Zoo II (5 page)

“It doesn’t make any
damn sense!” Freitas exclaims, hurling a giant binder full of molecular charts and data graphs clean across our plane’s cabin.

He’s steaming mad, but Sarah and the other scientists and I are so exhausted we barely react. It feels like we’ve been discussing our recent findings and debating our hypotheses—make that our
lack
of recent findings and our
flawed
hypotheses—since the moment we left Bali. Hours ago.

We’re not far from our next destination. But we’re still light-years away from any kind of solution to the animal crisis.

“We should have stayed in Bali longer,” Sarah says, “like I wanted to. Those jungles, that sea—they’re home to thousands of different species. We ran experiments on less than one percent of them.”

“That’s still dozens of different animals,” I say. “Not all of which, let me remind you”—I hold up my arms, showing some painful jellyfish stings and bandaged sea snake bites—“were as ‘friendly’ as we were led to believe.”

Indeed, my own unfortunate episode in the water turned out to be just the beginning. Over the next few days, two other groups from our team fended off sudden animal attacks. First a swarm of so-called gliding lizards. Then a stampede of banteng, a breed of wild cattle. Can’t say I’m sorry I missed it.

“We sequenced their DNA,” I continue. “We ran brain scans. Conducted autopsies. If I remember correctly,” I add sarcastically, “
somebody
even collected and ran tests on monkey droppings. And we found
nothing
out of the ordinary. No unusual radiation or electromagnetic patterns, either. No strange chemicals in the water or magic fairy dust in the air. Nil.
Nada
. We spent ninety-six hours in Bali and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. And, oh, yeah—I almost lost my life.”

The other government scientists on board all mumble in agreement. Sarah folds her arms. She won’t concede anything to me—I think out of spite. But she doesn’t
disagree
with me, either. Which I guess I’ll take as a sign of progress?

Freitas checks his watch and pensively rubs his beard. I’ve known the guy less than two weeks, but I’d swear there’s more gray hair in it now than when I met him.

Sensing a lull in our endless discussion, I take out my international satellite phone and dial Chloe again in Paris. One of the perks of traveling on a government plane is that you get to use your government cellphone during the flight.

Not that it does me any good at the moment.

I’ve been calling the Tousignant apartment hourly since we took off, but no one’s answering. Which happens again this time. The landline rings and rings, and then the answering machine kicks in. I’ve already left a few increasingly nervous messages, so I hang up. Just for the heck of it, I dial Chloe’s old American cellphone number, which we shut off after moving to the Arctic. I’m not surprised when I get an automated message telling me the number’s no longer in service, but it still feels a little ominous.

I close my eyes for a moment, desperate to calm my nerves and push the creeping fear I’m feeling out of my mind. There must be a simple explanation, right? Maybe the neighborhood’s phone lines are down. Maybe the power’s out. Maybe Chloe and her family left for an even safer location. Or maybe…maybe…

I guess I dozed off there for a little while, because when I open my eyes again I see Freitas, Sarah, and the others all buckling their seat belts for landing.

I look out my window. We’re coming up fast on our destination: Johannesburg. A sprawling metropolis flanked by an enormous nature preserve to the south and teeming slums to the west.

We’ve come here, Freitas explained before takeoff, because unlike Bali, it’s a major urban area facing a markedly
high
rate of animal attacks, and he wants us to conduct a series of parallel tests and experiments for comparison.

But I’m not sure I buy that. In fact, I think there’s something he’s not telling us.

Jakarta, Bangkok, Manila, Sydney—these are all big cities that
also
have high rates of animal attacks, and each is a much shorter trip from Bali than Johannesburg is. Flying all the way across the Indian Ocean to South Africa took us nearly fifteen hours. Freitas knows one of the most precious resources we have in our hunt for a solution to HAC is time. He wouldn’t waste it without a very good reason.

Still peering out my window, I think I’ve just spotted it.

A massive, swirling flock of birds—they look like white-backed vultures, or maybe falcons—seems to be heading right for us like an airborne tornado.

Some of the other scientists notice it, too, and like me are gripping their armrests, bracing for an attack…

That never comes. Instead, as the birds pass close by our plane, I realize a few of them don’t look like any I’ve ever seen before—except maybe in
Jurassic Park
.

Did I just glimpse some scales? Beaks lined with sharp teeth? Reptilian heads?

If I didn’t know better, I’d say some of them looked positively…
prehistoric.

I’m hanging on with
all my might as our convoy of SUVs weaves along this rough, badly potholed road. Our vehicle is topping forty, maybe fifty miles per hour, tossing us around inside like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker.

But I don’t want to slow down one bit. In fact, I wish we’d speed up.

We’re cruising along Bertha Street, a major downtown Johannesburg thoroughfare, and the chaos outside is some of the most appalling I’ve seen.

