Further magnification of the white ovals confirmed they had no method of locomotion. No flagella or cilia. They were at the mercy of the current. They appeared to be encapsulated in some sort of gelatinous protein coating with a mucus-like consistency that prevented it from sticking to any of the blood cells, the vessel lumen, or the other egg sacs. If that was indeed what they were. At this point, she could only speculate.
Lauren replaced the whole blood slide with one featuring the white dots exclusively. They’d been centrifuged to isolate them and placed in a saline solution. She wanted to test an idea that had been percolating in her head. The pH of blood was slightly basic—roughly 7.4—in comparison to that of the digestive tract. The small bowel maintained a slightly more acidic pH level of approximately 6.6, but that was nothing compared to the stomach, which pumped out gastric acid with a pH of under 2. Enteric drugs like acetaminophen and ibuprofen were coated with gelatin to ensure that the active ingredients wouldn’t be released until they hit the stomach, where they would be absorbed as they progressed through the small bowel.
“Prepare a point five percent solution of hydrochloric acid,” she said. “That should approximate the acidity of the stomach. And set up another slide with several of the egg sacs.”
Lauren slid the slide out and waited for the new one. She scooted back from the video monitor attached to the microscope and turned it so they would all be able to see the reaction.
One of her assistants passed her a slide with an indentation the size of a thumbprint in the center. The sample was nearly invisible until she locked it into place under the lens. She focused on what looked like a cluster of white grapes, then increased the magnification until they filled the screen.
She leaned back from the monitor and felt the others crowd around her. All sounds of activity died. The resultant silence was marred only by the sounds of excited breathing and the hum of machinery.
Another assistant appeared at her side, holding the dilution she had requested.
Lauren gave him approval to proceed with a nod, and focused on the image on the screen.
The lens drew out of focus as the tip of a glass pipette appeared. A globule of fluid shivered and fell away. Then another. The cluster of eggs floated apart, then began to effervesce. The outer coating disintegrated into a fine white particulate mist. In the center of each, a dark shape drew contrast. It looked like a ring at first, before slowly opening into a C-shape. The remainder of the egg sac dissolved, leaving only a pale halo in the fluid around the larvae, like the whites of broken eggs around the yolks.
The larvae all started to wriggle at once, worming back and forth through the acidic solution.
“My God,” Lauren whispered.
Blood flowed through the human body at a rate of anywhere between one-tenth of a centimeter per second in the peripheral vessels to forty centimeters per second near the trunk.
Conservative estimates suggested it had taken less than two minutes for the venom to trigger the fatal reaction that had caused all of the people in the tent to asphyxiate.
That was more than enough time for the eggs to pass through the bloodstream and enter the gastrointestinal tract, where they had been sitting in a puddle of stomach acid for more than sixteen hours now.
She imagined the massive quarantine room. It was negatively pressurized to prevent the air inside the chamber from contaminating the outside air. Was it sealed tightly enough that nothing could crawl out through the ducts?
She pictured the rows of body bags and the remains inside of them, their bowels expanding with the gasses of decomposition and teeming with wasp larvae.
She envisioned the corpses still lying in the field, out in the open, and the group of agents working the scene around them. The bowels churning even beneath the graying flesh.
And worst of all, she imagined a swarm of wasps hundreds of times the size of the one that had eaten through the elephant and killed every patron in the stands in a matter of seconds rolling over the suburbs of Atlanta like a storm cloud.
III
“The last of the remains just arrived,” Lauren said. “If nothing else, at least we can be certain that the threat is contained.”
“We’ve had crop dusters buzzing overhead all day, dropping insecticides over the entire area, as you requested,” Cranston said. His face filled the laptop monitor. Behind him, she could just see the pinnacle of the big top. “You’re certain we have this under control now?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Very reassuring.”
“It’s a reasonable assertion that all of the wasps would have been drawn to the amplifiers and drowned in the lake, but we simply can’t take that chance. Some could have flown off into the woods; hence, the insecticides. Or they could have stung a possum or a dog or livestock in one of the nearby fields—”
“I get the picture.”
“What about the sound frequency?”
“We have a team of experts analyzing it as we speak. The problem is that so far they’ve been able to isolate nearly a dozen different frequencies from the digital recording, ranging from sub- to supersonic, all of them overlaid on separate tracks.” He turned and nodded to someone off-screen. “You know there’s only one way to determine which frequency’s our trigger.”
“Yeah.” Lauren shuddered at the prospect. “Have your men send me the samples when they’re ready.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Cranston again turned to the side and whispered to someone out of sight. His eyes were alight when he looked back into the camera. “We think we might have found something. You know better than I do what we should be looking for. I want you to walk through it with me. Okay, doc?”
Before she could reply, Cranston grabbed the video camera with a rustling sound. She saw his palm, and then what might have been his ear. When the image settled, she was staring at a handful of agents in FBI windbreakers. They were unloading bulletproof vests and assault rifles from the back of an unmarked van. When they closed the doors, she saw the sign for the camel rides and the dirt pen. A blue vest blocked her view for a split-second. Cranston must have attached the camera to some sort of mount on his hat or on a headset.
“Still with me, doc?”
His voice was louder and distorted, his breathing harsh. A microphone in front of his mouth, she assumed.
“What’s going on?”
“We’ve been doing a systematic physical search of the premises. Remember that trailer we saw the guy with the hat go into? The one by the elephants? One of my agents found a set of keys sitting on the counter that didn’t fit any of the trailer’s locks.” He started to run while he was talking. The image on the screen bounced with his exertions. His heavy exhalations echoed all around her small office. She recognized the path leading up through the sycamores toward the dirt parking lot, then the rows of cars that would eventually have to be towed. “The keys weren’t high on our priority list, at least not at first. But considering how that guy was acting and the fact that the trailer appeared to be his base of operations, we had to follow up on them. We eventually found that one of the keys unlocked a pickup truck in the parking lot. The door of the camper trailer hitched to it was wired with explosives.”
“Explosives?”
“C4. We’re obviously not dealing with a low-rent operation here.”
“Why would…?” Lauren’s voice trailed off as the image focused on a black Ford F-150 and the Wildwood trailer hooked to its fender. It was parked it the middle of the lot as though in an effort to be invisible. And yet the keys had been left out on the counter and the trailer door rigged with explosives. It didn’t make sense, though. If it wasn’t meant to be found, why leave the keys behind and go to the effort of setting up the booby trap?