Terminus (26 page)

‘I thought you were a scientist.’

‘A very average one. Doomed to be mediocre. Some of my college class were effortlessly accomplished. Not me. I had to study night and day. Everything came hard. That’s why I hate this damned code. A reminder of my limitations. All the times I sat over a textbook, frustrated and helpless, willing the words to make sense. We need to find a geek. Someone with an aptitude for frequency analysis.’

‘We had codes in jail,’ said Lupe. ‘We used to scribble them on the inside of cigarette packets. Little pencil marks on the foil. They’d change hands in the yard.’

‘Contract killings?’

‘No. Little stuff. Drug deals, sports bets, love tokens.’

Cloke picked up the notebook and thumbed pages.

‘I can’t help imagining what it would have been like to be down here, with Ekks, fighting the disease by his side. Dark and desperate hours.’

‘You would have died with the rest of them. Blown your brains out in that subway car.’

‘I’m a vector specialist. Competent enough in my field. I might have achieved something.’

‘You wouldn’t have achieved a damn thing,’ said Lupe. ‘Just an ugly, squalid death.’

Cloke shrugged. He turned his attention back to the notebook.

‘We need some kind of key, is that right?’ said Lupe. ‘Some kind of guide to unlock the text.’

‘Yes.’

‘He would have to write it down, yeah? It would be complicated. He couldn’t keep it in his head.’

‘Probably.’

‘What would it look like?’

‘Most likely some kind of grid or number sequence.’

‘Maybe he wrote it on his body. Have you checked him for biro marks? Little tattoos?’

‘We gave him a thorough examination. There were no marks.’

‘But you frisked him, right? You searched his pockets?’

‘It didn’t occur to me.’

Lupe leaned over Ekks and patted him down.

A dog tag hung round his neck. A tab of stamped metal with a rubber rim. She broke the ball-chain and examined the tag.

‘Feels thick.’

She peeled away the rubber rim. Two tags sandwiched together. A folded scrap of paper the size of a postage stamp between them.

‘I’ll be damned,’ murmured Cloke.

‘Is this it? The key to the cipher?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Then get to work.’

Tombes crouched in the corner of the room. He checked his Motorola for charge. The green power light fluttered amber. Low battery.

‘Donahue. You there?’

He held the radio close to his ear.

‘
Where else would I be?
’ Her voice little more than a whisper.

‘How you doing?’

‘
All right, I guess. Going crazy sitting in the dark. I keep hearing noises, like there’s something in the room.
’

‘What kind of sounds?’

‘
Breathing. Shuffling. Each time I check, there’s nothing. Mind playing tricks.
’

‘Feeling okay?’

‘
Nausea. Got a murderous, fuck-ass headache.
’

‘Try not to puke. You could be trapped with the stink for hours. That door still holding?’

‘
They stopped pounding the damn thing a while back. Let me check.
’

Brief pause.

‘
Yeah. Yeah, she’s good. She’s holding.
’

‘Don’t make a sound. Relentless sons of bitches. Patient, like sharks circling a boat. They’ve got our scent. Blood in the water.’

‘
Royal clusterfuck. The whole thing.
’

‘I can’t talk long. Battery is running low. I’ve got to conserve power. But you stay safe, you hear? The minute you got a problem, sound off. We’ll come running.’

‘
Okay.
’

‘Take it easy. Try to get some rest, if you can.’

David Moxon

Bellevue Dept of Neuroscience

I kept Knox company the night he died.

Ekks insisted the condemned man be extended every consideration. At the very least, he should expect the same privileges as a man on death row. He should be told his fate. He should be given a chance to make his peace with himself, his God. He should be given pen and paper, an opportunity to make a final statement.

I wasn’t present when Knox was told he was to be dissected. I heard about it later.

They took him from his chalk-outline cell. He was cuffed and led to the train, told it was part of a routine medical examination. He had endured long days without sunlight. They said they were checking for vitamin D deficiency.

