Zoo 2 (10 page)

Quick: how long can
the average person last without water? A week? Five days? Three?

It's one of those scary stats you've heard a hundred times but never thought you'd need—until you find yourself floating on a raft in the middle of the Pacific.

I couldn't tell you how many hours it's been since the crash. If I had to guess, only about eighteen or so. But they've been long. And hellish.

Throughout the cold, pitch-black night, I tried to stabilize Freitas and stop his bleeding, ripping strips of fabric from our clothes to make crude bandages and tourniquets.

As the sun came up, I got a clearer view of his injuries. Mine, too. But when morning turned to afternoon, the sun's rays turned hot and punishing. With nothing at all to use for shade, our skin quickly started to burn.

I still had my satellite phone in my pocket, but it had been smashed to pieces. I thought about trying to paddle—with just my hands; why didn't they put oars on this thing?—but had no idea which direction to go. I figured it was better to save my strength anyway.
And
stay close to the crash site. I mean, a military transport plane on a critical government mission just crashed into the sea. Surely
somebody
saw that on the radar and sent help.

Right?

Now it's night again. The temperature is dropping. Salt is crusted around my eyes. My mouth feels like sandpaper, my skin like it's on fire. Freitas is slipping in and out of consciousness again. He's still breathing, but barely.

Having hardly slept in three days now, I feel the gentle bobbing of the raft start to lull me to sleep. I know I should keep my eyes open, to monitor Freitas, to keep watch for a passing ship to flag down. But I feel so weak. Bone-tired.

I think again of Chloe and Eli, who I pray have made it safely to the Idaho lab by now. And I know I have to keep going, keep fighting. They need me. The
world
needs me, I think, feeling myself start to drift off.
To survive dozens of animal and feral human attacks on land, only to die on the open water…

The blare of a foghorn startles me awake.

It's just before dawn; the sky is an incandescent blue. I don't see anything in front of me. Painfully, I turn around—and behold a glorious sight.

A gray navy destroyer, off in the distance, steaming our way.

“Dr. Freitas!” I exclaim, gently shaking him awake. “They're coming! We're saved!”

He groans in acknowledgment. And I think I detect the tiniest smile on his bruised, bloody face.

A black Zodiac raft is soon lowered from the destroyer into the water. It speeds toward us, carrying about eight men in dark-blue camouflage uniforms. A few of them are wearing white armbands bearing a red cross: medics.

The highest-ranking sailor calls to me as they get near: “Are you Jackson Oz?”

“Yes!” I croak. “And I'm all right. But Dr. Freitas is in serious condition. The rest of our team…and our specimen…
both
of them…they're dead.”

Their boat comes to a stop near our yellow raft. Medics quickly rush aboard, carrying a stretcher over to Freitas. “You're safe now,” the officer tells me.

Am I?
I wonder, as I'm wrapped in a silver thermal blanket and guided onto their craft. Twenty-four hours ago, I witnessed a seemingly normal human being turn into an unrecognizable beast. Without explanation. Without warning.

We speed back toward the looming destroyer, bouncing up and down in the waves, the cool ocean mist spraying my face.

As I glance around at all these young sailors, I can't help but wonder: Could any of them be next? Could their commanding officer? Could Freitas?

Could I?

Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam.
In 1941, it was the site of one of the most devastating surprises in American history.

Across all the main islands of Hawaii, wild animal attacks are as bad as anywhere. But there have been exactly zero feral
human
ones. Ever.

At least that's the word from Captain Paul Fileri, the stern, buzz-cut commander of the vessel that rescued me. My de facto escort since we arrived on base, he's standing next to my bed in the infirmary as a nurse drains my wounds and changes the dressings.

“That's good news,” I say, adding, “or I suppose it is. But what I
really
want to know—”

“You
suppose?
” Fileri asks, almost offended. “Oz, a third of the president's Animal Crisis Task Force—from what I understand, the leading international experts in this matter—was just killed. The team leader is down the hall in a medically induced coma. Maybe you don't quite grasp the severity of the situation, but—”

“With all due respect, Captain,” I say, clearly irking this career military officer who isn't used to being interrupted, “I've devoted
years
of my life to this ‘situation.' I've traveled to every corner of the globe looking for answers. Shit, I just captured one feral human in the wild, then killed a second with my bare hands! So I think I grasp its ‘severity' very well, thank you. But right now, all I care about is my family. Are they all right? Please. Tell me. Did they arrive safely in Idaho?”

