Ben tried to lunge forward, but he couldn’t get his mind to form the directions to send out to his body. It was happening slowly, as if he were watching a movie in slow motion. He felt his feet move, slowly at first, then more quickly.
But not quickly enough.
He’d never make it to Stephens in time. The gun rose a little more, now pointing at Ben’s chest.
He thought he saw the muzzle of the pistol flash, a small bristle of fire lancing from its barrel, but his vision suddenly went white. He felt something, too, a crashing pain that hit him from his side, knocking him off of his feet.
He was flying. Blinded and in pain, but he knew the sensation of vertigo. He tried to reach his arms out to stop the fall, but he had no idea if his arms had registered the order or not.
Then he heard the explosion from the gun. It was louder than he thought it would be — he’d always been on the sending end of a gun barrel. It deafened him.
Blind, in pain, and now deaf.
And still falling.
When he hit the ground, he felt another pain similar to the first. It started on his arm and shoulder, then his hip and leg.
This can’t be right.
It was a point-blank shot — how could Stephens have missed? He should have felt something in his chest.
Right?
He tried to blink, trying to convince his senses to return.
Nothing but pain.
Still, it was a dull pain — throbbing, but manageable. What happened?
He breathed, now realizing he’d been holding his breath. His lungs struggled with the weight, trying to push it off of him.
Why was there a weight on top of him?
He began to see. First the lights of the lab creeped into his vision, then a darker shadow.
A man’s face.
Malcolm Fischer’s face.
He gasped, pushing upward with his throbbing hands. The weight was the man’s body, and Ben used all his might to heave it up and off of him. He struggled for a few seconds until Malcolm fell to the side, freeing Ben.
Ben sat up, blinking.
When his vision fully returned, he saw Malcolm’s body lying next to his, upside down, in a crimson pool of blood.
No…
He reached out and felt behind the professor’s neck.
Come on, he willed. Wake up.
But then he saw the professor’s brown coat, wrapped around the older man. A small hole was leaking blood, almost dead-center in the man’s back.
The exit wound.
He heard sobbing and looked up. Julie was standing over him, tears falling from her face.
“B — Ben,” she muttered. “I thought you…”
Her voice trailed off as she finally saw Malcolm lying next to him.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “He — he saved you.”
Ben just nodded. “Where’s Stephens?” Anger flashed behind his eyes, and he stood. He saw the man immediately, lying across a table against the wall, unmoving.
She pointed to her coworker’s body. “I–I attacked him, but I think the virus had already done its job.”
Again, Ben nodded. He gently stepped over Malcolm’s body and reached Julie, pulling her close. She began to sob, trying to talk. He wrapped a hand around the back of her head and slowly pushed her face forward, onto his shoulder. He stroked her hair, letting her cry.
Chapter Forty-Six
The truck bounced over another pothole in the dirt road. Julie was again in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Every few seconds, she sniffed, holding back tears that she knew would eventually come.
They’d left the lab a mess — two dead bodies, one extremely contagious, and both bleeding onto the white tiled floor. Ben had held her for a minute, slowly rocking her as they both waited in silence.
Waited for nothing.
No help would come, and she now felt the true realization of Stephens’ double-crossing.
It had hit her hard, that first moment she understood.
They were alone.
As they stood there, she thought about the mess of it all. But as chaotic as it was, it was flawless. The execution of it, from the initial blast to the spreading virus, down to Stephens’ own arrogant desire to watch it unfold from a front-row seat.
He’d told them everything. It was cryptic and difficult to understand, at best, but it was complete.
He’d wanted it that way — to watch them suffer through the pain of searching, only to see their helpless eyes as he unleashed his weapon.
His final move.
Checkmate.
She looked at Ben as he drove. “I can’t believe he knew, Ben. The whole time.”
Ben nodded slowly. She saw his knuckles turn white as he gripped the wheel. “I know,” he said softly. “But there’s still something I don’t understand. The syringe — why’d he do it? I mean, inject himself with the stuff? He could have just shot us.”
“No, that’s just it.” She frowned. “I figured it out right before he tried to shoot you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Ben — he’s the endgame. He’s the final piece.”
“I know. He orchestrated the whole thing, and —”
“No, Ben — he is part of the bomb.”
Ben frowned, but quickly his eyes grew wide. “He’s…”
“Stephens had to make sure he was in the park because he is supposed to be the final piece of the puzzle. Remember what happened when the first bomb went off? It sent a payload of the virus into the air, which contaminated a lot of the area. But this second bomb can’t carry that payload — it’ll be too big. And if it’s going to go off anywhere around that caldera —”
“Then the eruption from the volcano beneath us will more than eradicate the strain.”
“Right,” she said. “A bomb too small won’t destroy the underground structure enough to cause an eruption, but a bomb too big will just incinerate the payload.”
“So,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “To make sure you get both the volcanic eruption and the virus to be spread, you have to place the viral payload far enough away from the initial blast that it’s safe from that explosion, but close enough to the caldera that the resulting eruption will send the payload into the atmosphere.
“And Stephens is the viral payload.”
Julie sighed. “Like I said, he’s part of the bomb.”
“Then I need to find that bomb,” Ben said, “and you need to get out of the park.” He pushed the accelerator to the floor, and the truck swerved, barely missing a deep hole in the road.
She looked over at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’m not letting you get anywhere near that eruption.”
Julie stiffened her jaw, annoyed.
“Ben, listen to yourself,” she said. “You’re not making any sense. You explained it to me, remember? If that bomb goes off, it starts a chain reaction. There’s no place in two hundred miles that’s safe.”
Ben shrugged. “Still —”
“No, Ben. Stop. Forget it. Where are you going to drop me off? Ten miles from here? Twenty? How much time are you going to waste trying to get me away from the blast zone? And how long do you think you have before the bomb actually goes off?”
Ben started to answer, but instead turned the radio on. The news report was already in progress, and he turned up the volume. It was a computerized message, reading a pre-written response.
“…Local police and SWAT teams on high-alert for riot activity, including looting. Please stay indoors, and remain out of contact with anyone outside of immediate family. Contaminated areas include as a southern border Las Cruces, New Mexico. Western border, Kansas City. Eastern border Reno, Nevada. CDC and FEMA have prepared quarantine stations at many metropolitan areas. Please visit www…”