,
take a good look, idiots. But mostly look at this.” She rotated her arm.
I took a
deep breath. Then I glanced back.
Boomer
lifted an eyebrow. Smith slugged his arm. “Come on, you haven’t seen a naked
girl before?”
“We’re
working on a cure!” Hurzberg was still tapping keys. “Give us half an hour!
Twenty minutes. Or else we’re all dead anyway.” He sighed. “Like her.”
Smith saw
Wilton on the floor. “What happened to her?”
“She was
helping with the cure.” I looked down. Her leg was free of the fungus. “It
worked.” Too late.
She
snorted. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Shut up.”
I was sweating. “Go ahead, open that door and drag her out. Get it all over
yourself. Then you’ll wish you’d given us a few minutes to work this out.”
Boomer
stared at Rachel. “I don’t know what’s going on, but . . . who is she?”
“She’s my
girlfriend. Stop leering.” I picked up a syringe and started screwing a needle
onto it. “Ben?”
“Yeah.” He took
the syringe from me and finished putting the needle on. “We’ll ignore your
weight and just go with the lowest dose. Roll up your sleeve.”
I looked at
Rachel.
“You didn’t
have to do this,” she said.
Already I
was regretting it. But it was done, and this was our only chance. “Yeah. You’re
right. We should have brought the ax.”
Rachel
laughed. “Next time.”
Hurzberg
wiped down my arm and then jabbed me as Smith and Boomer watched.
I looked at
my hand. Nothing yet. How long would it take if it worked? How long could we
wait before trying it again? How long . . .
Did I have
to live?
I sat down
and looked at Rachel again. She hugged her blanket around her. We didn’t say
anything. My mouth was too dry to talk anyway.
The door
opened again. Adler. “What the hell is taking so long? Why are you—”
He saw
Wilton first. Lying on the floor, her foot bare—and free of the fungus. “What’s
going on?”
“We’re
trying to find a cure.” Hurzberg went back to his computer. “She developed it,
but the first try . . . it killed the fungus, but it—killed her too. We’re
trying it again.”
“You’ve got
to get out of here! They’re coming up any minute!” Adler’s balding scalp was
red and sweaty.
“M-maybe we
should.” My voice sounded hoarse. I needed a drink of water. “Wrap up my hand,
get Rachel safe—take that stuff and try it again. Or just cut my hand off.” I
could still work the computer with one hand. And maybe drive a car. Maybe even—
“How do you
feel, Tom?” Rachel pressed her hand against the glass.
I was still
alive, so that was a plus. I looked down at my hand.
The fungus
was drying up. I shook my hand, and some of it fell off.
“It’s
working.” My heart pounded.
“Damn it.”
Hurzberg shook his head. “No, I mean, that’s great. If Wilton had started on a
lower dose . . .” He shook his head again. “Okay.” He picked up another syringe
and looked at Rachel. “Do you want to try it?”
Back home we drank Coke—the thought of beer made Rachel
nauseous—and ordered pizza.
The
flamethrower squad had arrived only minutes after Rachel’s injection. Once it
was clear that the serum was working, she got dressed, mostly. She left her
shirt, and so she got a lot of attention in her bra and jeans as we made our
way downstairs, but neither of us cared. Too much.
Hurzberg told Adler he was
quitting, and we told him we were leaving. Surprisingly, Adler didn’t argue
with either of us. He just looked up at the smoke billowing from the top of the
facility.
Rachel
didn’t talk much on the drive back. Mostly just “yeah,” “okay,” “jerk,” and “no
beer.”
At home I
called Cristin Kiley to report. It wasn’t an easy conversation—at first she
didn’t believe me, and then she’d wept. She didn’t want the pictures. She said
she’d contact the authorities on her own to make sure the fire had really
killed her ex-husband. She was going to sue Fahringer Labs for everything it
had.
I wished
her luck. She told me to send her a bill.
I had lots more question that I’d probably
never get answers to. Was Figueroa really dead? I’d checked the news about the fire on my
phone, but details about victims hadn’t been released yet. And that was all
overshadowed by the bigger fire in Barrington—“A scientific research facility
is in flames, and firefighters are battling the blaze. More from EyeWitness
news . . .”
And who was Fahringer connected to?
For once I hoped that Red Watch was on the case. So that Wilton hadn’t died for
nothing.
Once the pizza came we ate in front
of the TV, watching Better Call Saul. Between two episodes Rachel
reached over to squeeze my left hand, as if making sure it was still there.
“Why did
you do it?” Her voice was a whisper.
I sighed
and thought about Wilton. “It was an impulse. And it was . . . stupid. I don’t
think—I hate to say it, but I’m not sure I could do it again.”
She punched
my shoulder. “Don’t.”
“Love you.”
Rachel
smiled. “Idiot.”
# # #
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