The Liger Plague (Book 1) (9 page)

A Coast Guard cutter cruised just offshore, motoring through the choppy sea and on the lookout for any craft trying to leave the island. It occurred to him that there were now two enforcement agencies that had knowledge of the situation on Cooke’s, and he was sure there were other agencies involved as well. He steered the cart back onto Atlantic View Road and climbed the hill leading to his home. The golf cart still had a full tank of gas left in it. Good thing he always made sure to fill it whenever he left the island.

Satisfied that he had disabled every boat on the island, or as many as he could find, he turned onto Sandy Lane and sped to the top. All the lights at home had been shut off. He skidded to a stop and jumped out of the golf cart, feeling his knee start to buckle. Pain shot up his leg, and he collapsed onto the driveway. His head was swimming, and he started to feel dizzy. Sitting up, he could see out into Casco Bay and some of the smaller islands in the moonlight dotting it. The swirling beam of the Portland Headlight spanned the open waters, revealing swells and sprays of whitewater, and anything else in its path. He placed his palms on the pavement and tried to push himself up but was too weak to stand. What was happening to him? He felt nauseous, hot and fatigued all over.

Tag closed his eyes and passed out, waking up sometime later that night. How long had he been out? It was still night-time, but for some reason it seemed much darker than usual. Mustering all his strength, he scraped his knees forward until they rested under his chest. He knelt in a fetal position for ten minutes before he decided to try to stand. He raised his head and tried to keep it from wobbling on his usually strong neck. He brought up his right leg first. Then with both palms flat on the pavement, he pushed himself up to both feet and stood, trying to maintain his equilibrium. He felt like throwing up. Out in the open water, a massive oil tanker cruised silently in the night, its proscenium of lights contrasted against the dark body of ocean.

He stood there for what seemed like forever. Then he realized why it seemed so dark outside. All the house and streetlights had been shut off. He turned to his right and took a step, unsteady on his feet. Roughly thirty feet separated him from the front door. He held his arms out for balance and took another feeble step, feeling like a zombie in one of those late-night horror movies. About halfway to his house he stumbled again and fell, his knees quivering like Jell-O. It took him another ten minutes to work up the energy to try to stand again. By the time he climbed the steps and made it to his front door, he was dripping with sweat and sore all over. He turned the handle but found the door was locked. It occurred to him that he’d left his keys and pistol out in the golf cart, but he didn’t have the energy to go back and retrieve them. Struggling to lift his arm, he held it out with the help of his left hand and pressed the doorbell. Then he waited for someone to answer.

He wondered what had made him sick, completely certain now that this situation was no hoax. Any number of viruses could be responsible. The vaccine provided to him could have been a placebo, leaving him at risk to contract whatever infectious disease had been unleashed. It didn’t matter now; he was too far gone to worry about it. And yet why would the caller slip him a placebo unless he hoped to draw him to the island under false pretenses? Then again, nothing would have kept him off this island, knowing his family was on it and in danger of becoming infected.

He rang the bell again and waited for what seemed like forever.

It hit him then why he’d become sick. That vaccine had been given to him for a specific reason. Vaccines often caused those who had been vaccinated to become sick soon after receiving it. In a very small percentage of cases, the vaccinated person even succumbed to the illness. If the vaccination given to him had caused him to become this sick, what would the real virus do to people?

He rang the bell one last time, falling back against the handrail in exhaustion, sweat pouring down his face. If his wife or daughter didn’t come to the door soon, he would pass out right here on the stoop. Another long five minutes passed. He fell to his knees, leaning against the storm door for support, weakly banging his fist against the door. He heard a creaking noise, and when he looked up, he saw the front door cracking open.

“Dad!”

Collapsing to the stoop, he passed out.

Chapter 7

The sound of the doorbell ringing woke him out of his fitful sleep. He opened his eyes to pitch blackness. The doorbell continued to ring. Where was he? What happened? The strange visions he’d experienced in his sleep now came back to him. Hemorrhaging victims of the Ebola virus chasing him through town. Anthrax spores as big as diamonds. Black plague scenarios. He tried to sit up, but his head hurt so bad that he gave up, staring blindly into the darkness.

The events of the night came back to him in bits and fragments, and he remembered riding around the island and drilling holes into the hulls of all the boats and jet skis that he could find. With so much to do in order to keep people from panicking, he felt guilty lying here and wasting precious time. He knew he had to do whatever it took to get healthy again so he could get back out there before something worse happened.

His phone chirped, and he saw that his daughter had texted him to say that she was fine and looking forward to seeing him next week. Grateful that he now knew his two kids on the mainland were okay, he stashed his phone back in his pocket.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he was able to make out shapes and silhouettes. He found himself lying on the couch in the basement of the family room. Monica and Taylor must have helped him down here last night. His entire body felt achy and sore, and his head thundered with pain, the likes of which he’d never before felt. Sweat dripped from every pore on his body, and he was shivering so badly he could barely catch his breath. His fever may have broken, but he still felt like death. He slid his feet off the couch and, with all his energy, sat up, moaning in agony at the rush of blood to his head. When he stood to walk up the basement stairs, the door at the top opened, and light flooded down the narrow stairwell, temporarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes from the painful beam.

“Are you okay, hon?” Monica called down to him.

“Not really. What time is it, and who keeps ringing the doorbell?”

“We have a problem, Tag. People are wandering along the streets and looking for food and someplace to stay. It’s all over the news and radio now. I’ve been helping the best I can, leaving out food for the families with kids.”

“Why don’t they just go downtown where the markets are located and take all the food off the shelves?” he said, climbing the stairs.