He was isolated in one of the carriages. He was stripped and photographed. They shaved his head. They returned his clothes and chained him to a seat. Then they explained he was marked for death.

Harold Donner, one of the doctors from Bellevue, delivered the news. Knox was to die. He would be deliberately infected, so that Ekks and his team could study the first moments of infection. There would be no anaesthetic, no sedative. Nothing that might interfere with the validity of the results.

Knox screamed and raged. He thrashed, tried to break his cuffs, tried to break the chain that held him tethered to the seat. He begged. He pleaded. He wept.

Donner shook his head. He said he was sorry.

Knox demanded to speak to Ekks. Ekks wouldn’t talk to him. Said he was busy.

The procedure was scheduled to begin at midnight.

Knox had twelve hours to prepare himself for death.

My task?

To keep him company during the last hours of his life. Talk. Pray. Fulfil any request within my power. Above all, I was to ensure he did not escape or injure himself. When midnight came, the tie-down team would lead him to the adjacent carriage and strap him to the examination table. Then he would face the needle. A sample of the pathogen would be drawn from biological material supplied by NORAD. It would be injected into his arm.

He sat alone in the carriage. He wore a red prison-issue smock and pants. Bare feet. He was chained to the passenger seat by an ankle shackle. Garbage bags had been taped over the windows so he couldn’t see medical personnel carry surgical equipment across the platform to the improvised operating theatre in the adjacent carriage.

Knox had been given a bible. A faux leather King James. It sat unopened beside him.

I set down a tray. His last meal. A couple of luncheon meat sandwiches and a fruit beverage.

‘Do you want to pray?’ I asked.

‘Fuck you.’

‘It might help.’

‘Help who? You or me?’

‘You’re not a religious man?’

‘Look around you. A billion dead. A billion prayers unanswered. If Jesus didn’t break cover to help countless grieving mothers, why the hell would he intercede to save my sorry ass?’

‘It might ease your mind. The sound. The old words.’

‘God is gone. Packed his bags and left. No forwarding address. Nothing in the sky but infinite dark.’

‘I brought a clock.’

‘To watch my life tick away? How the hell would that help?’

‘Anything you want to talk about? You got a few hours left.’

‘Seriously. Fuck you.’

‘Any messages you want to pass on? I could help you write a letter.’

‘Think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know how to write my name?’

‘No.’

‘Read a damn sight more books than your cracker ass. Better educated than half the guys in this sewer.’

‘I could fetch pen and paper. Got relatives somewhere? We might be able to get a message to them, somehow.’

‘What if I said I had kids? A family out there, worrying about their dad? Would you give a crap?’

‘Maybe we should just sit a while.’

‘I’m chained to the seat. Ain’t got much choice.’

‘I can get water. More food, if you need it.’

‘Let me ask you something. Ekks. Do you trust him?’

‘Barely spoke to the guy. I’m just a turn-key.’

‘You’ve known the man, what, a week? And here you are, colluding in murder.’

‘He got us out of Bellevue. The handful that stayed behind? Those assholes convinced tanks and planes were coming to the rescue? Long dead.’

‘He saved you folks because you were useful.’

‘Those doctors and nurses out there have known him for years.’

‘Got a mind of your own, don’t you? What do you think of the guy?’

I shrugged.

‘I’m sorry it came down to this.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Knox.

‘Moxon. David.’

‘They’re going to kill me, Dave. They’re going to kill me and cut me up. Pull out my spine. Crack open my head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘This skull. Right here. They’ll saw it open and scoop out my brain. My brain, dude. Thoughts, memories, emotions. They’re going to take it all away.’

‘I’m sorry, man. Sorry you drew the short straw.’

‘Do you even know why you’re doing this? Any of you?’

‘A cure.’

‘They are going to inject me with the virus. They’ll watch me change. Then they’ll set the cameras rolling and dissect me like a frog, do it while I’m still alive. How the hell does that help? Thousands of infected roaming the streets. Why would one more make a difference?’

