The Liger Plague (Book 1) (8 page)

“Should have just wrapped it around your fat ass, Mikey.” Silva laughed.

Tag walked over to his golf cart, jumped in, and started the ignition.

“Where you going, Colonel?”

“I have a few important things I need to do. It’s going to be a long night, and we’re going to need to prepare for the worst.”

“So what should the two of us do?” Mueller asked.

“I’m so glad you asked. You and Officer Silva need to head up to Main Street and take control of the situation. Try to keep the peace if you can. Make sure riots don’t break out. Get the residents to return to their homes and stay inside. All the tourists should head down to the beach and spread out in order to minimize the risk of catching this disease. It’s warm tonight, so they should be able to sleep on the beach without too much discomfort. Any breeze off the water should help minimize the spread of infection if, indeed, that becomes an issue. We might need to take some water and supplies out of the local grocery stores and deliver them around the island.”

“Okay, Colonel, we’re on it. Any other instructions before we take off?”

“We’ll need to start identifying any medical personnel and round them up: doctors, PAs and nurses. We’ll need to set up a sick bay if people start coming down with symptoms.”

“At that point will it even matter?” Silva asked.

“Might, might not, depending on the agent we’re dealing with. Quarantining is always the safest strategy, especially if this bug’s a virulent flu strain. And if there’s any casualties, then we’re going to need to safely dispose of the bodies, and the best way to accomplish this is to burn them. I know that sounds harsh, but that’s the reality of the situation, and we must be prepared for the worst.”

“Damn fine mess we’re in, Colonel! Seeing how you’re the expert on these matters, we’ll follow your lead.”

“See you around the island, officers,” Tag said, speeding off in the golf cart.

Tag heard his phone go off. He was relieved to see that it was a text message from his son saying that he was okay. Now he just needed to hear from his daughter.

Chapter 6

He zipped down the hill and turned left onto Atlantic View Road. Once he drove out of the grove of trees, he could hear the familiar roar of surf pounding the shore. Down below and to his right, he could see the beach bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. A few people had already made their way down to escape the chaos taking place in town. The golf cart’s motor whirred in his ears, and the ocean breeze swept past his face. He pumped the gas pedal to the floor, but the cart had reached its top speed. Looking to his left, he observed the row of modest homes lined up and down the quiet residential street. The island sloped down from the center of town until it descended upon the east and west end beaches. The beach facing the Atlantic was the most popular and spectacular of them all. Many of the houses sat empty for long periods of time during the summer. Tag wondered if at some point these homes could be used to house people in the event things on the island got worse.

The golf cart swerved as it reached the far end of the beach. The northern tip of the island shore was composed mostly of woods, ledges and large rocks covered in seaweed and barnacles. Only a few isolated homes existed on the north end of Cooke’s, and they belonged mostly to the full-time residents. Seagulls soared above the surf, squawking and fighting for supremacy. Tag could feel the salty spray wash over his face as he turned the corner and headed west. Because of the rocks and rough water, not many boats were docked on this part of the island. He cut across the northern tip and made his way to the eastern shore, where the harbor provided much better protection for all the boats docked there. He took a hard left onto Cooke’s Way and parked at the end of the street. Then he ran down toward one of the small docks fronting the magnificent waterfront homes facing toward Portland. Two power boats bobbed on either side of the dock. Concealed by the darkness, he knelt down next to the first powerboat and, using the battery-operated power tool, he drilled a series of holes into the fiberglass hull just below the waterline. He did the same to the powerboat docked on the other side. Satisfied that he’d disabled both crafts, he hopped back in his golf cart and sped off. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them start to submerge into the bay.

He managed to drill holes in all the boats docked along the eastern waterfront, insuring that none of the residents would be able to make their way over to the mainland. The closer he got to Cooke’s Landing, the more shadows he saw loitering around the ferry terminal. Hundreds of people had camped out there for the night, hoping that a ferry or rescue ship might pick them up and return them back to Portland. On the hill high above, he saw streetlights glowing on Main Street. Sparks and ash flew up into the night, a result of the still-blazing church fire. He knew full well that the explosion had not been caused by a gas leak. Someone had rigged that church, and it was only by a stroke of good luck that no one had died or gotten seriously injured when it went up in flames.