Gray-furred vervet monkeys are swinging from power lines, hooting and screeching. Leopards are leaping from abandoned car to abandoned car. A flock of goshawks is circling and cawing overhead. Giant baboons are scaling darkened skyscrapers. Military Humvees are overturned, hastily built barricades sit abandoned. Bloody, rotting human carcasses litter the streets. The few living souls I spot are crouched on terraces and rooftops, firing off high-powered rifles at any and all creatures they can—the final holdouts, desperately defending their homes, refusing to surrender.

The entire city center of Johannesburg has been overrun by wildlife. The phrase “concrete jungle” suddenly has a whole new meaning. I’m speechless.

Freitas is sitting in the front seat. “This place,” he says with a wry smirk, “is a little different from Bali, wouldn’t you agree?”

As if on cue, a vervet monkey drops down onto our windshield and starts frantically scratching at the glass.

Sarah recoils, but I’m transfixed. For a brief moment, I see a slight resemblance in him to Attila, a lovable chimpanzee I rescued from a medical testing lab years ago and kept as a pet when I lived in New York City. I cared for that little guy deeply…until he turned to the animal dark side, like all the rest.

“Get off of there, you damn stupid ape!” barks Kabelo, our local driver and guide. I can’t help but snicker at what I assume is an accidental similarity to Charlton Heston’s famous line in
Planet of the Apes
. Kabelo turns the windshield wipers on high and swerves back and forth a few times until the primate is thrown from the car.

“Yeah,” I respond now to Freitas. “Ain’t exactly another tropical paradise, that’s for sure.”

Sarah, sitting next to me, folds her arms. “I don’t know how in the world you expect us to collect any specimens here,” she says, an unusual level of agitation in her voice.

Not that I blame her. If this is what the city core looks like, I don’t want to imagine what’s happening in the nature preserve on the outskirts, which is where we’re headed.

“The doctor makes a good point,” I say. “There are just too many animals running around. Trying to capture and autopsy even one of them—that’s suicide.”

“Kabelo, be careful!” Freitas shouts as our SUV narrowly avoids getting T-boned by a charging stampede of big-horned Cape buffalo.

Our fearless leader takes a deep breath, then turns around to face Sarah and me and the other scientists in our vehicle. I can tell there’s something on his mind, something he’s debating whether or not to share.

“You’re right. Trying to trap one of these animals? That
is
suicide. Thankfully, that’s not why we’ve come to South Africa.”

My told-you-so internal celebration is brief. I start to get nervous. Why
are
we here?

“There have been rumors,” Freitas continues, “that the…‘affliction’…has started spreading. To
humans
.”

Huh? I glance around the vehicle at Sarah and the others. This is clearly the first time any of
us
are hearing that rumor.

“There have been unconfirmed sightings,” Freitas says, “matching similar classified reports from elsewhere around the world—which I’ve convinced Washington to suppress—of a group of rabid individuals living in the Suikerbosrand Nature Reserve. Locals now consider
them
to be the most dangerous creatures in the area.”

Freitas pauses solemnly. Then adds: “We’re here to capture one. And prevent this global epidemic from entering an even more devastating phase.”

My jaw is literally hanging open. Sarah and the others are stammering.

What the hell is this guy talking about?

For the past umpteen years, the planet has been battling HAC, Human-
Animal
Conflict. It’s
animals
whose behavior has been going haywire, thanks to the abundance of petroleum-derived hydrocarbons in the environment being chemically altered by cellphone radiation waves. It’s
animals
who have been rising up and attacking innocent people because human scents have been chemically altered, too, and are now perceived as attack pheromones. And it’s animals—and
only
animals—who are susceptible to this because
Homo sapiens
lacks the highly sensitive vomeronasal organ almost all other creatures possess that detects airborne pheromones in the first place.

This isn’t just some personal hunch of mine. It’s
the
accepted theory about the animal crisis within the mainstream scientific community—and it has been for quite some time. It’s been tested and duplicated in labs around the world.

Now we’re talking about Human-
Human
Conflict? No. No way. It’s anatomically impossible. Absurd. The fact that we’re even chasing after this urban legend at all is a ridiculous waste of time and resources. If it’s true, yes, of course, it would upend our entire understanding of what’s been going on. But it
can’t
be. Right?

“I understand this is a lot to process,” Freitas says. “And frankly, I’m praying that the rumors turn out to be false. But you can understand why the government insisted we come and find out for certain. Because if the stories
are
correct, and if it spreads…”

He trails off and shakes his head. The doomsday scenario he’s alluding to—millions, maybe billions of
people
suddenly turning on each other like vicious beasts—is too horrifying to even say out loud.

Through my window I see we’ve reached the outskirts of the city. The buildings are beginning to thin out and the landscape is looking more verdant.

Soon we’ll be arriving at the nature preserve, so I take out my satellite phone and try calling Chloe and Eli in Paris one final time.

It’s not that I won’t have service inside the park. It’s that apparently, I’ll have my hands full trying to track and tranquilize a goddamn feral human being.

