Francesca shivered, her exhaled breath thick and blue in the moonlight. “Suddenly it’s so cold.”
Death grinned at Shep as its cloaked arms — bone wrapped in decaying ligaments, tendons, and flesh — sent its olive-tinged blade arcing downward.
Shep pushed past Paolo in two quick strides, unfurling a backhand strike with his steel prosthetic. The metallic arm caught the Reaper’s scythe mid-strike, the clack of metal meeting metal generating a brilliant orange spark that briefly illuminated the entire ravine.
Temporarily blinded by the light, Shep dropped to one knee, his body trembling.
“What was that?” Francesca whipped her head around, staring wide-eyed at her husband.
“What was what?”
“You didn’t see that flash?”
“No, my love. Virgil?”
The old man was kneeling by Shep. “Son… are you all right?”
“The Reaper… it’s after Francesca.”
Virgil stared into Shep’s constricted pupils. “Paolo, give your wife the vaccine.”
“But you said—”
“Do it now.”
Francesca took the vial from her husband and drained it, choking on the clear elixir.
Shep stood, the purple spots in his vision gradually fading. “I met his blade with mine. Tell me you saw the spark of light.”
“No, but Francesca obviously saw it. You must have pulled her from the tunnel.”
“The tunnel?”
“The passage every soul must travel through when leaving Malchut, the physical world. The tunnel leads to the Cave of Machpelah, where the patriarchs of all humanity are buried.”
Shep pulled him aside. “The plague… all this death — it’s like bait to him, isn’t it?”
“It’s not death, Patrick, it’s the negativity… the reactive behavior that is increasing the power of Satan. In a way, the Angel of Darkness is a barometer of man’s psyche. The transgressions of the world have tipped the scales beyond a critical mass, granting Death a free reign. The End of Days is upon us, and this time even the souls of the innocent will not be spared.”
The biohazard lab had been set up in one of the island’s former military residences. Powered by a portable generator growling in the open garage.
Doug Nichols handed Leigh Nelson a mug of coffee. The lieutenant colonel had arrived seven hours earlier from Fort Detrick to supervise the analysis and replication of the Scythe vaccine. The square-jawed veteran smiled at the pretty brunette. “Are you all right?”
Leigh’s lower lip quivered. “I’d be much better if you allowed me five minutes to contact my husband.”
The smile waned. “You can use my cell phone… after we’ve identified the vaccine.”
“You’re a real sport.”
“You say you held the box containing the serum? Think you could identify it if you saw it again?”
“Probably.”
Nichols opened his laptop. Typed in the address of a secured Web site. “These are standard field carrying cases Dr. Klipot would have had access to. For instance, these packs are used to transport influenza vaccine.”
“No, it wasn’t metal. This was a polished wood case, fitted with foam packing for twelve vials, each about three fluid ounces.”
“Any identifying marks on the box? Serial numbers? Department logos?”
“None that I can remember. But there was a warning inside the lid. Something about the vaccine containing a powerful neurotransmitter that could produce temporary hallucinogenic effects.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Positive. The Klipot woman wigged out on me shortly after I gave her the antidote. I remember thinking—”
The lieutenant colonel clicked through several pages, searching the site. “Was this the box?”
Leigh stared at the image. “Yes. That’s it, I’m sure of it. What’s wrong?”
“This is a shipping case used for antimicrobic therapies, including tetra-cyclines, chloramphenicol, or streptomycin. AMTs are grown in artificial media from organisms inactivated with formaldehyde and preserved in 0.5 percent phenol. For that reasons and others, serum antibodies need direct access into the bloodstream. You of all people should know that digestible antimicrobic sera can't cross the brain-blood barrier, they must be injected.”
“You think I’m making this up?”
“The Klipot woman escaped under your care. So did Sergeant Shepherd. Now you’re deliberately lying about the nature of the cure. Either everything’s just an inconvenient coincidence, or you’re working with the terrorist groups responsible for infecting Manhattan.”
“That’s insane.”
“Guard!”
An MP rushed in from the next room. “Yes, sir.”
“Dr. Nelson’s been lying to us. Have Captain Zwawa question her… under suitable duress.”
They had made their way through the North Woods. Circumnavigating the North Meadow and the orgy of shadows segregated by bonfires, they crossed the bridge at 97th Street, where they stopped to rest by the life-sized bronze statue of Danish sculptor Albert Thorvaldsen.
Patrick had left them there to do reconnaissance along the eastern border of the park. Remaining concealed behind a four-foot stone wall, he had surveyed Fifth Avenue. Vehicles clogged the artery. Shadows stirred beneath dark awnings. He was about to leave when a disturbance shook the night.
The two black Hummers were weaving their way south on Fifth Avenue, avoiding the gridlocked lanes by veering onto the extra-wide sidewalk bordering Central Park. Screams cut through the frigid night air as the military vehicles ran over civilians sprawled out along the walkway, crushing limbs and skulls beneath the Hummers’ double-wide tires.
Patrick hurried back through the park, locating the others on the East 96th Street playground. “They’re coming. We have to move.”
Francesca moaned, her feet aching. “How did they find us so quickly?”
Shep glanced up at the overcast heavens. “Probably using aerial drones to track us down. Come on.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” Paolo asked, annoyed. “We came from the north, there’s nothing to the west but athletic fields, and everything to the south is blocked by the reservoir. They’d overtake us long before we could get around it.”
“We were safer at the pizzeria,” Francesca complained. “I told you not to let them in, Paolo. I begged you.”
“Francesca, please.” Paolo knelt by the frost-covered sliding board, closing his eyes to pray. “God, why have you led us here only to kill us? Lead us out of here safely… show us the way!”
“Help us, God, show us the way.” Virgil mimicked Paolo, his inflection dripping with sarcasm.
“Virgil, please—”
“And Moses whined to God, ‘God, do something. We have the Red Sea in front of us and Egyptians in back of us.’ And God answers back, ma titzach alai—why are you yelling to me?’ That’s right, Paolo, Moses was screaming to God, ‘help us’ and God was screaming back, "Why are you yelling to me?’”
Paolo stood. “I… I never read this Bible passage before.”
“That’s because the King James version removed it, and no rabbi or priest will ever discuss it. Few could accept that God would answer Moses like this, after all, God is good… God is just. What God was telling the Israelites was that they held the power to help themselves.”