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Authors: Jonathan Maberry

BOOK: The King of Plagues
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Strauss & Strauss Pharmaceuticals
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 10:57 A.M. EST
Amber Taylor sat like a robot in her office. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers like sticks of wet ice. Inside her chest her heart was beating too loudly and without rhythm.
His
voice,
his
words, still echoed in her mind.
Do it,
he’d said.
Do it today or … or …
Today.
She was supposed to die today.
She was supposed to kill today.
She would never see her babies again.
She would have to trust that
they
would keep their word and leave her family alone. He promised they would. If she did what they said. If she became a murderer.
He had made her swear. On the lives of her children. On the lives of her babies.
Amber slid open her top desk drawer and stared down at the horrible weapon of destruction that lay there among the pens and paper clips and pushpins.
A ring of keys.
They lay there, pretending innocence, looking like nothing. Keys to the lab, to the vault. The keys were right there. No one would think twice if she picked them up, walked out of her office, walked down the line of cubicles to the elevator. Took it to the basement. Opened the door to the lab. And the one to the vault.
The rest was a security code, and that was in her head.
Simple actions. Each one easy. Each one unobtrusive. So easy.
After that …
God.
Nothing existed beyond that thought except horror. Amber Taylor closed her eyes and prayed. She had not been to church since her husband died. Not even to take the kids. Religion and God were as dead to her as Charlie.
And then …
Something happened that had she possessed any faith she might have thought was divine intervention. But Amber lacked that belief, that optimism.
And yet.
There was a sound. Five beeps from the PA system and then a voice: “This is a security alert. This is a security alert. All employees are required to turn on your intranet. There is a critical news bulletin from Homeland Security. All employees are required to watch this bulletin. It will be broadcast in real time in sixty seconds. This is not a training exercise.”
The message repeated.
Amber blinked several times, unsure of what she was hearing. On the third repeat it logged in:
Homeland Security
.
Her hands lifted by reflex, her icy fingers making the necessary keystrokes, logging on, pulling up the intranet.
The screen changed. First black and then the red, white, and blue eagle shield of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Then the shield dissolved into a man seated in what looked like an airplane seat. He was big, blocky, in his sixties, but he looked strong. Dangerous. Amber could recognize dangerous. He wore tinted glasses, but she knew that if she could see his eyes they would be fierce.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Dr. Bishop, director of special medical services for the United States Department of Homeland Security. You are all probably aware of the tragic event that occurred in London two days ago. The world press has called this an act of terrorism, and so it is. But it is far more than that. The security at the London Royal Hospital was compromised by two or more of the employees at that facility. Those employees did not, however, do this out of choice. They were coerced. A group of terrorists made threats against the families of these people. These threats were as terrible as they were insidious. As a result, good people were forced to do terrible things.”
Amber’s hands contracted to fists.
“And while this recent act of terrorism did not occur on United States soil, the investigative divisions within Homeland Security believe that there is a strong possibility that some Americans may be victims of the same kind of coercion. Coercion that could lead to further heinous acts.”
“I am speaking now to employees in hundreds of private companies and government facilities. If you are watching this video you are employed in a critical area of viral research, energy, health sciences, or defense.” If you have been approached by people who have asked you, or attempted to force you, to do something that could lead to harm to others and damage the safety of your community, I urge you to act. If you have been threatened, or if your loved ones have been threatened, you must make the correct and courageous choice. You must contact the authorities. I know you have been told that to speak out will bring harm to your family. I know that you are afraid. Probably terrified. However, you cannot believe or trust these people. They will
not
keep their word. They will attempt to harm those you love even if you do what they want.
Do not destroy your own life, the lives of your friends and colleagues, and, most important, the lives of your family by believing the threats of cowards and criminals.
“There is a toll-free telephone number and an e-mail address at the bottom of this screen. Use them today. Use them right now to contact me and my team. We are ready to act
immediately
. We will protect you and your family. And with your help, we will stop these criminals before they can hurt other families.”
There was more. At least Amber thought so, but her mind refused to process it. She sat there in her chair, alone in her office, at the monitor that was flanked by framed pictures of Emily and Mark. All she saw, however, was the telephone number.
Tears burned in her eyes.
The keys were still in the drawer. The world still turned.
“God … ,” she whispered.
Philadelphia International Airport
December 19, 11:39 A.M. EST
We landed under a sky so bright and sunny that it seemed like it was intended as mockery with all that was going on. As Circe and I hustled out of the gate we were met by one of the junior DMS agents from the Baltimore office, a red-haired kid named Riordan, waiting for us at the departure gate. He nodded to me, but he was looking at Circe. I glanced covertly around. Everyone was looking at Circe. Her face was neutral and I wondered if the attention was an ego boost or a total pain in the ass.
“You supposed to be our driver?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, sir. Delivery boy. Mr. Church said that you wouldn’t want a driver.”
“Nope.”
He held out a set of keys. My own keys. “Your Explorer is parked outside. My partner is getting your bags and arranging for your dog to be transported to the curb.”
He said all this to me but was still looking at Circe.
“
Get her bags, too,
” I said, leaning on the tone of voice enough to snap him out of his love daze. After Circe described her bag and the kid went away, she looked at me and laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Alpha wolf bullies young pup.”
“Oh … stick a sock in it, Doc.”
She was still laughing as we stepped out into the December wind. Fifteen minutes later we were on I-95 and heading north.