He stopped the golf cart roughly a hundred yards from the ferry terminal. It would be risky to try to make it through that desperate throng without getting mobbed. They would block his path and possibly become violent, begging for food, information and assistance. It wasn’t their fault. Desperate people did desperate things, especially if they had no lodging, food or information about the crisis facing them. Rather than try to motor past the crowd, he took a left on Cod Lane and swerved through the labyrinth of winding backstreets. Stragglers wandered along the streets, calling out to him as he passed, begging for help. He wished he could be of some assistance to these poor souls, but for now he had to insure that the island remained shut off from the mainland, meaning that he had to disable every boat, raft or jet ski he could find. Breaking the quarantine was not an option, and he had to do everything in his power to prevent the organism from escaping into the general population.

Pedestrians tried to block his path, but he swerved easily past them, not bothering to answer the myriad of questions they shouted out to him. He managed to make his way around to the south-east part of the island, where the largest marina on the island was located. Dozens of power craft were moored on the southern tip of Cooke’s, and a small group of people were walking toward the dock. Were they trying to escape? He sped toward them, and as soon as they heard the high-pitched whine of his golf cart, they turned and looked at him. Tag recognized the tall man with the shoulder-length hair and horn-rimmed glasses. It was Dr. David Goldstein, one of the most respected brain surgeons in the country and the owner of the
Cera Bellum
, the forty-two-foot cabin cruiser docked at Cooke’s Marina. Goldstein’s six-thousand-square-foot summer home sat atop the island and had the best views of any other home.

Tag had been invited to a few parties at Goldstein’s house in the past few years but got the sense that the surgeon looked down on him for being a lowly army doctor, having never actually checked out his military credentials. Goldstein’s home was spectacular, and Tag always marveled at both the amazing ocean views and the grandiosity of its architectural design, which had been featured in more than a few home and garden magazines.

He pulled up to the group and could tell right off that they’d been drinking. A long set of stairs led from the man’s summer home atop the cliff down to the marina. Goldstein preferred to dock the
Cera Bellum
because of how little time he actually spent on the island, which Tag estimated was roughly three weeks out of the year. That was because Goldstein lived in Boston and spent much of his time in the surgical unit of the Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where he was chief of surgery.

“Hi, guys,” he said, idling next to the group. Goldstein had a cocktail in one hand and walked with a loose-limbed gait. “Where you guys going at this late hour?”

“If it isn’t my curious neighbor, the esteemed army physician Tag Winters. How are you, my friend?” Goldstein greeted him with an air of condescension.

“Fine, Dave,” he replied, knowing the man hated to be called Dave. “Just wondering where you’re all headed tonight…”

“Heard that the ferries are all out of commission. I’ve got a group of friends visiting from San Fran that need to head back tonight to catch their flight. I’m going to drop them off at Pier Seven to catch a cab and then return to the island after this little hubbub passes.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that, Dave.”

“It’s Dr. Goldstein, Winters, and I can do whatever I damn well please,” Goldstein said, holding up his drink.

“I beg to differ, Dave.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I beg to differ. I’m afraid I can’t let you get on that boat.”

Goldstein laughed and sipped his cocktail. With his pointy beard, long gray hair and horned-rimmed glasses, he intimidated most people. But Tag was used to dealing with imposing, self-righteous assholes who thought their shit didn’t stink. Not to mention the lethal viruses he handled. He felt sorry for all the young interns that had to study under this difficult taskmaster.

“You can’t
let
us? I suppose I didn’t get the memo that you’d been elected the new sheriff of Cooke’s Island,” Goldstein said, continuing to walk toward the dock.

Tag hopped out of the golf cart and sprinted past the man and towards the middle of the dock. He faced Goldstein and pointed the Glock at him.

