The Liger Plague (Book 1) (30 page)

“What the hell do you care, Bishop?
You
think I’m the one responsible for all this.”

“I never said definitively that you were responsible, Doctor. I merely stated the facts, and the fact is that you remain at the top of our list of suspects. What we really need is for you to identify this virus so we can start to make plans.”

“Well, that’s quite reassuring that you’re merely stating the facts, Bishop. I’m stuck here on an island filled with murderous pox victims, and I’m still the top suspect.”

“I think we should deal with this like professionals.”

“Easy for you to say. There are other survivors on this island who are shooting everything in sight, including me. One of them practically shot my right ear off just a minute ago. And the worst part of it all, Bishop, is that I still have no idea where my wife and daughter are.”

“Time is running short. The political pressure being put on the administration is growing by the hour. The president has ordered Navy Seals onto the island to round up every infected person they can find and quarantine them indefinitely. People around the world are protesting and rioting, especially after those videos mysteriously went viral.”

“What about me? I’ll be arrested and tossed into jail once this is over.”

“You’ll be returning to the mainland, but if your name isn’t cleared, you’ll be arrested and tried for committing acts of domestic terrorism,” Bishop said, pausing to emphasize her point. “We’ve been conducting a thorough investigation of every employee and scientist you’ve ever worked with at the Institute, Dr. Winters, and we’ve made some interesting discoveries.”

“And what more have you discovered about me that you don’t already know?” he said, noticing that the green bar was blinking and nearly gone.

“Do you remember your co-worker Remington Gilfoyle? I believe he worked in one of the hot labs with you in the early 2000s.”

“Sure, I remember him. A bit full of himself but one of the most brilliant scientists I’ve ever worked with. Very quirky and eccentric. Died while piloting his plane over the Atlantic six or seven years ago.”

“Seven years ago. Do you know that they never recovered his body, only pieces and fragments of his plane?”

“It was one of those experimental planes that he built himself. Took him years, if I recall.”

“He’d performed many biological weapons inspections in the past, both in Russia and Iraq. Supposedly made a lot of connections with these international scientists, many of whom were connected to Muslim terrorist groups. The Russians, as you are well familiar, were extremely secretive about their bioweapons operations.”

“And still are,” Tag added. “What are you getting at, Bishop? I’m running out of battery.”

“We track every terrorist group working in the United States, and even those formed outside the States, intending to commit terrorist acts in this country. We believe from recent photographs that Gilfoyle is still alive and involved with a highly influential organization that has a cult-like following in parts of Europe and even in this country. They preach some fuzzy concept of evolution and self-determination, as well as a scientific-based philosophy that preaches an eccentric form of freedom. We believe that he and his group have been dealing in and developing biological weapons and selling them throughout the world to fund their bizarre world view. The Futurists, in short.”

“So why would he set me up?”

“A major component of their philosophy is the belief that all life forms are on equal footing with the human race. According to them, once we realize that our own species is no greater than any other one species, and begin to realize that the notion of god is a myth, the world will become a better and saner place to live. Oh, that and microorganisms are a natural form of population control.”

“A left-wing animal rights group?” he asked, playing along.

“Politically, they’re all over the place. Left-leaning on some matters, right of Attila the Hun on others. I assume he took issue with the treatment of the primates in your care.”

“If he did, he never said anything about it to me.”

“It took us a while to identify him. We used the most sophisticated face imaging software on the market, and even then it’s not definitive whether it’s Gilfoyle or not. He must have had some reconstructive surgery because we’ve received information that he’s traveled under numerous disguises and aliases.”

“He performed extremely well at the Institute, and everyone seemed to like him.”

