Carlie Simmons (Book 2): In Too Deep Read online

  “I thought it would be in your interest to meet Doctor Michael Efron before you departed,” said General Adams. “He and his team of researchers have been hastily culling intel from around the globe and trying to make sense of this virus.”

  Carlie shook hands with the man, expecting him to issue a wispy handshake but pleasantly surprised by his firm grip. “Ms. Simmons, I’ve heard a little about you from the general. Sounds like quite an incredible escape from Tucson that you mustered.”

  “It’s Carlie. We don’t have much time. Can you fill us in on anything useful about this virus or the creatures that we might be able to use while we’re in the field?”

  “I’m assuming full clearance on everything henceforth, General?”

  “Carlie and her team have the green light from me on anything you can relay now or when they are on their mission,” said Adams. “I have to return to meet with another group so I’ll leave them in your good hands,” he said, then made his way to the entrance.

  Doctor Efron motioned for the group to move to a quieter corner of the room away from the humming noise of the lab equipment. He leaned back against a stainless-steel counter and began his lecture with his hands waving through the air. “All we know is that this originated in the southeastern U.S. in this country, in New Orleans, as you’ve already heard. In Europe, it was near the Thames River in London; Russia had its outbreak near Sochi; in Japan it was in Tokyo, and Australia—near Sydney. In every case, it was near a large body of water or ports of entry and each event occurred within twenty-four hours of one another.”

  “So far, this sounds like an orchestrated terrorist attack,” said Shane.

  “Too early to tell but if I had to guess, I’d be along the same lines as you,” Doctor Efron said. “And the timeline for infection was nearly the same across the globe. Once this virus started it spread quickly and devastated every major metropolitan area around the world. The only place to escape large-scale devastation was South and Central Africa but most of those countries were isolated to begin with.”

  “Any intel on point of origin?” said Carlie.

  “All we know is that the Department of Homeland Security discovered some of the first undead creatures on board a freighter in Louisiana. That is Ground Zero. Unfortunately only a brief amount of information came out of their field office before the pathogen wiped out the region.”

  “And what about the virus itself—what are we dealing with exactly?” said Matias.

  “That’s the scary part—this is like doomsday virology models that we used to produce in think-tank meetings with the DOD guys. Nobody I know of in my field of research could have created this virus in this particular fashion. There’s only one experimental pathogen on record that comes close to fitting the profile of this one—KAD97.” Efron leaned back and tapped his laptop keyboard to begin an audio track. “This recording is from a NATO weapons inspector a few years ago who was discussing the old Soviet biological warfare program.”

  The voice of a scientist came over the speaker as he spoke first in Russian and then in English. “To briefly recap, the KAD97 strain and others like it were originally developed in the former Soviet Republic at their bioweapons facility north of Kiev. Regrettably, no one knows for certain what became of this particular pathogen as the scientists who invented it died long ago and documentation on such projects is hard to come by, as you might imagine. The virus had strains of encephalitis leading to neurological breakdown coupled with a synthetic pathogen similar to plague. We can only hope, for our sake and the future of humanity, that such a virus no longer exists.”

  When the audio ran out, Efron pulled up a rolling chair and sat down, resting his arms on his spread-out legs while clasping his fingers together.

  “The Soviet scientists were so terrified of this combined virus that after the USSR was dissolved, the remaining stockpiles of the pathogen were destroyed so it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands. It would’ve taken an entire team of scientists working for years in a major facility like they had to even come up with something like this again.”

  “Clearly one of the former Russian scientists must have held on to some, selling out to a rogue nation perhaps,” said Shane.

  “Or someone discovered a cache of hidden vials and reanimated the virus,” said Efron. “During the Cold War, Russian operatives were known to have crude bioweapon devices stowed in various locations around the world, probably just as we did.”

  “Yeah and I’m sure those devices were eagerly dug up and sold on the black market after things fell apart with the Russkies,” said Jared.

