That too made sense. Sector 12 was located southwest of Hatcher Station. It featured a small ravine lined by steep cliffs. A tunnel would only have to extend 100 yards or so to reach it.
Caplan had plenty of questions. But one rose to the top of the heap. It was a question that, for some reason, filled him with unexplainable horror. “Who knows about the gate?” he asked.
“People who worked in Research,” she replied, her voice growing softer with every word.
“What about James?” Working fast, he began to pile smaller items — machines, tables, chairs, anything he could find — on top of the larger ones. “Did he know about it?”
“Of course.” She spat foam from her mouth. “That’s… how he got the 1-Gens out of the Lab.”
So, Corbotch had known about the gate all along. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Why hadn’t he sent Caplan and Pearson that way?
Caplan recalled the flight to Hatcher, the immunization shot he’d received at the hands of Pearson. He recalled the water-filled vials, the fabricated danger of HA-78. And he recalled how Pearson had vanished right when Caplan had entered Hatcher.
The answer came to him like a bolt of lightening, sizzling to the deepest recesses of his brain and heart. And then he knew. He knew why Corbotch had recruited him. He knew how everyone had died. He knew everything.
The whole mission was a sham from the beginning. Corbotch hadn’t picked him for his knowledge of Hatcher but rather, because he knew Morgan and the others. Because he could get physically close to them.
Ever since he’d first seen the corpses, Caplan had puzzled over the deaths, over what had caused them. And now he knew the truth. HA-78 wasn’t fictional. It was a real virus, one that had been carried into the building.
By him.
Chapter 45
The truth was too horrible to contemplate, yet impossible to ignore. Pearson had injected Caplan aboard the helicopter, supposedly to protect him from HA-78. But in reality, the injection had done something else.
It had infected him.
Caplan didn’t know the specifics. But he suspected he’d been turned into a modern Typhoid Mary. In other words, he carried a disease, but it didn’t affect him.
Corbotch had never intended to raid Hatcher. Instead, he merely planned to use Caplan as a walking, talking biological weapon. Caplan would sneak into the building or perhaps, get caught trying. Either way, he’d eventually spread HA-78 to some of his former co-workers. They, in turn, would spread the disease to others. In Hatcher’s closed environment, 100 % fatality was a near certainty. Then Corbotch’s guards could enter the building, secure the Lab, and get rid of the dead bodies. New scientists would be brought in to continue the research.
The plan had experienced more than its share of hiccups. But Caplan had eventually gotten into the building and, unbeknownst to him, infected the others. Morgan, trapped in the Lab at the time, was the last person to contract the virus. That was why she’d outlived the others. As for Pearson, Perkins, and Corbotch, they were obviously immunized against the disease. Same with the big shots.
His brow furrowed. But why? Why would Corbotch bother to immunize the big shots from some deadly disease? It wasn’t like he knew any of this was going to happen.
A memory nagged in the dark recesses of his mind. Concentrating hard, he managed to grab hold of it. It was from earlier that day, in the clearing just after his fistfight with Pearson. Thinking hard, he slowly wrangled the rest of the memory into the light.
“Zach.” Perkins hiked to Caplan’s side. “You look dizzy.”
“I’m fine,” Caplan replied.
“Sure you are.” He lowered his voice, extended a palm. “But if you start, I don’t know, foaming at the mouth later, take one of these.”
Caplan eyed the amber-colored pill container, complete with child resistant cap. It was unmarked and filled with small white tablets. “You trying to drug me, Derek?”
“It’s aspirin,” Perkins said, exacerbated. “Just the thing for headaches, muscle aches, ocular problems, breathing issues, and God knows what else. Now, do you want it or not?”
Caplan exhaled. Then he grabbed the container and surreptitiously stuffed it into his pocket.
The memory blinked away, returning to the comfortable darkness of Caplan’s mind. For a couple of seconds, Caplan mulled over Perkins’ words and the surreptitious way in which they’d been spoken. Foaming at the mouth… ocular problems… breathing issues… all delivered with a bare whisper.
He reached into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around the cylindrical pill container. Extracting it, he knelt on the floor. Three separate beams of light struck the container, filling it and its white tablets with an almost holy glow. Was this the cure for HA-78? Had he been carrying it with him the entire time?
A storm of new questions rained on his mind. Was this another one of Corbotch’s tricks? Or had Perkins broken ranks with Corbotch? If so, why?
Morgan still sat in the chair, but just barely. Quickly, he popped the container open and took out a pill. He hesitated, but only for a second. She was already on death’s doorstep. How much worse could things possibly get?
He inserted the tablet into Morgan’s foamy mouth. “Swallow,” he said.
Foam gurgled in her throat.
“Swallow,” he repeated.
Her mouth closed over. Her throat vibrated. Then she went still.
Caplan pried her mouth open, checked it thoroughly.
No tablet.
He watched her for a few seconds, full of hope. But she remained still. Her eyes looked moist and glassy. Her mouth continued to foam up like she had rabies. With a trembling hand, he reached for her pulse.
Abruptly, Morgan twisted up and to the right, screeching at the top of her lungs. The chair slipped out from under her and she sagged onto the floor. Almost immediately, her body began to twitch and flop around like a fish trying to swim on land.
Caplan grabbed her shoulders, tried to hold her down. But she bucked violently, sending him crashing into a table leg. The table jolted. Screws, batteries, pencils, and sketch pads fell to the floor.
A loud crash sounded out. Caplan’s gaze shot to his makeshift barricade of cabinets, tables, and machines. He heard a fleshy smack followed by the door crunching against the barricade. One of the tables started to wobble. A box-shaped machine, propped on top of a tall filing cabinet, shifted a few inches to one side. The barricade was solid, but it wouldn’t last forever.
“Zach…”
Caplan looked at Morgan. Her eyes were still moist and glassy, but he saw a spark of life in them. Her lips had lost their bluish hue and her mouth no longer dripped with foam.
His heart leapt to new heights. He wanted to grab her, pull her close, smack her a big wet one on the lips. He didn’t even care about the residual foam. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“I nearly died.” She blinked a few times. The glassiness faded away. “And all you can say is, ‘feeling better?’”
“What do you want? A poem?” He offered his hand. “Come on.”
She gripped it. He pulled and she rose to her feet. He held her for a moment, staring deep into her eyes. God, he could swim in those eyes. They were almost enough to make him forget the past.
Almost.
Again, the door crunched against the barricade. Three or four grunts rang out in unison. The door shifted an inch, moving the cabinets and causing the box-shaped machine to tumble to the floor.