The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Read online

  “I really do have to get back on that bus, Chad. There are lots of people out there that still need to be brought in. The longer it takes to get you where you need to be, the more people may die from hunger before we can get to them."

  “Okay. What happens now?” Chad asked in a small voice.

  "I don’t know—I'm just supposed to bring in healthy survivors." She grabbed his arm again, pulling him further away from the main hangar.

  The farther Chad walked away from the mass of survivors, soldiers, and doctors bathed in the bright lights of the hangar, the more apprehensive he became. "There don't seem to be a lot of people over this way…" he observed.

  Her grip tightened on his arm. "We’re almost there—we just have to get around the other side of this hangar where the special quarantine section has been set up."

  Chad didn’t know where she was taking him, but from what he’d seen from the bus, it seemed like the large group was where he wanted to be. He watched carefully as they walked within the pools of light shining on the tarmac and struggled less as he looked for an opportunity to get away into the darkness around them. It was full dark now—he just had to time it right.

  "Look, I can walk on my own, okay?"

  She quickly turned to faced him. The visor on her helmet had fogged up. She was definitely sweating more now and her eyes were constantly moving. "Fine. Just please…come on, we've got to hurry," she said, looking over his shoulder.

  Why so fast?

  "Okay, lead the way," he said.

  "Do you have any idea how special you are?" she asked, talking with her hands as she walked. "I pulled up your records while we were on the bus."

  "You can do that?" he asked, flabbergasted that she'd already accessed his personal medical records without his knowing it.

  "Hey, this is the biggest medical emergency we've ever faced. Most of the rules have been thrown out the window," she said with a nervous laugh. "Is it true you never got sick? Not even a cold? I can't believe the records—or lack thereof. You must've had a cold or something even when you didn't go to a doctor."

  Chad shook his head as he walked. Just like he thought, she was no different than the others.

  Bet the miracle line is coming next…

  "I swear, it's like you're a walking miracle!"

  Chad grimaced.

  They rounded the corner of a smaller hangar. As they passed the gaping entrance, he saw that this one was occupied by hundreds of cots and boxes. He didn't see many troops inside though, and even fewer doctors.

  "I don't get sick very much…" he muttered, his eyes taking in the new scenery and looking ahead toward the corner of the building.

  Dr. Raythie pulled him to the side. In the distance, he heard the unmistakable roar of powerful jet engines carried on the breeze.

  His palms were sweaty and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The urge to run was almost overwhelming now. Raythie's visor was still fogged up and she was breathing so heavy, he could see her shoulders moving even in the thick quarantine suit.

  “This is…ridiculous…” she muttered. “Why the hell they…felt the need to put this…way out here.”

  As clumsily as she walked in her suit, he was sure that if he took off running there’d be no way she could catch him if he made it to the shadows. Chad’s eyes traveled down her white plastic-encased arm to the radio. He frowned. As soon as he broke away, she'd use the radio and the soldiers would pick him up in seconds.

  Chad muttered some noncommittal responses as she carried on about his miraculous health. It was always the same—doctors wanted to know if he'd ever sneezed, or had the sniffles or ever had a childhood sickness.

  It didn’t matter—nobody ever believed him. In the past, right around now was when his parents would step in and put an end to the interrogations by dragging him away in a huff.

  Mom and Dad aren't coming to get me this time, though. He clenched his jaw. If I'm going to get out of this, I'll have to do it myself.

  Chad tamped his emotions safely back down and focused on how to escape. A small voice in the back of his head asked, Do you really think you’re going to get away from her? Where do you think you’re going to go? You're in the middle of DFW airport without any supplies and it's swarming with soldiers and doctors.

  She asked another question about his family history. Chad kept his voice carefully neutral as he explained no one else in his family had been as healthy as he was. He had to time it right. As they approached the rear corner of the smaller hangar, the doctor picked up her pace, her suit crinkling around her.

  As her right hand moved back toward the radio, Chad slapped her free arm. His timing wasn't perfect, but it was enough to surprise her into dropping it. She tried to turn and stumbled.

  "What—?"

  Chad scooped up the heavy radio as it clattered to the ground and used his other arm to push the doctor back. Off-balance, she tripped on her own feet and cursed as she landed on her butt. With the radio in hand, he turned and sprinted through the dark toward the next closest building. Surrounded in shadows outside the zone of light created by the army, the squat little brick structure looked like a good spot to get out of sight.

  “Stop!” Dr. Raythie yelled. "Come back! Please!"

  Chad had no intention of doing either.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mole

  LIEUTENANT ALBERT S. DANIELS, US Army, stared at the report in his hand again. He'd checked the numbers three times and they still added up. The T-Cell count in the boy's bloodstream was astronomical. Not only that, but they positively annihilated the virus when he'd run simulations. So many activated T-cells should be causing havoc in the boy’s body, but they weren’t. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his cropped hair as his mind raced through the possibilities.