Fileri frowns. “I don't know anything about that. My orders came directly from the Pentagon, as soon as they learned your plane had gone down. Full-steam to its last known position, rescue any survivors, bring them back to base—”

“I understand that. And I'm very grateful. But what I'd be even
more
grateful for right now is an encrypted satellite phone.”

Fileri's eyes narrow. So I explain.

“To speak to the White House. They're expecting my call. To tell me, now that Freitas is out of commission, how the
commander in chief
would like us to proceed.”

As I'd hoped, those were the magic words.

Even if they were a big fat lie.

Of course I'll try to get ahold of somebody close to the president, maybe her chief of staff again, to find out how I'm supposed to get back to the rest of the team running the show now, and what the hell we're supposed to do next.

But obviously my first call is going to be to the Idaho National Laboratory.

Captain Fileri exits the room. He reappears a few minutes later with a bulky black wireless phone, promising to check in on me again shortly.

As soon as he's gone, I tap the arm of the friendly nurse still tending to me. “Sorry, I know you're busy, but you must have a smartphone on you, right?”

Thankfully, she does. Even more thankfully, cell service on the island is still working. Within seconds she's done me a huge favor: she's googled the Idaho lab's main number. I can't dial it fast enough.

It rings.

“Come on, pick up,” I whisper under my breath.

The line rings again. Then again.

I'm bursting with anticipation now. I can't stand it.

Another ring. Then another.

By the eighth ring, my cautious excitement has been replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I'm calling the main switchboard, in the middle of a workday, at a major federal scientific facility. There should be someone there to answer the damn phone!

“She's coming! Run!”

Clutching Eli in her arms, Chloe follows the command without question as screams and gunshots ring out nearby.

She quickly falls into step with a stream of other scientists and lab personnel all racing down a long corridor tinged with the smell of smoke.

Running for their lives.

All across the biological sciences wing, red lights are flashing and a shrill alarm is blaring. The warning system was designed to be used if a poisonous chemical or deadly pathogen was accidentally released into the air.

Today it's sounding for an even more terrifying reason.

A feral human being—captured in South Africa and brought here for study, nicknamed “Helen”—has just escaped.

The chaos began only minutes ago. As a distracted researcher was preparing to conduct a brain biopsy on her, Helen somehow managed to swipe a scalpel off the instrument tray, cut through her restraints—then slice open the scientist's jugular vein.

A rabid woman on the loose with a surgical blade would be scary enough. But Helen is scary
clever,
too. When armed guards charged into the research lab, she leapt out from a hiding spot, overpowered one, stole his pistol, and gunned down the rest. Then she took to stalking the halls, shooting at anyone and everyone she saw.

Chloe can feel her heart thudding in her chest. Eli is crying and clutching onto her tight. People are pushing and shoving. It's chaos.

And the smoke and gunshots are getting closer.

Chloe had first heard rumors while she was still living as a virtual prisoner among those freakish cult members in France that the animal affliction had begun spreading to people. Given her science background and all she knew about HAC, she dismissed it as utter nonsense, scientifically impossible. Just more of their crazy ranting.

But soon after she and Eli were rescued by American security forces and put on a plane to be reunited with her husband, she learned that Oz was on his way back from Japan, where he'd just captured a feral human.

Suddenly it didn't sound so crazy after all.

Chloe rounds a corner, which leads to an indoor courtyard of sorts, one that branches off into four separate corridors.

The scientists scramble every which way, but Chloe wants to be smart. She wants to run to an exit—not run in circles. She's only been at the lab for a few days and doesn't know her way around. Standing paralyzed, she debates where to go…

“Chloe, this way!” A familiar voice.

Dr. Sarah Lipchitz—a young biologist Chloe met when they first arrived. She'd tried to bond with Chloe over their shared “love” of Oz. At first Chloe was put off by this younger, perhaps prettier, woman who wouldn't shut up about how wonderful her husband was. Of course Chloe believed that Oz had remained faithful, and it was clear that Sarah was just feeling sad and lonely and scared. Chloe had begun to warm up to her.