  “If this was a terrorist effort, they had deep pockets and an enviable infrastructure,” said Shane. “To run an op on this scale takes a worldwide network and logistical capabilities beyond what a small outfit could muster. But what puzzles me are the ports of entry you mentioned—those are not targets I would choose for such a strike, plus the fact that each area of outbreak didn’t occur at exactly the same time. That’s very odd.”

  “So this terrorist group or rogue country decides to unravel the world by creating an army of undead,” said Carlie. “Then what—they are going to sit back until the dust settles and become overlords?”

  “Or sell the antidote to the highest bidder,” grumbled Boyd.

  “I can’t answer the latter,” said Efron. “So far no group or individual has taken credit for this attack. Typically, there’s some kind of demand or affirmation from the culprits after a terrorist attack. On this one, we’re still in the dark.”

  “How does the virus move so fast—is biting the main disease vector?” said Amy.

  “I suspect that this began as an airborne disease and then must have mutated quickly to spread through oral contact from biting. This is the most common way of transmission now but you can also get it from contact with the blood on, say, an open cut or wound, much like any other infectious disease. The virus turns the living into, for lack of a better saying, knife-edge walkers—they’re not dead but they certainly aren’t alive in the sense of the person we once knew.” He glanced around the cavernous room where his staff was frantically working. “This lab was set up very quickly and we’ve only had a day of solid analysis behind us along with collating data from our colleagues around the world. We have a few of the creatures contained in a cell in a lower level in this facility and those have provided fresh blood samples but the complete analysis is not in yet.” He paused to crack a knuckle on his index finger. “What I can tell you is that the brain tissue samples I’ve examined indicate that the victim’s frontal lobe becomes scrambled, thus erasing their personality. This is the part of the brain responsible for reasoning, cognition, and language. Only the more primal limbic system and predatory drive is left intact. The interesting thing is that the nervous system is enhanced—you probably witnessed the speed at which the creatures can move and their raw aggressiveness.”

  “Professor Beauchard, who was with us in Tucson and is now in your employ, indicated that the facial sagging and yellow skin color may be connected with a form of stroke,” said Carlie.

  “Now, that’s the puzzling piece of this whole thing—the original Russian virus didn’t indicate anything about that side-effect. This could be a modification that was added in recently or an unexpected outcome from fucking with nature.”

  “OK, so far I’m with you,” said Carlie. “But I saw a creature in Tucson, as well as outside the base here, that moved and acted differently than the others. It had a bold, purposeful stride and an almost alpha-dog appearance compared to the others.”

  “Hmm,” Efron said, running his hand through his silver hair. “You’re one of a handful of people to relay such a sighting to me. Honestly, I don’t know. Perhaps its frontal lobe was less damaged than the rest of the creatures or it has an increased oxygen and blood flow rate—I just don’t have enough data to help you at this point.”

  “So, onto practical matters, Doc,” said Shane. “It’s all headshots or whacking off the
ir domes that’ll save our asses on the battlefield, right?”

  “That and taking advantage of the night as their eyesight seems to be hampered after sundown. It looks like we no longer own the daylight.”

  “At least for today—tomorrow is another story,” Shane said, tucking his hands into his beltline.

  “So what do we call these things—the undead, zombies, mutants or what?” said Amy.

  “How about flesh robbers or pickle-faced goons?” said Jared with a grin.

  “Calling ’em ‘Tangos’ works for me,” said Shane.

  “Very Argentinian of you—except that that doesn’t distinguish them from the other living and breathing bad guys roaming the streets,” said Jared.

  “Bad guys that are livin’ or dead both need killing,” said Shane.

  Jared grinned. “Wait a minute—what about ‘tango undead mutants’ or ‘TUMs’ for short? How does that suit you, Sheriff?”

  “I’m gonna need a roll of Tums when we’re done here. I’m already feeling queasy just standing this close to you,” said Shane.