The line rings and rings. I’ve been calling for hours now and there’s still no answer. Even for an optimist like myself, it’s getting harder and harder not to worry.

Not just about my family. About the future of the human race.

We’ve been trekking along
this jungle trail for less than fifteen minutes and already I’m drenched with sweat.

Kabelo and Dikotsi, and a few other local guides are at the head of our group, hacking away at vines and tree limbs with huge machetes to help clear our path. Still, the underbrush is dense and uneven. We’re all lugging heavy gear and carrying firearms. The midday African sun is directly overhead, beating down on us without mercy.

Freitas puts a pair of high-powered binoculars to his eyes, awkwardly shifting the McMillan M1A assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The man may be a brilliant scientist, but he’s clearly not very comfortable toting such a bulky weapon.

To be fair, neither am I. Especially since mine has a bayonet.

“Remember,” Freitas says, addressing the team. “These are
people
we’re after. Not animals. We have no idea how the sickness will have affected them. Whether they’ll be savage or intelligent. Whether they’ll attack unarmed or with weapons. Whether they—”

“Oh, give it a break, doc!” I exclaim. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t listen to this nonsense. We’re facing a serious global crisis here, and you’re making us hike through a dangerous jungle in search of the living dead? This is nuts!”

“I don’t disagree, Oz,” Freitas replies. “After the order came in, believe me, I pushed back. But when President Hardinson calls you herself, it’s not easy to say no.”

Jesus. I’ve learned by now that Freitas isn’t a very good actor. From his expression, I think he’s telling the truth. So the
White House
thinks there’s a real chance HAC might have spread to humans. Maybe it’s not just a dumb rumor after all.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s assume these feral humans really do exist. How do we possibly explain it—scientifically? We’d have to throw out the entire pheromone theory.”

“Not necessarily,” says Sarah. She’s blotting her glistening forehead with a bandana. I’ve forgotten how hot she looks when she’s, well…hot.

“
Yes
necessarily,” I reply. “HAC is caused by animals misinterpreting human scents as attack pheromones, which triggers aggressive behavior. And they detect those pheromones through the VNO gland at the base of their nasal cavity. A gland that human beings don’t possess.”

“You’re saying humans aren’t affected by pheromones at all, Oz? Come on.”

“Despite what the makers of Axe body spray might have you believe,” I answer, “the scientific jury is still out on that one.”

“Precisely,” says Freitas. “Perhaps we perceive them in a different way. Perhaps these feral humans aren’t using their olfactory organs at all. Maybe they’re absorbing pheromones through mucous tissue in their lungs.”

“Right, like how nicotine is absorbed from smoking,” says Sarah. “Simple.”

I exhale a long sigh—and suddenly can’t help but wonder what scary, invisible airborne particles might have just entered my bloodstream. I hate to admit it, but Sarah and Freitas have the beginnings of a decent working theory. I just pray it’s not needed.

“All right,” I concede. “Maybe it’s possible. But that still doesn’t explain—”

“Gevaar, gevaar!”
shouts one of our guides, suddenly dropping his machete and whipping out his Desert Eagle handgun. I don’t speak Afrikaans, but I understand exactly what he’s saying.
Danger
.

Our whole team freezes, and we scramble to ready our weapons.

Something is rushing frantically through the dense bushes to our left. I can’t make out what—or
who
—it is, but it’s heading right for us, fast.

Kabelo raises his rifle and unleashes a volley of shots in their direction.

“Don’t shoot!” Freitas yells, grabbing Kabelo’s gun. “We need them alive!”

“I need
me
alive more!” he huffs, shaking off Freitas’s grip.

“There may not be many of them,” Freitas pleads. “And they are your countrymen. Please, at least hold your fire until we see what they—”

“They’re jackals!” I shout, almost relieved to glimpse some furry paws and pointy snouts through the leaves, instead of human hands and heads. “Let’s take ’em out!”

I start shooting my Armalite AR-10 first, and the rest of the team quickly follows suit. We’re bombarding the underbrush with bullets, but it’s impossible to see how many jackals we’ve hit—or how many in the pack are still charging at us.

The remaining animals—about five or six of them—finally burst out of the vegetation, all yipping and frantically snapping their sharp jaws. They’re fast as hell and impossible to hit, even by over a dozen men and women with semiautomatic weapons.

Three jackals get close enough to attack. Dr. Chang gets a big chunk of his leg bitten off by one before stabbing it to death with a bowie knife. A second jackal lunges at Kabelo, who crushes its head with his rifle.

A final jackal leaps up directly at me—but I shoot it, midair, and it’s dead before it hits the ground.

We all take a moment to catch our breath and regroup. Chang’s injury is much more than a flesh wound, but he’ll survive.

I wipe off the jackal blood that splattered onto my face when I shot the animal from such close range. If I’d missed? I wouldn’t have much of a face
left
.

Then another thought enters my head. An even grimmer one.

If a pack of three-foot-long rabid jackals almost managed to kill us…just imagine what a pack of feral humans could do.