“You heard me, Dave. We have a situation on the island, and I’m afraid I’ve been designated to spread the word. For the time being no one is allowed to leave the island, and that includes you.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Winters?” he said, his jovial expression now turning sour and nasty. “What could have possibly happened that would prevent me from leaving here on my own boat?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the situation at the moment, Doctor, but if you return to your home right now, I’ll explain it to you later in much greater detail.”

“I’m not going back to my house, Winters. I’m going to take my guests on that dock and then onto the
Cera Bellum
like I planned. Then I’m going to head toward Portland and drop them off in town. When I return, I’ll be happy to discuss this matter and any other matters with you over a few cocktails.”

“The cocktails are not going to happen,” Tag said, clutching the Glock, “just as you leaving here is not going to happen.”

“What are you going to do, shoot me?” Goldstein laughed and turned to his startled guests. “Can you believe this guy?”

“Besides, you’re in no condition to captain that boat. How many cocktails have you had tonight?”

“Do you know who I
am
?” he screeched, punching his fist into his chest. “You’re a lowly army physician doing meatball surgery. I’m a world-renowned neurosurgeon in demand all over the world for my services. I save lives. I could destroy you in a heartbeat, Winters.”

Tag laughed. He’d never told people where he worked, especially his neighbors on the island. Whenever he was asked about his job, he told people that he was an army physician working in a veterans’ hospital in Maryland. To a world-renowned neurologist like Goldstein, it was the medical equivalent of bussing tables for a living.

“Get out of my way, Winters,” Goldstein said, pushing his way past and climbing onto the
Cera Bellum
.

“You won’t make it very far,” Tag said, standing next to the vessel.

“Come on, everyone. Climb onboard, and make yourself comfortable. Fear not my crazed neighbor,” Goldstein said, laughing. The five passengers walked nervously past him and boarded the powerboat.

He didn’t feel like wasting any more time. Goldstein started the engine, and it roared to life. Tag moved to the bow and pointed the gun at the hull. He could see Goldstein looking down at him from the cab. Tag took aim and fired the Glock into the fiberglass hull. He put two bullets into the vessel and then watched as seawater rushed in. He moved to the stern and fired three more times. Almost immediately the boat took on water. Goldstein rushed over to port and stared down at him in disbelief. He pointed his finger at him, stuttering for the right words to say, furious, his long, shapely hand shaking.

“You fucking madman! Winters, I’ll sue your ass for every dime you own. That summer shack of yours will end up being my goddamn bathhouse!”

“Good luck with that, Dave. Now get off the boat and take your passengers back up to the house. I’m done playing games here.”

Goldstein stood there in shock, staring down at him as his boat began to sink, all his prestige and money completely useless to him now. Realizing that he’d lost this battle, Goldstein downed the rest of his drink and tossed the glass far into the choppy waters. Then he ordered his guests off the
Cera Bellum
. Once they all stood on the dock again, Goldstein hustled them toward the shore.

“You’ll seriously regret fucking with me, Winters.”

“I suggest you take your guests back up to your cottage, Dave. Lock all the doors, and make sure you stay inside. Don’t come out for any reason whatsoever. I’ll come by later and check on you.”

“What kind of doctor are you anyway?” Goldstein asked.

“An army chiropractor,” he replied with a smile. “Make sure none of you use your cell phones. It’s imperative that you store them away and not make any calls. Please trust me on this.”

“Somehow I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that you’re no army chiropractor,” Goldstein said. “Is this some sort of military experiment?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Now take your people back up to the house and make them comfortable. Stay put until informed otherwise.”

Goldstein shook his head and headed up the steep set of stairs leading to his house. He looked defeated and climbed with a noticeable slump. Once they reached the top and disappeared from sight, Tag grabbed his power tool from the cart and drilled holes into the fiberglass hulls of all the boats moored to the dock. The
Cera Bellum
sat submerged in the water. Insurance would cover most of the costs of the repairs. Besides, Goldstein had enough money to buy an entire fleet of boats if he so desired. Once he’d disabled all the remaining vessels, Tag climbed in the golf cart and headed back onto the road. He drove down every side street leading down to the water and disabled the hulls of the smaller boats tied to the docks.