“Leaving the Institute proved to be a very good career move, especially if you’re a terrorist with specific knowledge about how to engineer a biological weapon. Since then he’s become quite wealthy dealing in the former Soviet republics. Some estimate that he’s worth a fortune, though with all the various corporations and fake political fronts set up, we don’t really have a good handle on how much he’s worth. What we do know is that he’s reached the highest order in the organization. He may even be the head, but we don’t really know, the organization is so hazy. We do know that many of the group’s adherents are young, highly educated and tired of politics as usual. What’s unusual is that they use the current hate organizations to achieve their goals: Islamic terrorists, fundamental Christians, National Socialists, IRA. They are under the umbrella group called the Futurists.”

“What does that name imply?”

“Not really sure.” She paused to catch her breath. “For all I know, Doctor, you could be a member of this organization as well. Of course, you’d never admit to it.”

“I can honestly say that I’ve never heard of this group. Nor did I ever hear Remington talk of such matters the few times I worked with him in the lab.”

“He changed his name before he matriculated at Yale. Must have felt that Ernest Drinkwater just wouldn’t cut it with the Ivy League ladies. Majored in drama and biology. Worked one year on Broadway as a costume designer before attending med school at John Hopki—”

The phone went dead, and the green line disappeared. All contact with the outside world had been cut off, and Tag and Fez were now on their own. He tossed the phone inside his backpack.

“You understand any of that conversation, kid?”

“Wasn’t listening.”

“Don’t matter much at this stage anyway.”

“Didn’t think so,” Fez said, looking around. “Just trying to stay alive is all I want to do now. And find my family.”

“Same here. Let’s go find these other two clowns before they do more harm.”

They started down the hill and back toward the water. Every minute or so he could hear the pop of a gun in the distance. The other two men were slaughtering poxers the next street over. He wondered if there were any more healthy people on this island besides these two men. It didn’t matter. He had until sundown to find his family. Once darkness fell, not only would all the poxers come out of hiding and attack again, but the team of Navy Seals would be arriving onshore to round them all up. If that happened, the likelihood of seeing Monica and Taylor alive again was quite low.

Once they reached the bottom of the hill, Fez started running full sprint. Tag tried to jog a few steps to keep up with him, but the pain in his ear was so intense it felt like someone had stabbed him in the head. Fortunately, the aspirin was taking effect, and he could feel the throbbing ease. Fez knelt down on one knee about twenty yards away, studying something on the street. By the time he caught up to the kid, Tag could plainly see the second two-headed liger street painting.

“It’s another one, Tag. Whoever spray-painted it definitely wants you to travel in this direction.”

“And we will, right after we take care of these other two threats.”

Chapter 21

Tag walked over to the bottom of the next street and saw the two shooters walking toward the top of the hill. Nodding his head for Fez to follow, he sprinted up the hill. Moving between parked cars, he took deep breaths in order to alleviate the pain in his ear, making sure to run on his toes in order to keep from making any noise. Once he got within fifty yards of the men, he slipped behind the hood of a parked Mercedes and aimed the rifle at the two men.

“Stop, you two, or I shoot!”

The two men stopped in their tracks, looking to see where this directive was coming from.

“Toss your weapons down, and get on your knees!” Tag shouted.

“Who the hell are you?” Reverend Roberts said, the breeze rustling through his perfectly coifed blond hair.

“All you need to know, Roberts, is that I’m the guy with the rifle pointed at your head.”

“Do we know each other, friend?”

“First of all, I’m not your friend. Second, I don’t think God would take kindly to you slaughtering these sick people.”

“Peter, line 5, verse 8 says, ‘Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.’ That’s what these people have become, partner. Flesh-eating devils that need to be smitten from the face of the earth.”

“How do you know they won’t one day get well and repent?”

“Repent? Once you become the devil, partner, there’s no turning back from Hell.”

“Shut your big fat mouth, Roberts!” Fez shouted from across the street. “That coulda been my mother or father up there in one of them houses.”

“God must be smiling upon you, young man,” Roberts said, lifting the white face mask off his head until it sat suspended on his thick head of hair. “Only the righteous will be spared from Satan’s temptation. So no way am I throwing down my sacred weapon. I use it in the name of Jesus Christ. Hallelujah and praise the Lord!”