And thank God she did. That woman might just save their lives.

With Sarah in the lead, the group dashes down the center-left hallway. Sure enough, they soon spot a bright red
E
XIT
sign above a door that clearly leads outside.

Suddenly, a bullet streaks by and ricochets off the wall, just inches from Chloe's head.

She screams and glances behind her. Helen must be looking for a way out, too: half-screaming in some African language, half-roaring in rage, she's coming up behind them!

“Keep running, don't stop!” Sarah urges. Chloe runs, pulling Eli at her side.

They finally reach the exit and burst outside into the hot desert evening.

“One of the Jeeps!” Sarah yells. “They leave the keys in the ignition. Go, go!”

The women and Eli scurry over the asphalt in a parking lot filled with official laboratory vehicles. They make it to one of several tan SUVs. Sure enough, it's unlocked.

They all pile inside: Sarah behind the wheel, Chloe in the front seat, holding Eli on her lap.

Helen, still running after them, fires twice more—shattering the rear windshield—as Sarah starts the engine and burns rubber.

The Jeep is heading straight for a metal checkpoint gate that is both unmanned and closed tight. They're picking up speed—but so is Helen.

Right above those ominous little words
O
BJECTS IN
M
IRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR
, Chloe sees the feral woman starting to sprint—fast enough to leave Usain Bolt in the dust. She's gaining on them.

“Now what?” Chloe shouts. “We're trapped!”

Sarah keeps the pedal to the floor. “Just hang on!”

At the very last second, she cuts the wheel away from the checkpoint and the Jeep barrels straight through the chain-link fence.

At least they've made it out of the burning facility, but Helen has, too.

She continues chasing them, getting terrifyingly close. She fires the last few bullets in her pistol, striking the back bumper and popping a rear tire. The Jeep keeps going, picking up more and more speed, Sarah finally putting some real distance between them.

Chloe spins around in her seat just in time to watch the feral human reach a point of  frustration and slow down—then abruptly change course and run instead toward the vast desert surrounding the blazing, smoking lab.

“
Mon dieu!
” is all Chloe can whisper in relief. Panting heavily, her pulse racing, she adds, “
Merci,
Sarah. You saved us.”

The two women trade a look and glance back at Helen. She's already disappeared into the dry expanse.

After failing to reach
a single soul inside the Idaho lab, I've started freaking out. A
lot
. It seems more and more likely that something awful may have happened there.

And that Chloe and Eli might be in danger.
Again
.

So I change tack. Googling the number on the iPhone the nurse lent me, I call the Department of Energy's main switchboard. Finally I speak to a human being…in media affairs. All he'll tell me is that, yes, there's been a recent “incident” at the lab and “multiple persons are still unaccounted for.”

Unaccounted for?
Not what a guy wants to hear when he's three thousand miles and half an ocean away, and his wife and son might be involved.

“Get dressed, Mr. Oz,” says Captain Fileri, marching back into my room. He tosses me a pair of sneakers, khakis, and a blue button-down to replace the flimsy hospital gown I'm wearing. “We're wheels up in thirty minutes.”

Fileri explains he's just spoken with the White House. Despite the recent loss of nearly two-thirds of the Animal Crisis Task Force scientists, Washington is scrambling to keep the team's critical work moving forward. They're assembling a whole
new
group of experts, and they're ordering me to return to DC via military plane to be among them. Immediately.

“That all sounds fine and dandy, Captain,” I say, “right after we make a quick pit stop to pick up my—”

“That's a negative,” Fileri snaps. “The command is to evac you and Dr. Freitas off the island and back to the capital. No detour, no delay. There just isn't time.”

It's very clear to me that the captain isn't going to budge on this. I know he's just following orders. And I know the country—the world—still does need my expertise.

But I also know that Chloe and Eli need me more. And the last time I put my work ahead of my family, I nearly lost them forever. I am
never
going to do it again.

So I put on my best poker face and say: “All right, sir. I'll be ready in a minute.”

As soon as Fileri leaves, the clock starts ticking.

For me to make my escape.