Redivivus Trilogy (Book 1): Threnody Read online

  The barrage of impossible details seemed to hit John all at once, ensnaring him like a fish helplessly caught in a net. While he knew he did not want to be there, he felt powerless to extricate himself from the situation. By now, old man Hasker was within a few feet and steadily closing the gap with each redirected movement. With what remained of his arms still outstretched, Hasker’s left hand grasped John’s jacket as the stump of his right arm tried in vain to complete the embrace.

  At that moment – whether as a defense mechanism or some other psychological phenomenon – the main question going through John’s mind was why the man’s clearly severed right brachial artery was not spraying blood all over the place. Hasker pulled his head in close to John, his mouth working as though he was trying to tell him something over the roar of the engines. Intense pain erupted from John’s right arm, searing up his arm and through his spine like electrons racing through a power line. As bad as it was, the flurry of motion that followed shattered all thoughts of the pain as blood – or what he thought was blood – sprayed everywhere.

  Though the twin engines still thundered nearby, John heard the unmistakable grunts of a struggle all around him. Suddenly, Hasker’s head seemed to deflate slightly as his neck craned unnaturally to the side. A dark blur arced through the air at high speed along a trajectory that carried it directly into Hasker’s skull, flattening it even further with a sickening, wet thud. Hasker’s left hand instantly fell away from John’s jacket as the old man crumpled to the ground in a motionless heap.

  In a state of shocked disbelief, John looked up from the lifeless form of old man Hasker, and his eyes locked on the object that had been a frightening and deadly blur only moments ago. A two and a half foot piece of heavy, one-inch, blood-soaked steel pipe rested comfortably in the hands of an enormous, heaving man wearing equally blood-soaked mechanic’s coveralls. Were it not for the fact that he just saw torrents of blood flying about under the big man’s barrage, John thought it would be hard to tell it was blood rather than grease or oil.

  John realized the hulk of a man standing before him was the same man who was frantically signaling him from the base of the tower. “Sorry about your arm,” the man yelled, as he climbed into the Baron to shut down its two massive engines. The twin propellers whirred evermore slowly with the loss of power, and John found himself entranced by their motion as they finally crept to a halt.

  Caressing his throbbing right arm, John replied numbly, “What?”

  “Your arm. Sorry about your arm,” the big man repeated. Up to that point, John was unaware that he had been hit during the tumultuous melee. As Mr. Hasker was about to sink its teeth into the flesh of John’s arm, the big man swung wide and struck John’s arm with a crushing blow of his steel pipe before finding his intended target in the form of Hasker’s head.

  As the cacophony of the engines dissipated, John found the ensuing silence almost as disconcerting as everything he just experienced. After the chaos of the last few minutes, John wondered if there would ever be a time or place where peace and quiet could exist comfortably again, and in that same instant, he knew there would not.

  “Come on,” said the mechanic in a hushed yell. “Let’s get the hell out of here before anyone else shows up.”

  Chapter 9

  October 2, 2015

  The wind buffeted past the hulking plane as it cruised at 700 km per hour – 20,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Lin stared at her laptop as the feeling of terror grew steadily inside her. She was gazing into the soul of a great evil, and she knew it would irreparably alter her world. Indeed, it was certain to alter everybody’s world. Being a scientist, however, she couldn’t help but marvel at what these two researchers had accomplished in such a short amount of time, regardless of their solipsistic motives and the catastrophic implications they carried. The fact that she felt even the slightest sense of awe left her feeling even more ill. The increasingly turbulent atmosphere made the KC-390 shudder violently between dramatic periods of loss of lift that caused the plane to drop as much as five hundred feet in altitude in little more than a second. The combined sensory stimulation easily overwhelmed her attempts to avoid regurgitation as she reached for a sick bag and heaved more than she thought possible for one person. In spite of her debilitating nausea, she read on, as powerless to stop as a gawker at the scene of a horrible car accident.

  From the Journal of Marcus Johnson, PhD

  October 1, 2013

  We finished our preliminary testing on inter-subject viral transmission. So far it looks as if this vector is going to give us the specificity we need. We haven’t seen any transmission between the target subject and other animals despite prolonged exposure times. As the infected subject will not survive for long once infected, the primary mode of transmission we are concerned with is airborne. So far, so good.

  For now, Marcus out…

  January 13, 2014

  Mr. Handler is such a pain in the ass! What kind of asshole takes some lame-ass name like ‘Mr. Handler’ anyway? Our experiments are going great but we can’t seem to kill these monkeys fast enough for that sick bastard! We have been working damn near around the clock; there isn’t much else to do out here. Wherever the hell ‘out here’ is. What a jacked up situation! Can’t talk to anyone except Sanji and the geeky-ass lab techs that barely even speak English! Don’t get me wrong Sanji is great but I’m beginning to wonder if he hasn’t been in with Mr. Handler from the beginning. He’s just way too comfortable with all this Cloak and Dagger bullshit. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s watching me; you know, keeping an eye on me for Mr. Handler. I’m going to have to be more cautious around him.