  If we can harness this kid's DNA…if we can replicate his immune system—Jesus, think of what we could do! He sat up, brushing styrofoam coffee cups off to the side of his desk and papers off the keyboard. Fingers flying over the keys, he ran through several computerized scenarios—each time the program promised the gene sequencing found in the boy's blood trumped every BSL-III virus in USAMARIID’s extensive database. SARS, TB, yellow fever, West Nile virus—they all fell prey to the boy’s amped T-cells and were destroyed.

  That's impossible.

  He stared at the results again. If they could be reproduced clinically, he was looking at one of the greatest medical breakthroughs in human history and a guaranteed Nobel Prize. His mind immediately shifted gears.

  There's more opportunity here than I thought.

  He dumped everything he had, the reports, the boy's preliminary blood work—done on the damn bus to DFW of all places—his own extrapolation and the latest simulations onto a triple-encrypted USB drive. The drive and his secure sat-phone went into his briefcase.

  Daniels stood from his temporary cubicle and left the ramshackle work camp, nodding at the few colleagues who acknowledged his departure. They were all working feverishly, hunched over computers looking for anything exploitable in the virus' genetic code. He saluted the guard at the exit and walked briskly outside—he needed to talk to Boatner. If he was right, their project was about to make them famous.

  Daniels stopped. I need to make a call first—this could be my chance at something greater than just scientific accolades.

  He selected a golf cart from the motor pool and climbed aboard. The little engine hummed as he pulled away from the research hangar. Daniels left the south end of the airport and chugged north toward the International Terminal where the army had set up its Emergency Administrative Command.

  Daniels plugged in a hands-free kit on the sat-phone and dialed the code. The encrypted device transmitted its signal to a private, untraceable satellite. To the US military and the rest of the world, it was just one more in a string of independently operated climate change research satellites placed into orbit over the past decade.<
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  The line chirped and a Japanese voice answered—polite, but not friendly. "Speak."

  "I need to speak with Lord Murata."

  "Do you know what time it is?"

  Daniels slowed his transport to a stop as a huge C-17 dropped out of the low clouds on final approach. The engines whined with the strain of moving such a behemoth through the sky.

  "I am well aware. He will want to hear what I have to say, trust me."

  The voice grunted. "It is your head."

  Daniels hunched down over the phone and covered it with his other hand as the giant plane roared past, tearing the air as it screamed down the runway. He glared at it, waiting for Lord Murata to pick up the line. Daniels tried to calm his nerves—Shunsuke Murata was intelligent, powerful, and despised anyone who wasted his time.

  Daniels was only a small cog in the Council's machine, but if his theory panned out, it would have far-reaching consequences—even for the king himself. It could be his ticket to the top of the Council's power structure. He stared at the plane as it turned at the end of the runway and made for the biggest hangar he'd ever seen. He just had to quickly and concisely explain what he'd found and what it meant before Murata lost patience with him.

  I might earn a seat on the Council itself for this.

  The phone warbled in his ear again. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Sir, my name is Lieutenant Albert Daniels—"

  "I know who you are. Why have you disturbed my rest? I am not a young man."

  A cold bead of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. If he was wrong about this or had missed something and was wasting their time…

  No. I know what I saw.

  "I apologize, my lord—but you need to hear this. Well, maybe you should see it." He connected the secure drive to the phone's micro-USB port. A few key taps and the phone transmitted a compressed data packet. "I have discovered something that will be of great use to the Council."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  Silence met his response. Murata grunted. "I admire your boldness. Be quick about it, then—as long as I am awake, I have things to attend to."

  "Yes, sir. I have discovered an incoming survivor—but he's more than just that. His T-cell counts alone make him unique in all of human history. The gene—"

  "I have no time for this. Speak plainly or not at all!" Murata barked, his voice like the crack of a whip across Daniels' spine.

  He closed his eyes, trying to focus the raging storm of thoughts that flew through his mind into layman's terms. There was so much possibility, so much there for the taking. It was hard to choose where to start. "I have found a man whose immune system has—in simulations—been able to defeat every BSL-Level III virus in our database." He waited for that to sink in.

  "And?" Murata said, unimpressed.

  "And…uh…" Daniels' confidence flagged. "It means—if we can…look, if we can copy his ability and incorporate it through gene-therapy—I'm thinking with CRISPR—we’re looking at a cure for the virus. For any virus. For anyone." The phone beeped. He glanced at the little orange screen.

  "Sir, you should have just received my data transmission—it's everything I've got: the sims, the lab results, and the preliminary blood work on the survivor. I think we can use this technique to develop a cure for the virus."

  There—he'll understand that.

  The line remained silent. Daniels waited, counting the seconds. When he reached four-hundred, he opened his mouth to speak but Murata beat him to it.

  "Are these conclusions accurate?" the Japanese Councilman breathed.

  "They are, my lord. I checked them three times myself. It's all preliminary, but once confirmed…this will fundamentally transform how we treat and prevent diseases."

  "It is a noble pursuit. How is this pertinent to the Council?"

  Daniels swallowed. Here we go. "Sir, if we could create a cure based on this survivor's DNA…if the Council was in sole possession of such a cure—we could do anything from selling vaccines for an obscene profit to curing all disease, to…" he swallowed.

  Here goes nothing…

  "To unleashing a tailor-made bioweapon on our enemies while remaining immune ourselves."

