Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Christ, that’s the last thing we need . “Masks!” she cried aloud. The gas billowed toward them in slow, lazy rolls, spreading along the floor like a poison carpet. Hayward fumbled with her mask, snugging the Velcro tight.

Miller ducked out of the cloud, looking like an alien apparition in his mask. “Gas them!” came his muffled yell.

“No!” Hayward began to protest. “Not here! We’ve got two men down!”

She stepped forward as Miller, ignoring her, grabbed a canister from the belt of a nearby officer, popped the pin, and threw it toward the mob. Hayward watched one or two other canisters fly as the panicked men followed Miller’s example. There were more dull popping sounds, and the crowd of moles disappeared into the roiling clouds of smoke. Hayward could hear Miller directing other officers to drop their canisters down the boreholes that dotted the floor of the tunnel. “Smoke the bastards out,” Miller was saying. “If any more are hiding below, we’ll flush them with these.”

Carlin looked up from the prone body of the policeman. “Stop, goddammit!” he roared.

The clouds of gas were rising slowly now, spreading their vapor throughout the tunnel. All around, cops were kneeling, dropping canisters down the boreholes. Hayward could see the homeless streaming up the staircase, trying to get away from the gas. “Time’s up!” Miller yelled, his high-pitched voice breaking. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” Most of the policemen needed no more encouragement, and vanished into the clouds of gas.

Hayward fought her way back toward Carlin, once again bending over the prone figure with McMahon. The other casualty was sitting up now, holding his gut and retching. The gas was creeping toward them.

“Let’s back them up a bit,” Hayward said. “We can’t put a mask on this guy while he’s puking.” The conscious cop stood up slowly, swaying and holding his head. She led the officer away while Carlin and McMahon carried the unconscious man to a safer spot in the tunnel.

“Wake up, buddy,” Carlin said, patting his cheek, bending forward to examine the nasty gash across the man’s forehead. The roiling green wall of tear gas was coming closer.

The man’s eyes fluttered open.

“You okay?”

“Shit,” the man said, trying to sit up.

“Can you think straight?” Carlin asked. “What’s your name?”

“Beal,” came the muffled reply.

The gas was almost on them. Carlin reached down and unstrapped the mask from the man’s service belt. “I’m gonna put this on you now, okay?”

The man named Beal nodded vacantly. Carlin strapped on the mask and turned the D-valve. Then he helped him carefully to his feet.

“I can’t walk,” Beal said through the mask.

“Lean on us,” Carlin said. “We’ll get you out of here.” The cloud had now enveloped them, a strange greenish fog lit by the flickering of the dying flares. They moved forward slowly, half-dragging the man along, until they reached Hayward, who was adjusting the gas mask around the head of the other wounded policeman. “Let’s go,” she said.

They moved carefully through the tear gas. The surrounding area was deserted; the homeless had fled the gas and Miller, leading the group of officers, had followed behind them. Hayward tried her radio, but she was unable to raise anybody through the dense static. In the far distance, they could hear coughs and curses as the stragglers hiding in the warren of tunnels below were forced to the surface by the gas. Now she could make out the staircase. The airflow was slowly spreading the tear gas through the tunnels and up to the next level, filling their escape route. But Hayward also knew it would drive the rest of the moles to the surface. She sure as hell didn’t want to be around when they came out.

As they reached the stairs, Beal suddenly doubled up, retching into the mask. Turning quickly from the other man, Hayward tore Beal’s mask off. The officer’s head sagged forward, then whipped back as the gas hit him. His limbs stiffened and he thrashed about, tearing himself from their grasp and collapsing to the ground, clutching at his face.

“We gotta move, now!” McMahon cried.

“You go,” said Hayward. “I’m not gonna leave this man here.”

McMahon stood there indecisively. Carlin glared at him. Finally, McMahon scowled. “Okay, I’m with you.”

With McMahon’s help, Hayward lifted the gasping Beal to his feet. She nuzzled her mask close to the man’s ear. “Either you walk,” she said quietly, “or we all drown. It’s as simple as that, good buddy.”

= 47 =

THE NYPD’S CRISIS control center had been brought on-line for the drainage operation. As Margo entered, trotting behind Pendergast and D’Agosta, she noticed several banks of communications equipment still sitting on dollies. Uniformed officers were standing over benches overflowing with grid maps. Heavy wires, wound with electrical tape, snaked across the floor in thick black rivulets.

Horlocker and Waxie sat at a long table, their backs to the communications gear. Even from the door Margo could see that their faces were slick with sweat. A small man with a brushy little mustache sat at a computer terminal nearby.

“What’s this?” Horlocker asked as they arrived. “The ladies’ visiting committee?”

“Sir,” D’Agosta said, “you can’t drain the Reservoir.”

Horlocker tilted his head. “D’Agosta, I don’t got time for you right now. I’ve got my hands full, dealing with the Wisher rally on top of this shit. And meanwhile the roust of the century is taking place underground. I’ve got the force spread thin as a pancake. So just write me a letter, okay?” He paused. “What, you guys been swimming?”

“The Reservoir,” Pendergast said, stepping forward, “is loaded with deadly lilies. It’s the plant the Mbwun beast needed to survive. The plant that Kawakita derived his drug from. And it’s ready to go to seed.” He unshouldered the muddy plant and slapped it onto the table. “There it is. Riddled with glaze. Now we know where they’ve been growing their supply.”

“What the hell?” Horlocker said. “Get that goddamn thing off my desk.”

Waxie broke in. “Hey, D’Agosta, you just finished convincing us that your little green monsters in the sewers needed to be flushed out. So now we’re doing it, and you want to change your mind? Forget it.”

D’Agosta stared distastefully at Waxie’s bulging, sweating neckline. “You sorry sack of shit. It was your idea to drain the goddamn Reservoir in the first place.”

“Now listen, Lieutenant, you watch—”

Pendergast held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please.” He turned to Horlocker. “There will be plenty of blame to apportion at some later time. The problem now is that, once those seeds hit saltwater, the reovirus that carries the drug will be activated.” His lips twitched briefly. “Dr. Green’s experiments show this drug capable of affecting a wide variety of life-forms, from unicellular organisms all the way up the food chain to man. Would you care to be the one responsible for global ecological disaster?”

“This is nothing but a big load of—” Waxie began to blurt.

Horlocker laid a hand on his sleeve, then glanced at the large plant soiling the papers littering the command desk. “Doesn’t look that dangerous to me,” he said.

“There’s no doubt,” Margo said. “It’s Liliceae mbwunensis . And it’s carrying a genetically engineered modification of the Mbwun reovirus.”

Horlocker looked from the plant to Margo, then back to the plant again.

“I can understand your uncertainty,” Pendergast said calmly. “A lot has happened since this morning’s meeting. All I ask is twenty-four hours. Dr. Green here will run the necessary tests. We’ll bring you proof that this plant is loaded with the drug. And we’ll bring you proof that exposure to saltwater will release the reovirus into the ecosystem. I know we’re right. But if we’re wrong, I’ll withdraw from the case and you can drain the Reservoir at your leisure.”