  For now, Marcus Out…

  April 11, 2014

  It’s been a while since I wrote about our progress. After looking at several molecular targets we had the most promising results with voltage-gated sodium channels. We evaluated various toxins and their mechanisms of action but most were too slow, too obvious, or too detectable. Finally we came upon tetrodotoxin. That is some seriously bad shit! 100 times more toxic than cyanide and hard to detect unless you use advanced analytic techniques like mass spectrometry. Basically we have been able to hijack neural transmission in the subject leading to the fairly rapid onset of weakness, paralysis, respiratory failure, and arrhythmia. We’ve seen subject demise in as little as two hours and none have survived past six hours. Remind me not to cross Mr. Handler! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that reptilian bastard tried to turn our own creation on us after this is all over.

  The lyssa-niuhi virus (LNV), as I’ve taken to calling it, has two primary means of host toxicity. The first is the synthesis of tetrodatoxin-related protein (TTXrP) at levels sufficient to stop the heart as well as paralyze all voluntary skeletal muscles including the diaphragm. This begins immediately after infection and is limited to production by only those cells directly infected by the inoculated LNV. TTXrP’s LD50 is so low that adequate toxin levels are attained even with the relatively low number of cells producing the toxin. TTXrP reaches lethal levels in our model about two to four hours post-infection. LNV infection also results in the synthesis of an antigenic protein that triggers the host immune system to produce bispecific anti-transferrin anti-Nav antibodies. This second, somewhat redundant mechanism essentially amplifies the immediate effects of TTXrP that alone are generally sufficient for target neutralization. The transferrin specificity was incorporated to provide a means for the autoantibodies to cross the blood-brain barrier and was taken from work done by a colleague of mine who has been investigating ways to target CNS proteins directly.

  Mr. Handler came to the facility with another ICT guy last week. We were told he was a top-notch forensic pathologist and he definitely fit the bill. That guy was way creepy! Since it looks like we found the right target the ICT guys wanted to see if the forensics guy could figure out the cause of death of the subjects. Mr. Handler told us that he was given no information about the nature of our pathogen and that he was the best i
n his field. They are confident that if he can’t figure it out then no one else will have much of a chance.

  Even if anyone did figure out what the hell was happening to a target, there is no antidote for TTX. That reminds me, I have an idea for a counter-vaccine of sorts that I need to work on in case Mr. Handler does get a little wild with the needle. I don’t trust that guy.

  For now, Marcus out…

  May 9, 2014

  Dammit! Mr. Handler is going to be pissed! I really thought we finally had it all worked out. Animal #4 in the latest group of test subjects (group E4) survived infection with LNV. I use the word ‘survived’ loosely as he seems pretty messed up. Things were proceeding normally after LNV administration. #4’s vital parameters were showing the expected decline caused by TTXrP and about two hours after infection, the tech pronounced #4 dead. The disposal team was delayed and thus the E4 subjects remained in the lab for several hours after the completion of the experiment. I was at my workstation sifting through the latest data set while Sanji was on break. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up to see #4 weakly moving his arms! He was about seven hours after infection at that point, and about five hours out from being pronounced dead. He was either back from the dead or had been pushed so close to the edge of death that our monitoring failed to detect the vital signs necessary for life. At first I thought I might be hallucinating. After all, I’ve seen my niece here three times in the last week—twice standing among the jungle foliage just staring at me and once in my living quarters. I haven’t mentioned that to Sanji for obvious reasons. The isolation in this place is really starting to get to me. This whole project is starting to get to me. The more I see and do the more I wonder if it is truly worth it – too late now I suppose. Anyway, I’ve decided to call #4 Lazarus. We are currently looking into why and how he managed to survive the LNV infection.

  For now, Marcus out…

  Chapter 10

  October 2, 2015

  Huntington Field

  Marengo County, AL

  The mechanic ran full tilt back toward the tower from which he had come. He was surprisingly fast for a man his size. After a moment of confused indecision, John ran after him despite being unsure of what exactly he was running from. As he neared the building, the mechanic motioned wildly for him to hurry. The second John cleared the doorframe, the mechanic leaned out, peering from side to side as though he was expecting someone else to join them. Satisfied, the mechanic quietly closed the heavy metal security door. The mechanical click of the lock engaging sounded like a gunshot in the confined space. The mechanic then proceeded to maneuver a long section of metal pipe through the door handle and past both sides of the doorframe to further bolster the already formidable barricade. No one was getting through that door without the assistance of a bulldozer or a block of C4, John thought. Still, the man continued to fortify the entrance, moving several large tool cabinets in front of the door as though he was concerned someone might actually show up with a bulldozer or high power explosives. Despite the substantial weight of the toolboxes, the man did not even strain as he guided them into position. As soon as he was satisfied with the barrier he turned to John, and with an unreadable expression that simultaneously projected genuine concern, unchecked fear, and unadulterated rage, he said, “Did he get you?”

  John stared back blankly as if the mechanic had spoken to him in a rarely used dialect of Swahili.

  “Did he get you, man? Hasker, did he get you?” asked the mechanic with rising volume that mirrored the intense emotions now visibly etched upon his face. The concern seemed to be losing ground to the fear and rage as his voice took on a noticeably dark tone. John could not help but notice the length of steel pipe he brandished in a tightening grip, leaving little to the imagination about the intentions behind the menacing weapon.