Valley of the Kings, Egypt
One Month Ago
REUTERS NEW STORY
CAIRO, Egypt—Yesterday, tomb raiders broke into the recently discovered burial crypt of a previously unknown mummy who many top archaeologists believe may have been the firstborn son of Pharaoh Amenhotep II. In what seems like a bizarre modern twist on Indiana Jones, Amenhotep II is believed to have been the Pharaoh during the time of Moses. If so, then biblical scholars feel confident that this son was killed by the Plague of the Firstborn, the tenth plague directed against Egypt by God, and the one that resulted in the Israelites being set free.
Archaeologist Zahi Hawass, head of Egypt’s governmental Department of Antiquities, was quoted as saying, “This was a pristine tomb. Unopened. To have broken the seals and looted it is a great loss to science.”
According to Cairo police officials, the mummy’s wrappings had been cut and long sections of skin had been removed with what appeared to be medical precision. Officials have declined to speculate on the nature and purpose of this desecration.
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 12:06 P.M. EST
Amber Taylor left work without notifying anyone. She stole someone else’s red winter coat from the staff room. She put on sunglasses and wound a scarf around her face, pulled the hood up, and slipped out through the delivery dock. She walked quickly to the parking lot, got into her car, and drove as fast as she could to her children’s school. She was careful to obey all traffic laws, however. She did not want to get stopped by the police. Not yet, and not now. During the short drive to the school she obsessively checked the mirrors for any sign of a car following her. She saw nothing, but she knew that did not prove a thing. Except for that day the Spaniard came to her to ruin everything and to show her the pictures of the things he called angels, she had never seen anyone. And yet she knew they were watching. They were probably watching right now.
Her stomach felt like it was filled with rusted nails. She popped the glove compartment and took out the large bottle of TUMS EX that she always carried. It was the fifth bottle she had gone through, the extra-large container. She ate six of them while she picked her way through traffic to the school.
When she pulled into the school parking lot the kids were playing in the big concrete yard. A game of tag in one corner, ball in another. Emily stood talking to three of her friends and Mark sat on the steps nearby reading a comic book. Spider-Man. Mark loved comic books. Emily was already reading chapter books, and with her mind she would graduate soon to Young Adult novels.
God,
Amber thought,
let that happen. Let my babies grow up. Help me keep the monsters away.
She pulled to a stop as close to the school-yard gate as possible and left the engine running as she did a slow surveillance of the area, turning in the seat, craning her neck, looking at every person, every face. None of them looked like it could belong to the face of the man with the Spanish accent. No one looked like they could be one of
them
. Everyone looked ordinary.
She sniffed back tears, then tapped the horn.
Emily looked up first and smiled. She waved. Amber got out of her car and hurried into the school yard.
“Come on, honey; we have to go.��
“You got a new coat!” said Emily.
“Yes. Say goodbye to your friends. Mark! Come on, honey. Grab your things.” She hustled them to the car, belted them in, got in, and locked the doors. Then she left the parking lot, turned left, and drove like hell toward home.
As she drove, she made a single phone call to a number that was burned into her mind.
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 1:19 P.M. EST
We got off of I-95 and started picking our way across northeast Philadelphia.
Ghost sat in the backseat and laid his head on the storage bin that separated the front bucket seats. He was still mad at me for putting him in the jet’s cargo hold and probably wouldn’t warm up until I bribed him with food. So, I went through a McDonald’s drive-through and got a couple of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches and an order of fries and gave them to Ghost.
“Is that good for him?”
“He likes fast food.”
“Two sandwiches and fries? What, no Coke?”
“Hey,” I said, “he’s only a dog.”
She stared at me as if I was a lunatic. Fair call. Then she turned and watched Ghost wolf down the fried squares of fish, mayonnaise, buns, and all, and then he settled down and ate the fries more slowly.
“I’ve never seen a dog eat French fries one at a time.”
“He’ll share if you ask nice.”
Ghost looked up as if he understood that comment and regarded it as heresy. He placed one paw over his fries and gave Circe a steely stare.
“Bon appétit!” she said, and turned back. “I’m more of a cat person.”
I was both. I had a marmalade tabby named Cobbler back at the Warehouse,
but it didn’t seem to be the right time to bring him up. So we drove in silence for a while.
My phone rang. Church.
“Change of plans,” he said curtly. “You won’t be picking up Dr. Sanchez. He’ll come to meet you in Jenkintown. Echo Team is also inbound to the same destination.”
“Christ, don’t tell me there was another attack,” I growled. Circe turned sharply at those words.
“Not yet,” he said. “Your video message idea seems to have borne fruit. A woman named Amber Taylor has barricaded herself and her children inside her house. She called the number we gave during the broadcast. She says that a man with a Spanish accent told her that he would kill her children if she did not do what he said.”
“Son of a bitch. What did he want her to do?”
“To release fleas into the Philadelphia subway system.”
“Fleas infected with—?”
“Take a guess.”
“Oh, shit.”
He gave me the address. I immediately shifted into the fast lane and put the hammer down. Ford Explorers aren’t exactly sports cars, but mine had been given the DMS version of the Police Interceptor package adapted for an SUV. I stamped down on the gas and the Explorer shot forward, the needle climbing to a hundred and then past it.
“Joe, what’s wrong?” demanded Circe, bracing her feet and gripping the support handle bolted to the frame.
“You know history,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you were looking at a worst-case scenario of a disease transmitted by fleas, what would it be?”
“
Yersinia pestis,
” she said without hesitation, and then the implications of my question and her response caught up to her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the color drain from her face.
Yersinia pestis.
A bacterium that can take three primary forms when spread from flea to humans.
Pneumonic, septicemic,
and
bubonic
.
Plague.

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