The Return Man: Civilisation’s Gone. He’s Stayed to Bury the Dead. (24 page)

‘You never received the email, Doctor, because you had already fled the hospital. Ballard’s email to you was sent the day following the rescue attempt at Sarsgard, more than a week after the public outbreak of the Resurrection. You were gone by then–in hiding, fighting to survive yourself, no
doubt. Society was in freefall, the country in chaos. Ballard’s email simply vanished into a discarded, forgotten server. Like an artefact of a lost civilisation.’

Marco rubbed his face, his hand a cold hard weight against his cheek. Roger had tried to contact him? For what?
An apology? A farewell?

‘What did he say?’ Marco asked. He had to know, of course, but goddamn, the answer scared him. His stomach flexed; he swallowed back the anxiety rising up his throat.

‘I explained that Ballard’s research on the Resurrection was lost during the raid,’ Wu said. ‘As it turns out, that was not entirely true. He sent a partial summary to you, Doctor.’

Marco blinked. ‘Me?’ He puzzled for a moment. ‘Why me?’

‘An interesting question. The CIA’s theory is that Doctor Ballard believed he could trust you. He apparently did not share the same high opinion of Owen Osbourne.’

Marco scoffed. ‘Well. I don’t blame him for that… but still…’ His thoughts swam, as if he’d been plunged beneath black frigid water, choked off from logic and reason.
Jesus Christ, Roger, why? Why do that, after all the shit you caused me? Why me, of all people, can’t you just leave me fucking out of it–I don’t want your bullshit, you crazy asshole—

And then his mind broke to the surface again, and he sobered.

‘Fine,’ he heard himself say, his voice oddly flat. ‘So now the million dollar question. What was in Roger’s research that sent Osbourne hunting across America to kill his corpse?’

Wu leaned forward, just perceptibly, on his stool. ‘Ballard’s email revealed just how near he’d been to discovering the vaccine. Remarkably near–far closer than Osbourne had imagined. Are you familiar with DNA vaccination, Doctor?’

Marco shifted, frowning. ‘A little. An experimental method for developing a vaccine. The idea is to take blood cells from a healthy person, and then inject a virus or bacteria directly into the nucleus. Into the DNA. The cells divide, and you do it again–and again, actually, hundreds of times. You need a ton of generations of mitosis. Finally, if it works right, a new nucelotide for white blood cells might evolve, specially adapted to kill the disease. It’s like placing a special order for custom-made antibodies. But that’s only if it works right. Nobody’s perfected it yet.’ He paused. ‘Of course, you’re about to tell me that Roger perfected it. Typical Roger.’

Wu nodded. ‘He was close, yes. And what else do you suppose I’m going to tell you?’

‘That the healthy blood cells Roger used for the experiments were his own.’

‘You do know your friend well.’

Marco couldn’t help but bristle. ‘I’m not sure about the “friend” part. But I do know that Roger could be a goddamn idiot. Take any risk for science.’ His voice had turned bitter.

Wu seemed not to notice. ‘Ballard detailed his process in his email to you. Over a period of seventeen weeks, the doctor collected blood samples from himself and implanted the nuclei with the Resurrection under a microscope. Then he’d reinject the cells back into his bloodstream, hoping they’d divide and propagate–hoping to create genetically altered blood using his body as a breeding ground. His objective was to convert his entire system to the new DNA.’

‘Yeah, that sounds like Roger,’ Marco repeated. ‘And it worked?’

‘Not quite. Not enough to be used as a vaccine. But after countless cycles of injections, Ballard did report that
infections occurred noticeably slower when his blood was mixed with corpse blood in a Petri dish. He believed he was very close to success. Another month or two, he might have evolved the correct antibodies. He simply ran out of time.’

‘During the rescue attempt. He was bitten.’

Wu nodded again. He seemed on the verge of speaking, but instead he swivelled on the stool and reached below him into the shadows. From underneath the console he dragged out his daypack and unzipped a side pocket, then reached inside and handed Marco a small bundle of papers, two or three sheets, crisply folded. The locomotive swayed below Marco’s feet. He took a breath, unfolded the papers and, his eyes straining in the moonlight, surveyed the first page.

He wasn’t surprised at all. An email.

From: R Ballard

To: Henry Marco

Date: 13 March 2014, 10:36 AM

Henry, this is important. As you know by now, an outbreak has occurred.