  “We can assign a practical name later,” said Carlie. “We’ve got a plane to catch in one hour so do any last-minute gear checks, grab some chow, and let’s rendezvous at the rear hangar at exactly 0500.”

  Chapter 12

  The Island of Nuevo Gerona, Eight Days before the Pandemic

  Pavel was sitting on a thinly padded bench seat in the tugboat as it approached the black sand beach of the island ahead. He studied the natural features of the wild region which showed several small mountain ranges cloaked in palm trees. These formed the backdrop that lay beyond the aqua-blue lagoon near the boat dock which was flanked on either side by crude beachside huts made of bark sheets.

  He looked back at the boat’s other occupants. Besides himself and Viktor there were two agency operators sitting at the rear. Jack, the tallest man, had a shaved head and pock-marked face. Martin was the second man, who bore low-cropped black hair and a wispy goatee that made him look like a pirate. While both lithe figures were dressed as tourists, they bore the expression of two perched hawks. Viktor said they were security contractors that would handle logistics and ensure their safety. Their icy demeanor reminded Pavel of Spetsnaz soldiers from the old regime he had left behind.

  The portly captain of the boat was a local who kept his attention solely fixed upon the ocean and never glanced back at the rest of them. He had a deep tan and his rotund figure resembled a bowling pin with legs.

  Though the circumstances were unlike anything Pavel had done before with NATO, there was a certain odd comfort in working with Viktor again. They had labored alongside each other in the bioweapons research facility north of Kiev what seemed like a lifetime ago when Field Marshal Sergei Mirinov lorded over the program. When the Soviet Union collapsed in ’91, Pavel defected to Germany while Viktor fled to the United States. With his square jaw and flattened nose, Viktor looked more like a pit-bull in a Hawaiian shirt than a cutting-edge scientist working for the CIA.

  They had both sworn that if they could ever escape from the clutches of the Soviet facility, they would turn their skills towards doing something to help humanity instead of trying to expose its weak spots. He had heard rumors that Viktor was acquired by an American agency but never knew to what extent he was involved. All Pavel cared about now was eliminating this one last threat associated with a darker time. Maybe it would allow him to finally sleep through the night and not awaken with memories from his tortured past.

  With the fumes from the boat’s engine shifting, Pavel got up and moved to the other side of the deck across from his old colleague, who was staring out at a massive freighter situated at a port in the distance. “Wishing you were on that boat instead of this one?” Pavel said.

  “No, thanks. I’m right where I need to be. Besides, that frigate is headed back to the United States in a few days along with a dozen others to their respective countries—a nice political gesture of goodwill to the residents of the region after that last hurricane destroyed the mainland.”

  “So tell me again how this is going to work,” Pavel said. “We’re just going to go in, collect any existing brain tissue samples, incinerate the bodies, and then we’re done?”

  “Exactly. The agency doesn’t want any footprints of our presence here or on the books back home. Our primary objective is to establish the nature of the pathogen and confirm that it is indeed KAD97, then torch the site. This whole thing shouldn’t take more than a day or two. These gentlemen here,” Viktor said, pointing to the two wiry operators, “will take care of everything else not related to our research. Stick close to them if anything happens and you’ll be fine.”

  “And how are we going to blend in walking around the site wearing orange biohazard suits?”

  “This island has a small population to begin with and the location is way, way out there in a remote strip of jungle only used by a handful of smugglers. They were the ones who found it in the first place when they were expanding their underground network of storage facilities.”

  “And none of them are infected that we know of?”

  “So far, there’s no indication, which leads me to believe that the aerosolized properties of the virus are inert. The interesting thing is that their transmission indicated how perfectly preserved the corpses are.”

  “How is that even possible given the humid climate here where things rot in mere months?”

  “The pathogen must have been responsible for preserving the cell structure longer than normal in the hopes of passing on the virus to another host in the weeks that follow initial infection. The scary thing is that a few of the corpses looked like they thrashed around in their graves for some time after they were buried—perhaps even months.”

