Malcolm had heard enough. He had no idea if there was one man around the corner or twenty, but he took his chances. He flung himself around the end of the hallway, relieved to not have the burden of the heart rate monitor cart.
A lone young man in his thirties had his back to Malcolm behind a circular desk situated in the middle of an open atrium. This man was not a doctor, Malcolm realized. He was wearing a navy blue suit and black belt.
Rent-a-cop.
Malcolm kept running. The atrium around him was beautiful, even without much light. A hundred feet above him, moonlight drifted down through skylights in the building’s ceiling, illuminating large plants, marble-covered floors, and desks in sharp light. It was like a modernist’s interpretation of film noir — shadows cutting through everything as they descended onto the otherwise pristine lobby.
Malcolm ran past a glass elevator and caught a glimpse of a sign glued to the side of the elevator shaft.
Floor 2.
And below it: Drache Global.
Drache Global — something clicked in Malcolm’s mind. That had been the label on the bag.
By now, Malcolm was sure the man could hear him coming, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, the rent-a-cop flicked the button on the walkie-talkie and asked again, “Hey, you hear me? What’s up?”
The doctor tried to respond, but the connection either cut in and out or the doctor was inept at the use of walkie-talkies. The voice flickered. “—Patient… need assistance…” The cop tried to respond again, finally realizing that there were loud footsteps behind him.
It didn’t matter. Malcolm was now within range of the cop, and he brought the mop handle up and over his head. He felt the burn in his right shoulder as his muscles voiced their discomfort, but he ignored it.
Malcolm felt a rage building inside him. Six months. My team; my students. Their faces flashed through his mind as the mop handle crashed down on the cop’s head just as he spun around.
The handle connected with the man’s temple, and a look of shock appeared on both the men’s faces. The act of violence was unlike Malcolm, but he followed through. The mop handle broke in half, but the damage had been done.
The cop’s head crunched sideways, and he fell from the stool he was on. He managed a quick gurgle of pain, but was silent as he fell to the marble floor. Malcolm dropped his half of the mop handle.
Without checking to see if the man was alive, Malcolm turned to the elevator. There has to be…
There. Stairs. Off to the left of the elevator shaft, he saw a small open entrance.
He went down the stairs two at a time, his body at once excited for the movement it was now allowed as well as struggling to provide it. He reached the bottom and found himself in a similar lobby.
Floor 1.
Drache Global.
No one was at the desk, but he didn’t take any chances. He found a door to the left of the stairs that was labeled L1 — Garage, and pushed it open.
A sharp snap of air hit him in the face. Six months since I’ve felt fresh air, he realized. He’d been asleep for just about all of that time, but his body knew. He drew in a deep breath and ran outside.
The parking garage sloped upward, and he now felt the strain on his muscles as he reached freedom. Ahead, he saw cars zipping by. The building must be on a busy road.
He ran, daring not look back. Closer.
The edge of the street was tantalizingly close.
Closer.
“Hey!”
He heard the doctor’s voice yelling from behind. “Stop!”
Closer.
He reached the exit of the parking garage, thankful that the gate was an unmanned, automated machine. He dodged around it and continued running, forcing his legs to move faster.
Closer.
He’d made it. He reached the street, not pausing for traffic. Cars honked and swerved as they sizzled by, but Malcolm didn’t notice.
He reached the other side, then kept running. Up another busy street.
On his left, cars raced past him. He held up a hand, waving — pleading.
Finally a car stopped. Malcolm slowed to a walk as the car’s window rolled down.
“Need a lift?”
The voice from inside was that of a middle-aged woman, raspy from a lifetime of smoking. Her hair was tousled, but she wore a huge grin and unlocked the passenger door.
“P — please.” He didn’t know what else to say. “I… I don’t know where to go.”
The woman smiled larger. “I’d guess that. I’d say we get you some clothes, first.”
Humiliation surged through Malcolm as he looked down at his body.
He was completely, utterly naked.
Chapter Twenty-Five
For what seemed like the hundredth time in two days, Ben drove the truck while Julie snoozed in the passenger seat. As he pulled onto the driveway that he’d known so well for so many years, he was overcome by a wave of emotion. He parked the truck just in front of the closed garage door and stepped out.
Julie rose, yawning, as she opened the passenger door and stretched on the front lawn, she and the truck casting long late-afternoon shadows on the house.
“Is this her house?” she asked.
Ben was already moving toward the front door.
“So how do you know her, anyway?”
It was the second time she’d asked the question during their time together, and the second time he’d dodged it. “She’s lived here for almost forty years. Moved here from St. Louis.”
He knocked but didn’t wait for a response. The door was unlocked, so he stepped into the house. Julie followed behind. The house was dim, with low ceilings that sported 1970’s style texture.
“Hello?” he called out.
A woman’s muffled voice came from somewhere at the back of the house, so the pair walked down the narrow hallway until they came to a closed bedroom. Ben breathed deeply, pausing before he knocked again.
When he did, they heard a hoarse voice invite them in. Ben opened the door.
“But stay away from the bed,” the woman said. “The contagion is extremely potent. Some sort of viral-bacterial combination, not unlike a bacteriophage.”
Ben rushed forward, coming to his knees at the edge of the bed. He reached for the woman’s hand and held it in his own.
“You never were a good listener, Harvey.” She nodded her head but smiled at the same time. “How are you?”
Ben swallowed, trying to find his voice. “I–I’m good. Mom, this is Julie. She works for the CDC.”
Julie’s eyes widened as realization swept over her. She, too, approached the bed.
“Stay close to the door,” Ben said. “We can’t have you getting infected with this stuff.”
“Ms. Torres? Hi. Nice to meet you.” Julie waved awkwardly from the corner of the bedroom. She stared at the large man beside the bed, doing all he could to not burst into tears.
“Mom, what happened? Was it the sample? Some accident?” And then, as if now realizing that he was in his childhood home, “Why aren’t you in a hospital?”
“Slow down, Harvey. No, nothing like that. And you two both know a hospital can’t do anything about this. It wasn’t your sample.” She took two breaths, each sharp and staggered. “I mean, it was the same strain, I believe, though not the sample you sent.” Again, a breath. “There was a man. Said he was with the CDC.” She looked through pained eyes toward Julie. “Which, I now know, was a lie.”