  John started to speak but was cut off as the large man suddenly bounded forward.

  The man bellowed, “Did…he…bite…you?” The pipe that had been hanging uncertainly at the man’s side was now poised with its teeth bared begging for permission to unleash the raw fury contained within it.

  Thoroughly befuddled and more than a little frightened, John stammered, “Bite me? No, why would he…?” The mechanic began to ease back almost immediately at his words. Sensing the change, John said, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Name’s Reams Wilkins. I know I’ve seen you around here before, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m really sorry about your arm, shit was just crazy out there and, well, you know. I’m sure as hell glad he didn’t get you though. You are the first normal person I’ve seen in two days. Man, I’m no killer but the shit I’ve seen and done in the last few days…I’m just glad to find someone else alive and not…well, whatever the hell they are. As for what is going on? Your guess is as good as mine. Well, maybe not, judging by how you damn near served yourself to old man Hasker on a platter like a stuffed turkey on Thanksgiving.”

  Still thoroughly addled, John managed only a blank stare.

  Sensing that John had nothing to add to the conversation at this point, Reams continued, “Look, I’m no scientist, and I have no idea what or why in the hell any of this is happening, but these people – at least everyone I’ve seen in the last few days aside from you – they are all sick or dead now. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen or even imagined. They are like rabid dogs or feral animals or something. People I’ve known for years, coming at me trying to kill me. They don’t seem to have any recognition or awareness of what they are doing at all. You can’t reason with them. You can’t do anything but take them down, and that’s not as easy as you might think. They are persistent bastards. One of them set his sights on a young lady and chased her until she managed to get into a fuel truck. That guy clawed and bit at the window for hours, without stopping or even slowing down. I came up with a plan to try to get her out when the fool thing decided to make a run for it. She didn’t make it five feet before he was on her. She was the one that got Hasker after that—the one that walked right through his prop.” The mechanic swirled his finger around rapidly, violently slicing through the air. Watching the slight stutter at the end of each revolution, John could almost feel the impact of the propeller as he listened intently with unbelieving ears.

  After a brief pause, Reams continued, “Anyway, I don’t know how you get the sickness, but I believe it’s from a bite or a scratch. Hell, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about much these days. But I’ve seen it happen that way after someone was attacked by one of them. I don’t think you can get the sickness by breathing it, ’cause, as many of them as I’ve been around in the last couple days, I believe I would have joined them if it was in the air. You ain’t seen any of this? Where the hell did you come from anyway?”

  John stood motionless, still staring at Reams, with an unfaltering expression of disbelief and utter incomprehension plastered across his face.

  “Look man, I know this is a lot to come home to, but you better lose that thousand yard stare and get your head back in the game, or you’re gonna end up just like Hasker and all the rest,” said Reams.

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” said John. “I’m just a little shell-shocked from what just happened. Thanks for helping me out there. Just give me a second to catch my breath and think things through.”

  Reams, who at 6’5” stood six inches taller than John, must have weighed at least 275 pounds. He stared intently at John for a moment as if sizing him up before turning his full attention back to the barricade. Reams was a young black guy in his mid-thirties, and John knew he worked in the maintenance shop at the airport. He had seen him many times before but had never spoken with him. With his impressive physical stature, Reams was not a guy that could be easily overlooked. John had often wondered why he wasn’t playing football given his athletic physique and hulking muscles. Despite his intimidating bulk, John never sensed any malice or aggression from the man previously, certainly nothing that betrayed the capacity for the ferocity demons
trated moments ago.

  As he watched Reams shoring up the barricade, a deluge of thoughts and emotions flooded his mind. Where in the hell are my wife and daughter? Are they okay? The thought caused John to whip out his cell phone with surprising speed. Desperately, he dialed his wife’s cell phone number. Nothing. He then tried his home number. Nothing. Every attempt ended with the same dead air one hears if they fail to dial the last digit of the phone number – an impatient silence interlaced with the subtle crackle of electricity longing to tear off down the line and connect with the intended target. There was a dial tone initially, but the phone never rang. Not even the obligatory and insincerely apologetic error message from the phone company indicating there were problems with the line. Nothing.

  He tried both numbers at least five times before moving on to nearly every other number in his contact list. The result was the same every time. John stared at the useless object in his hand with a level of despondency not experienced up to this point in his life.

  Though it had been only three days since he spoke with his wife, their last conversation had not been a pleasant one. The strain of his absence always caused a rift in their relationship, and this time was no different. Their last conversation promptly broke down over a minor grievance fueled as much by frustration and miscommunication as anything else. Neither he nor his wife Rebecca was willing to back down, and the call ended on a bitter, petty note. The worst of it, he now realized, was that in his aggravation he barely said more than a terse ‘goodnight’ to his beautiful eleven-year old daughter, Ava. What he wouldn’t give to go back and talk to both of them for the whole night, John thought as the first tear slipped past the edge of his lower eyelid, rolled down his cheek, and onto his neck as if trying to quell the burning sense of agony rising within his throat.