  “That tells me that the central lobes of the brain were dead and only the limbic system—the reptilian segment of our neocortex—was operating on sheer impulse,” Pavel said, muttering to himself.

  “Preparan,” said the rotund boat captain as he steered the small vessel alongside the bleached white dock.

  Pavel stood up and grabbed his two duffle bags full of scientific equipment, his biohazard suit, laptop, and a few personal affects. He followed Viktor and the operators along the narrow planks and onto the beach where two olive-drab jeeps had just pulled up. Each vehicle was filled with wooden crates, one side of which was covered with screening. Inside were parrots and parakeets stuffed beyond capacity as the frantic birds climbed over each other looking for a way out. The drivers motioned to the boat captain to unload the crates.

  “Are we taking home some pets with us?” said Pavel.

  “These guys smuggle exotic birds and even endangered ones to collectors all over the world. It apparently makes up a fifth of their operation.”

  The driver in the lead vehicle was a short fellow with a dark complexion and wearing a lime-green t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. He waddled over to them and quickly scrutinized each man then walked up to Viktor.

  “Are you Alonso?” said Viktor.

  “Si,” he said, offering his hand.

  Viktor responded by extending his own only to have the man smirk and pull away.

  “Dineros…do you have the dineros I requested from your contacts on the mainland?”

  Viktor raised an eyebrow and then reached into his waistline where a hidden moneybelt was concealed. He pulled out an envelope stuffed with cash and handed it to Alonso, who peered inside and then jammed it into his back pocket.

  “This way,” the smuggler said, motioning for them to get in the jeeps.

  For ninety minutes the two jeeps bobbed along the rutted, muddy road. Pavel was astounded at the bird life in the lush canopy. They had passed everything from flamingos to pelicans and spoonbills near the coast to migratory birds such as thrushes, cardinals, tanagers, and finches. But Alonso, who bore the tattoo of a red stingray on his inner forearm, only kept pointing out the parrots and parakeets, describing what each would fetch on the black marke
t. Alonso was the gatekeeper for all of the exotic and endangered birds coming not only out of the Cuban jungle, but from Central and South America. Every smuggler’s ship that passed his way paid him for his connections abroad to move their illegal wildlife. The man had built a small fortune from his illicit trade and kept boasting about how he had managed to harvest just what was needed on his homeland to keep up the demand. “Take too many birds today…then no dineros tomorrow,” he kept saying as if Pavel should be impressed by his attempt at stewardship.

  As the jeeps pulled into the smugglers’ remote encampment, Pavel saw a narrow airstrip that had been hacked out of the jungle. Alongside it was a small cinder-block building with aerial antennas adjacent to a three-story observation tower that just hung above the verdant canopy of trees. Opposite their location was a cluster of six dilapidated shacks that were the smugglers’ living quarters. These were all painted in camouflage and each had hammocks swinging off the porches along with water catchment barrels attached to the roofs. There were around thirty men milling about the area, each toting an AK off their shoulders. The smugglers were busy loading crates onto trucks or hacking down vegetation that had sprung up on the airstrip beside a hangar made of corrugated tin.

  As they neared the end of the airstrip, the two jeeps came to an abrupt halt. “Thees as far as we go,” said Alonso in broken English. “Site over der,” he said, pointing a tan finger to a gap in the trees a hundred yards distant.

  Pavel and the other two men hopped out of the vehicles and grabbed their gear. A half hour later, he and Viktor were suited up in their biohazard suits and double-checked each other. Each man grabbed their portable inspection kits and laptop then headed towards the treeline. Jack and Martin, the two operators, stayed behind by the treeline entrance.

  Walking along the trail through the dense foliage, Pavel could see the area open up to a large field that had recently been cleared of trees. In the center were mounds of dirt surrounded by a tractor and bulldozer. As they approached, he saw a rectangular pit that was twenty feet across by forty feet long. A wooden ladder was propped against the edge nearest them.