Jonathan Maberry - Patient Zero

“Well, just be glad we planned well in advance. You have enough false identities and bolt-holes to stay hidden for years, probably forever.” He sniffed and brushed a strand of blond hair from his eyes. “Which means I’ll also have to go into hiding. We’ll need new faces, new fingerprints…” He sighed. “Bugger all.”

Gault saw the misery in Toys’s face. “I’m sorry. It was all working so well.”

“That’s a consolation.”

Gault stared up into the limitless nothing of the sky. “We’ll be at the Bunker day after tomorrow. If there’s any luck left in the bottle then Amirah will have a cure and then maybe we can find a way to bring it to market while there’s still an intact world economy.”

Or an intact world, Gault thought, but he didn’t say it.

Crisfield, Maryland / Friday, July 3; 10:01 A.M.

I STAYED AT the plant again that night and spent Friday alternately working with Jerry and working with Church to concoct a news story that would calm the public. The new story, which was released to the press via the Maryland governor’s office, said that a major meth lab had been raided by a task force under the direction of the ATF, but during the raid part of the lab blew up. Church’s computer techs cobbled together bits of video footage of other raids—enhanced with some nifty computer graphics—that showed tactical teams raiding the plant. It was pretty convincing, and it did what we wanted it to do: it knocked the phrase “terrorist attack” right off the headlines and out of the CNN news crawls.

BY LATE FRIDAY night I was totally fried. So was everyone else so we bagged it and decided to head back to the Warehouse. In DMS parlance the temporary headquarters on the Baltimore docks was now being called the Warehouse, capital W ; just as the Brooklyn facility at Floyd Bennett Field was called the Hanger. Grace said that the Warehouse would probably become one of the organization’s permanent sites, it being conveniently close to D.C.

Church wasn’t going with us. He said that he needed to brief the President personally and he took a Bell Jet Ranger to Washington; Hu went with him, but before they boarded I took Church aside.

“Every time I close my eyes I see the face of that lab tech with the detonator saying that it’s all too late. It’s nagging at me.”

“You’re not alone in that,” he admitted. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“I do. You already said that if this thing was launched on some big event that it would get out of control. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July and there’s no bigger event that I know of than the rededication of the Liberty Bell.”

He nodded. “I’ve already alerted their security teams to be on ultrahigh alert.”

“I was supposed to be on that detail,” I said, “and I think I want to follow through on that. But I want to make it a field trip. I want to take Echo Team to Philly and let them put their eyes to work. Give them some fieldwork that doesn’t involve zombies. Maybe take Grace and Gus, too.”

When I said Grace’s name there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his face, but it was gone in an instant. Maybe I imagined it.

“Is this a hunch?” he asked.

“Not really. Maybe half a hunch. It’s just that if I were going to launch this thing, that’s where I’d do it.”

Church leaned a shoulder against the chopper and considered the point. “The First Lady will be there. Perhaps I should request that she be removed from the event.”

“That’s your call. I could be wrong about this. There are a lot of big celebrations tomorrow, all over the country; and maybe these guys are too smart to pick the one where about every third person in the crowd is carrying a federal badge. No, I can’t see disrupting the event on a half a hunch, but I think you should reinforce your warning to all commands to stay extra frosty.”

He nodded. “I’ll do that; and I’ll be with the President in a couple of hours and he can punctuate the request. But I’ll have some National Guard units on standby just in case.”

“Fair enough.”

We shook hands and he climbed into the chopper.

The rest of us climbed into the Seahawks and we rose into the night sky, flying across Maryland with two Apaches giving close air support. For some strange reason going back to the Warehouse felt like going home.

Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, July 4; 1:12 A.M.

BACK AT THE Warehouse we each went our separate ways. Echo Team was already sacked out for the night but Top had left me reams of notes on the new recruits. I put that aside for later and headed off to get clean. In the shower I let the hot water blast me for a long time. I do some of my best thinking in the shower and as I washed, rinsed, and repeated I wondered about who Lester Bellmaker might be and despite furious lathering I came up with nothing.

It was already into the early hours of July 4. I figured we’d head out early and get to Philadelphia in time to add a little security muscle to the event. And if nothing happened… at least they have great hot dogs, soft pretzels, and beer in that town.

Back in my room I was bemused to notice that Cobbler had been fed and even his cat litter changed.

When I climbed between the sheets Cobbler crouched at the foot of the bed and stared at me like I was a stranger. I told myself that he was only spooked by having been handled by someone he didn’t know, but I knew that wasn’t really it. It was me. Rudy was right—I’d been changed, too. Cobbler could see it in my eyes and he kept his distance. After five minutes of trying to coax him nearer I gave up and turned out the light.

I could feel him watching me with his wise cat eyes.

I finally fell asleep around one or so but within minutes a tap at the door woke me. It was tentative. I lay in the dark and listened, uncertain whether it was real or part of some complicated dream. Then it came again. Firmer this time.

I switched on the bedside light and padded to the door in sleeping shorts and a T-shirt. There was no peephole or intercom so I unlatched it and peered cautiously through the crack. I guess I expected Rudy, or Church. Maybe Top Sims or Sergeant Dietrich.

I never expected Grace Courtland.

Baltimore, Maryland / Saturday, July 4; 1:17 A.M.

SHE WORE MAKESHIFT pajamas—blue hospital scrubs and a black tank top. Her hair was untidy, there were fatigue smudges under her eyes. She held a six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale beer by the handle of the cardboard carrier.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I can’t sleep. Let me in.” She let the sixer of beer swing from her finger.

“Okay,” I said, and stepped back to pull the door open. Grace nodded and walked past me into the room. She gave it a quick, flat appraising look and grunted.

“They brought a lot of your things.”

“They brought my cat,” I said as I closed the door. Cobbler jumped off the bed and came over to her, sniffing tentatively. “Cobbler, be nice to the major.”

Cobbler still looked cautious but when Grace squatted down to pet him he allowed it. Her fingers flexed luxuriantly in his fur.

“Have a seat,” I said, indicating the recliner. I got the bottle opener that was attached to my key chain, opened two bottles and handed her one. I took mine and sat on the edge of the bed.

She rose and stood looking down at the cat for a moment, sipping thoughtfully.

“I like your friend Dr. Sanchez.”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy. We met outside the showers, had a bit of a heart-to-heart. He’s a good man.”