Marco stopped, already annoyed.
Typical Roger
, he thought again. No ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’. Sure as hell no ‘I’m sorry’. Just drill straight to the facts, skip past everything human.

Grumbling, he flexed his jaw and scanned the remaining pages. Indeed, the facts were all there–or a summarization, at least, of all that Wu had told him. The experiments, the DNA, the antibodies… but not enough detail to replicate the process. Osbourne must’ve been
pissed.

The last sheet ended with a few short, emotionless lines of text:

My bite wound is severe. The Resurrection is too strong for the current antibodies. My body is shutting down. Becoming a corpse. Take care of my notes, Henry.

–
Roger

Marco sighed and refolded the papers. ‘So he knew he was dying.’

‘And wished to bequeath you his knowledge,’ Wu added. ‘Before he resurrected. The trouble is, we need more than a hastily written email.’

Marco shuddered. His anger had gone cold, and beneath his shirt, his skin had turned clammy and damp. He didn’t want to imagine Roger’s last moments: his thin face shading blue, gangly limbs all racked with agony… reaching out to Marco with some insane last wish.

‘So Roger’s blood is evolved,’ he said unsteadily. And then suddenly it all made sense, as if the paper bundle in his hand was an X-ray, a window into total darkness, revealing every hidden bone. ‘Roger is the missing link to the vaccine,’ he continued, now certain, now clear, almost challenging Wu to dispute him. ‘But first, Osbourne needs Roger’s DNA. So we’re on a hunt to collect some super-Ballard-blood for Osbourne’s boys in the lab.’

‘Now you understand,’ Wu said.

‘And our new friend, the stalker back there on the quad. He’s after the same thing?’

‘Yes,’ Wu agreed and, reminded of his concern, cast his eyes to the rear-view mirror. Finding no cause for alarm, he refocused on Marco. ‘Osbourne realised that whoever had hacked into Ballard’s email would attempt to retrieve a sample for themselves. He ordered you–
us
, I should say–to locate Ballard’s corpse first, before anyone else. It’s a race.’

‘With Roger’s head as the finish line.’

‘Very clever, Doctor. The good news is, you’re still in the lead.’

‘Yeah. Well. I don’t like it.’ Marco chewed his lip. ‘And anyway, why fight over the vaccine? What does it matter who gets there first?’

Wu raised an eyebrow. ‘Think, Doctor. A vaccine for the Resurrection represents a major shift in world politics. Right now only America has fallen. However, governments worldwide are in frantic preparations for an outbreak of their own. The nation that learns the secret to controlling the Resurrection would do more than ensure its survival. That nation would vault to the top of the new global paradigm, an instant superpower. The vaccine is a gold mine, worth trillions to the economy in production and distribution. And its political worth is virtually infinite–a supreme bargaining chip with other governments, allies and enemies alike. Any infected nation needing the vaccine would have to beg at the feet of its master.’

‘And if the master doesn’t want to share,’ Marco mused, ‘everybody’s screwed.’

‘Quite.’ Wu studied the rear mirror again. ‘So now you see why we’re being followed. And why we can’t stop or go home. Osbourne desperately wants his great American comeback. The last thing he can allow is another country beating him to the Ballard corpse.’

‘Great. And what if none of us can find Roger?’

Wu stared, deadpan. ‘Then Osbourne never lets you stop looking.’

Marco grimaced. Outside, the black sky had softened to a listless grey as dawn approached, and the stars sank back into the unknown universe. In another hour the sun would rise and rule the desert again with a tyrannical heat. Nothing could stop it.

His shoulders sagged. He had a feeling he wasn’t ready
for whatever the next twenty-four hours would bring. Everything he’d just heard was incredible–the stakes so high, he could barely believe his own involvement. World power? Genetically altered blood? He’d listened intently, seeking some false note, some indication that Wu was making this shit up as he went. But no. Wu’s answers made sense, seemed to snap into place with Marco’s own intuitions.

So Wu was telling the truth. Except…

Except that Marco’s mind buzzed again with the same thought he’d had earlier that day in the Jeep–a nagging sense that Wu was hiding something.

But what? What else could there be? The sergeant had answered every question–held nothing back, explained everything. Marco stirred.
Everything.

His ears popped, congestion clearing like a cold little bomb going off in his skull. And then he knew–knew what wasn’t right about this.

Wu knows everything.

