Zoo II (12 page)

“As of today, Madam President,
the vaccination rate stands at seventy-three percent. That includes all major urban populations of one million or more—”

“What about the
remaining
twenty-seven percent of Americans, Dr. Freitas?”

President Hardinson glares at Freitas, who’s one of the many advisors, military leaders, and scientists—Chloe and I among them—seated around this giant polished conference table. He gulps.

“We’re working on it, ma’am.”

He can say
that
again.

Over the past three months since we developed the antihistamine antidote to human pheromonal rabidity, or HPR, as I’ve dubbed it, in that musty Las Vegas lab, I’ve been helping the government mass-produce and disseminate it as quickly and widely as possible. Given the strained state of the country—and the world—the progress we’ve made has been remarkable, even for a cynic like yours truly.

But I hear the president’s concern loud and clear. A quarter of the country has yet to be inoculated.

That’s eighty million new potential feral humans. A staggering thought.

Clearly we have our work cut out for us.

The meeting of the newly re-formed and renamed Animal & Human Crisis Task Force ends, and Chloe and I start to leave. We find ourselves exiting alongside Freitas, who’s pushing himself along in his wheelchair. The plane crash left his face badly scarred, and he’s still too weak to walk—but he’s alive, miraculously.

“Chloe, Oz, I meant to ask you both,” he says. “How are you finding the accommodations?”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve lived in seclusion with the leader of the free world,” I say. Just a few weeks ago, the White House was evacuated for the second time in eight months. The threat of feral human attacks was just too great. “It ain’t the Ritz,” I continue. “But living underground sure beats living in the Arctic.”

Chloe and I walk down one of the mountain compound’s long, dim central hallways toward the daycare center. Eli now spends most of his waking hours there, learning and playing with kids his own age—instead of being alone with his frazzled parents or running away from animal attacks or witnessing his mother turn feral. We’ve only been at Raven Rock a few weeks, but already the kid is thriving. Which warms my heart. And gives me hope.

But as we near the daycare center, I can tell that there’s something on Chloe’s mind. I stop walking and take her hand. I stare deep into her gorgeous eyes.

“What is it, Chloe?” I ask tenderly.

She avoids my gaze and gently runs a finger along one of the deep scars on the side of my neck—a mark from when, just a few months ago inside that Jeep in Vegas, she tried to kill me. She’s still upset about the whole episode, even though I’ve tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault. And that I still love her more than anything.

“I don’t know,” she answers softly. “I am just…afraid. HPR is under control. All three of us are together again. We’re living in the safest place on Earth. And yet…I don’t know how to describe it. It’s just a feeling. An uneasy one.”

I pull my sweet, beautiful wife into a warm embrace. “I know,” I say. “I’m afraid, too. But there’s nothing to be…”

I stop talking—because I hear something.

A faint, distant
scratching
sound. Almost a burrowing. But it’s not coming from one particular spot. It’s emanating, almost echoing, all around us.

Chloe and I share a look. We both hear it. We’re both concerned.

And then, we’re both shocked—as
a swarm of cockroaches emerges from the cinder-block walls all around us,
pushing through every nook and cranny, thousands of them, black and shiny, squirming and wiggling…

And coming right at us.

James Patterson
has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

Max D
i
Lallo
is a novelist, playwright, and screenwriter. He lives in Los Angeles.

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