‘I’m not a doctor.’

‘Even the white coats don’t understand why this is necessary. I’ve heard them whispering outside the window. No one has the balls to stand up to the guy. Too chickenshit. He wants to instigate murder, and everyone falls in line. Makes no damned sense whatsoever. He’s going to stick a needle in my arm, watch me die, and somehow that is going to result in some big-ass eureka moment? He’s going to kill me, here in this tunnel, and that’s going to provoke some world-shaking breakthrough, produce a cure that eluded Nobel Prize winners working in fully-equipped labs? You have to set me loose, kid. Undo these cuffs.’

‘Sorry. Can’t do it.’

‘Give me a paperclip. I’ll pick the lock. Tell them I broke free and overpowered you.’

‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could help. But I can’t.’

‘It’s not about me, dumbass. It’s about you guys. This whole sick cavalcade. One big, deliberate mindfuck. The team in these tunnels, the doctors, nurses and soldiers. They all took an oath to preserve life. Built their lives around it. And they are going to throw it all away.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Ekks is a nut. A psychopath. He’s laughing at you guys. Laughing his ass off. I don’t understand why you can’t see it. It’s like you’re all blind. He acts all paternal and concerned. He smiles, plays The Great Healer. But deep down, any fool can see this is the most fun he’s had in his life. The monsters dancing in his head, the dark carnival locked in his skull, finally made it out into the world. All the death and horror out there in the streets? He loves it. He’s exultant. Euphoric. Never felt more at home. It’s like his dreams leaked out of his ears and took over the world.’

‘Have you ever spoken with the man?’

‘Ekks? I’ve watched him real close.’

‘But have you actually spoken with him? Have you exchanged a single word?’

‘I’ve looked in his eyes. Told me all I need to know.’

‘Everyone respects the guy. He’s smart. He organised defences back at Bellevue. He rationed food, showed people how to drain water from the pipes. It was his idea to hide here at Fenwick. We’d all be dead a long time ago, if not for him. He saved our asses a dozen times.’

‘He saved you so he could kill you. It’s not enough to see those infected folks rip you to pieces. Too easy. He’s got something better in mind.’

‘Like what?’

‘We’ve all become killers. Every one of us. I killed a couple of folks back at the hospital. Patients in gowns. Met them in a corridor. Tried to rip out my throat. I grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall, did what I had to do. And those 101st grunts. They expended a shitload of ammo during the run from Bellevue to 23rd Street. Hell of a body count. We’ve all got horror stories, a lifetime of nightmares. But we killed folk who had long since ceased to be themselves, people who were pretty much dead already. Shit, we did them a favour. If they had a voice, if they had a mind, they would have pleaded for a bullet in the brain.

But this is different. This is how Ekks intends to break you. He wants to see his team of ministering angels transformed into a lynch mob. He wants to see them violate every code. Descend to his fucked up level. He’s going to rub your noses in the dirt until you admit you are nothing more than pissing, shitting animals, no better than those creeps crawling around the streets outside. He doesn’t want to kill me. I’m nothing. A lab rat. A germ in a Petri dish. He’s going to push you guys until you destroy yourselves. You have to say No. You have to make a stand.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. The guy has been a surgeon for years. He’s healed thousands of people.’

‘Because he enjoys life-or-death power. That’s how he gets his rocks off. He likes to drill a person’s skull and probe inside their mind.’

‘People with strokes, people with Alzheimer’s. He isn’t some sanatorium butcher dishing out twenty lobotomies a day. He’s a world-class neurosurgeon. He’s trying to help.’

‘Everyone who got wheeled into that guy’s surgical theatre came out changed. Maybe for the better. But they got tweaked. That’s the kick. That’s the buzz. He’s a real-life Doctor Frankenstein. He gowns-up, stands over the operating table and creates something new. The guy is an insect. And this is his time. The Year of the Bug. His moment to reign.’