  After the briefest of pauses, Murata spoke again. "The Crown. You speak of wiping out the British monarchy."

  Daniels smiled. "My lord, we could hand the king his throne and the people would love him for it—because he'd be in possession of the only thing that could save them from a virus that they think is dangerous to them as well."

  Murata grunted. "The king needs loyalty, not love." Before Daniels could reply, Murata continued, "But your work is intriguing. I will speak to my advisors about this matter and discuss it with the king if I determine it warrants his time."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "Do we have the survivor in question?"

  Daniels smiled and glanced at the next C-17 in the distance as it dropped below the clouds. "He just arrived here at the main processing center."

  "Keep a close watch—if this data is correct, we will want to take sole possession of him soon. I will be in touch with further orders."

  The line went dead. Daniels looked at the phone. "You're welcome."

  Well, it's out of my hands now.

  Daniels pushed the pedal to the floor and puttered on toward the International Terminal in the center of the airfield complex. The Council's affairs were one thing, but Daniels wanted to see Boatner's face when he dropped the preliminary report on his desk.

  Then I need to have a talk with Mr. Huntley.

  CHAPTER 5

  Trust

  CHAD DROPPED BEHIND A pair of overflowing dumpsters. He had to find a place to think. By the smell of the rotting garbage and filth that surrounded him, no one had emptied them for several weeks—at least not since the start of the pandemic.

  His heart racing, Chad tried to silence the radio as it blasted out message after message. Somewhere during his mad sprint to freedom along the edge of the runway, he'd bumped the volume up. Every time he thought he was safe, the damn thing would squawk again. Anyone chasing him only had to talk and his radio would lead the way.

  He knew he should just throw the damn thing away but he couldn’t. There was something about having it in his hands he found comforting. It wasn’t as if Chad would use it to talk to the soldiers, but at least he'd hear them and what they were doing to track him. He looked down at the hunk of plastic and metal. The solidness, the weight of it lent a sense of reality that anchored him while the insanity of his present situation swirled all around.

  Chad shook his head. He couldn’t understand most of their tactical terms and should just get rid of it, but he couldn’t—it was as simple as that.

  It chirped again in his sweaty hands. "Chad? Can you hear me?" asked Dr. Raythie's voice. Chad imagined her trying to make the words sound like she was concerned, but he had serious doubts about her sincerity. Something was off about her, but he couldn't place what it was that bothered him.

  "Chad?"

  He shook the radio and looked again for the right dial to lower the volume. There has to be a way to turn it off! He fumbled with the buttons and knobs that bristled from the thing like quills on a porcupine.

  "Running away won't solve anything. You have the power to help these people—you know that, right?" she asked, her voice echoing against the side of the building.

  "Shut up!" he hissed.

  "Over there!" shouted a voice in the distance.

  Chad wiped impatiently at the sweat on his forehead. This is not happening. This is not happening.

  Footsteps echoed against the next building. The soldiers were closing in and the stupid doctor was still blabbing on about duty and honor. Chad wormed his way back into the pile of garbage bags stacked around the dumpsters as far as he could push—some were packed solid but most gave way with squishy softness that made him cringe.

  He held the radio up in front him, examining the plastic
case in the dim starlight. Out away from the main activity by the big hangars, there was no light but what nature provided. Fort Worth blazed to the west, the fires burning out of control—but that soft glow wasn't enough. Chad pushed a button and the radio warbled.

  "Damn it!" he said through clenched teeth. He was about ready to just chuck the thing as far as he could out into the night when he heard a faint click and the back of the radio fell apart in his hands.

  "Finally," he muttered. Once inside the case, his fingers found what he'd been looking for. The radio’s battery popped out with hardly any effort and Dr. Raythie at last fell silent.

  Thank God.

  "Anything?" asked a voice that was much too close for comfort.

  "I got nothing," said another muffled voice. “Signal’s gone now.”

  "Control, Lima 3. Tell her to keep talking."

  A radio crackled. "Copy, Lima 3. She hasn't stopped."

  "Shit," muttered the first soldier. “Did we lose him?”

  "Don't get your panties in a bunch just yet—maybe he turned it off," said a third voice.

  "Fine. You two, check the back. We'll check the other side. He couldn't have gotten that far, he's just a damn kid," said the one in charge. “Come on, Tomlinson.”

  Chad held his breath. The slow, deliberate sound of boots crunching on gravel grew louder. The soldiers took their time, checking everything as they went.

  Please keep going…

  "Jesus Christ, what's that smell?"

  “Damn it Tomlinson, did you eat more of that chili-mac shit?”

  "Shut up," complained Tomlinson.

  “Knock it off, both of you,” replied the leader. "It's just the garbage dump…"

  "For what? New York City?"

  "No, look. This is medical waste—Sarge, I got biohazard symbols!"

  "Holy fuck—Lopez, step back! This shit's got to be crawling with the Goddamn virus."

  The two soldiers hurriedly retreated back the way they'd come. Chad listened in silence, his eyes squeezed shut as the soldiers regrouped and discussed their options. After a few suggestions about where the doctor could shove her concerns over the kid, they moved on.