‘So just one more question,’ Marco said. ‘For First-Class Sergeant Wu.’

Wu had returned to monitoring the rear-view mirror. At the mention of his rank, the muscle in the side of his jaw flexed. ‘Yes?’ he asked tersely.

Marco hesitated. He took a bolstering breath, then fired.

‘Who are you
really
?’

Wu half turned–avoiding eye contact–and focused instead out of the window, as if studying something far away. Marco was certain his suspicions were correct. The man knew
way
too damn much for a sergeant, shouldn’t have had answers to
half
this crap…

But just then Wu’s eyes bolted wide.

‘
Down!
’ he shouted and threw himself to the floor as Marco looked on, stunned…

… and without further warning the train’s windshield
exploded, a hot sandblast of shattered glass against Marco’s left cheek, and a small metal gas canister banged into the cab, spewing orange smoke that clawed his eyes and invaded his lungs, and he cried out in pain as the smoke filled him, burning, choking; he couldn’t breathe, he had to
escape
…

But too late. The sky turned black again; night had won and extinguished the sun, and Marco crumpled, unconscious and lost within the orange gas filling the train.

Marco was awake. Or not. He couldn’t decide.

Sitting in his office at Cedars-Sinai.

‘I can save her, Henry.’ Roger Ballard planted his fists on Marco’s desk and leaned forward, not quite threateningly but with such intensity that Marco edged backwards in his chair. The rectangular lens of Ballard’s eyeglasses assigned his face an extra austerity, an accent to the bony ridges of his cheeks and chin. Behind the glasses Ballard’s pupils flickered with excitement. Marco sensed his hunger.

Then he noticed the black veins spider-webbing under Roger’s grey skin.

Marco shuddered. His mind was a fog, thoughts drifting slowly through the murk, then gone again before he could capture them. He squeezed his eyes shut. Confused.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Roger is dead. Aren’t you, Roger?’

‘I can save Hannah.’ Ballard’s lips were unmoving as he spoke.

So this was a dream. A dream, right? Marco glanced down at his desk. Atop the familiar green blotter was his desk calendar, scribbled with appointments, notes, reminders. He squinted. He couldn’t read a single word.

Ballard spoke again. ‘I can save—’

Marco interrupted. ‘No, Roger. You couldn’t. You tried, but it
didn’t work.’ He didn’t mean to sound angry, but he did. Angry and blaming and bitter.

Ballard jerked as though he’d been slapped, and suddenly Marco’s cheek stung. Somehow he’d felt it, too. Pain electrified the side of his head.

‘The asphyxia is severe,’ Ballard explained. ‘But if we cool the brain beyond—’

Marco stopped him again. ‘It didn’t work. You shouldn’t have done it. You made it too cold. The metabolic strain was too great. She died.’

Ballard shook his head. ‘No, no. I can save her, Henry.’

‘You killed her,’ Marco spat. He felt his body pulling away, changing locations against his will, as if he were being dragged, and now he was standing in the hallway outside the Special Care Neonatal Unit. He wanted to enter, but the door to the treatment room was locked, the knob unyielding. Suddenly the door shook. He heard shouting voices on the other side. Then the shouts stopped, and the knob clicked. The door opened, and Roger’s decomposed corpse shuffled out. Its face was stricken, anguished. ‘Pulmonary haemorrhage,’ it said. ‘Brain dead.’

‘Why, Roger?’ Marco pleaded. ‘Why did you do that?’

Ballard studied Marco. He seemed lost. His mouth opened, groping for words.

‘You shouldn’t have emailed me,’ Marco groaned. Then winced as another whiplash of pain lit up his cheek.

Wake up. Slap. Slap.

Slap.

His eyelids cracked open, even as his eyeballs still rolled in his head. The sky was pink now, early dawn, the horizon tilting like a seesaw, up then down. His head felt stuffed with wool, a fat mass packed between his ears, soundproofing his skull; he heard nothing but muffled noise, a scraping, the sound of someone retching–himself, he realised, warm vomit splashing his chin–and he remembered being grabbed
by his feet and dragged over dirt, a hundred years ago maybe, or only just a few seconds.

His thoughts were sluggish; he could feel them clinging stubbornly to the very bottom of his consciousness, and he waited dumbly, minutes and minutes, for each to lose its grip and rise–float to the surface and pop like bubbles so their meaning could escape.