“Don’t be a moron, Roberts,” Tag countered. “This is the work of a terrorist, not the devil, and I highly doubt that Jesus would advocate you going around shooting people.”

“He would if it were the devil’s army. My friends and I are doing this in His name.”

“Whoever engineered this virus and released it on the island is a human, and not a particularly nice one. It’s hardly the work of God or Satan.”

“Just like God, Satan works in mysterious ways and through various people. Maybe whoever dropped this pestilence is doing the devil’s work. Maybe God is using this island as an example to the rest of the nation, to either change their hedonistic ways or end up like the lepers in the Bible.”

“These people are not lepers, Roberts; they’re victims of smallpox. Jesus would have walked among them without fear and by the grace of God.”

“At least the lepers in the Bible weren’t trying to eat us,” Roberts said, raising his arms skyward. “And God said, ‘Let there be light’ and there was light. Look around you, partner. The beasts have all gone into hiding. Only those under the employ of Satan would fear the light of the good Lord’s day.”

Frustrated, Tag aimed the rifle at Roberts. Roberts did not seem in any rush to surrender, and he knew that time was running out for him to find Monica and Taylor. He wondered if he had the balls to shoot Roberts, especially in front of Fez. The actor, Lee Stain, stood frozen in fright, glancing nervously between himself and Roberts.

“I’m giving you one last chance to surrender!” Tag yelled.

“Or what?” Roberts said, laughing. “You going to shoot me in broad daylight, partner? Just because I’m killing off a bunch of cannibals?”

Fez nodded at him to do it, but he knew that to shoot Roberts in cold blood would send a terrible message. He tried to think of an alternative plan. Maybe if he applied some pressure to the actor, he could convince him to switch sides, and that, in turn, would change Roberts’ mind.

“Lee, hear me out. You’re jeopardizing your career by hanging out with this murderer. You ever want to work in Hollywood again, then I suggest you throw down your weapon and walk away from this preacher.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Stain replied in a slightly southern drawl.

“When word gets out that you’re out here slaughtering innocent people just like the Nazis, you won’t even be able to shine shoes in Hollywood.”

“You don’t understand, man. These freaks have been attacking us left and right. We don’t band together and attack them first, then we’ll all be dead come nightfall.”

“You’re right. It
is
going to get much worse. The government is sending a team of Navy Seals to the island to round up everyone and put them in quarantine. When they discover that you’ve been slaughtering these innocent people, you’ll be labeled a mass murderer and put away for good, maybe even get the death penalty.”

“He’s lying, Lee,” Roberts said to Stain. “You’ve seen what these devils have done. They’ll give us all medals of honor for cleaning this island up. And besides, it’s in self-defense.”

“I don’t know, Reverend. I’ve got my career to think about. And I’m not too fond of killing these poor people anyways, even if they are crazy-ass cannibals.”

“So what’s it going to be, Lee?” Tag asked. “As you probably already know, there are cameras all over this island recording your every action. Maybe if you stop now, no one will see you killing these people and your career can be salvaged.”

Lee turned to Roberts. “Sorry, Reverend, but I got to do what’s best for my career.”

“What career, Lee? After God’s plague runs its course, only a select few will be left standing. Then you can forget about your godless films and all those Jew bastards running Hollywood.”

Lee shook his head at Roberts’ racist reply. “And what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not wrong. This is what God wants and expects us to do. It’s a test, Lee. Rid the earth of Satan’s influences. So are you going to stand strong and be a man? Are you going to do the courageous thing and fight for Jesus?”

“Don’t listen to him, Lee,” Tag said. “Once those Navy Seals arrive on this island, life will go back to normal on the mainland, and all the atrocities you’ve committed will come to light for generations to see. Forget acting, man, you’ll be doing hard time. I promise not to say a word if you walk away from this right now.”

“Sorry, man,” Lee said to Roberts as he started down the hill.

“Stop right there, mister big-shot actor,” Roberts said, pointing his rifle at the actor.