“It’s probably all gone by now. And they’re saying it’s dangerous downtown. Looters and rioters are everywhere. Sometime last night the island lost power. Gangs of people are looting stores and taking whatever supplies they can find, even attacking those people that get in their way.”

“Jesus!” he said, finally reaching the top step.

He heard his wife gasp while he stood there, trying to acclimate his eyes to the brightness of day. The light diffused everything and caused his sight to become blurry and distorted. He could see the general outline of his wife standing in front of him, her slender artist’s hand cupped over her mouth.

“Where’s Taylor?”

“She’s in the upstairs bedroom, keeping an eye out in case anyone tries to break in. She’s got the Browning rifle with her,” she said, her voice quivering. “Oh my God, Tag. Look at you. What happened?”

“Huh?” Blurry red splotches appeared on his arms and hands. He put his hand up to his face and felt the tiny knots, and knew instantly what it was.

“You’ve developed some kind of rash.”

“It’s not a rash, hon. It’s smallpox,” he said, trying not to frighten her.

“I thought smallpox doesn’t usually occur so soon after exposure?”

“It doesn’t,” he said, impressed with her knowledge of the disease. “It must have been caused by the vaccine given to me.”

“What vaccine?”

“The one left for me in my Jeep. Whoever committed this crime wants me to survive.”

“But why you, Tag?”

He shrugged, unable to provide her with a good answer.

He squinted and tried to focus on the blisters. Hard white balls sat in the center of these pustules, and they were spaced out like chicken pox. The mystery caller was right; the disease had advanced ridiculously fast. He thought that if it were a full-blown case of smallpox, these blisters would be closer together, and for that reason he guessed it might be a variation of variola minor. What troubled him was the rapid progression of the disease. He’d never heard of smallpox developing so quickly to pustules.

His mouth felt dry and parched. He staggered over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice, gulping down the remaining contents. His wife hated when he did that, fearing he might spread germs. The fact that the juice was icy cold indicated to him that his wife or daughter had fired up the generator, which could run continuously for twelve hours before it needed to be refueled.

“Who turned on the generator?”

“Taylor had the smarts to turn it on when the power went out. You showed her how to do it last year, remember? It was also her idea to keep watch upstairs with the Browning.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Tag, I’m scared. What are we going to do?”

“Exactly what we’re doing now. Stay calm and stay put. I should probably get out of the house while I’m still in the infectious stage. I suppose it’s still possible that you and Taylor didn’t breathe in that virus.”

“You can forget that idea, Tag, because that sculpture was practically blowing the cloud up our noses. I’m absolutely sure we breathed it directly into our lungs. The only question is whether it’s the same variety for which you were vaccinated.”

“Will you go downstairs and get my M4, some magazines and my Glock? I need to go downtown and find those two Portland cops. I can’t believe they’re not taking control of this situation. I’ll take the BMW.”

“You’re in no condition to drive, Tag. I suggest you head back downstairs and lay on that couch for a while, and I’ll heat you up some chicken soup.”

Tag grabbed a couple of AVAB masks. “There’s no time for soup. I need to be out there on the streets and helping control this situation before people on this island start to kill each other,” he said, facing his wife while at the same time trying to keep his balance. “Even if this outbreak is the less lethal version of smallpox, many people are still going to become seriously ill and require medical attention. Being a doctor, and vaccinated to boot, I’m the only one left for the job.”

“I don’t understand. Why would a terrorist pick Cooke’s Island to unleash a virus instead of a major city? And why would he or she choose to strike with a relatively harmless virus such as variola minor rather than the more lethal strain?”

“My fear is that it’s a hybrid organism, in which case the smallpox could be used to transport a deadlier, secondary virus. Encephalitis comes to mind as a possibility. That and rabies.”

“What could be more lethal and infectious than smallpox?”

“Smallpox has a high infection rate, but a deadly strain of the virus is also difficult to come by these days. The most lethal strains of it are locked away in secure U.S. and Russian vaults, and only people with the highest security can even access them.” He took hold of his wife’s shoulders, trying to keep a safe distance from her. “Bet you never thought you’d have such a hideous-looking husband, huh, babe?”

“You were hideous when I married you, Tag, so there’s no change there.”

“Do we still have those two-way radios in the closet? The walkie-talkies you used to use to call us back from the beach when dinner was ready?”

“Yes. They should still be in the closet, charged up and ready to go.”

Tag went over to the closet and saw the two radios sitting in their rechargeable base. He pulled them down, placed the base on the kitchen counter, then plugged it into the socket. Upon turning the set on, he pressed the button and heard garbled static. The radios were quite powerful, and their range extended over a good portion of the island.

“We’ll use these to communicate. Under no circumstance do we use a cell phone.”

He heard a noise from upstairs and turned to see Taylor walking down the steps and into the kitchen. She placed the Browning rifle on the kitchen table and stared at him.

“Jesus, Dad, what happened to you? You look totally gross.”

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”

“So what was in that glass sculpture, Dad? Is that what did this to you? To the entire island?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Tag said, holding onto the kitchen counter in order to keep from falling. “Look, I have to go out for a spell. You and Mom need to keep all the doors locked and stay inside the house until I get back. Don’t open the door for anyone; I don’t care how desperate they seem. If something comes up, then contact me on the radio and let me know.”

“Look at you, Dad. You’re way too sick to go out there. You can barely stand.”

“Don’t worry about me.” The clock on the wall showed it to be 8:17 a.m. “I’m going to take the Beamer. Normally I’d give you both a hug, but while I’m still contagious, I think I’ll pass on the warm embrace just to be on the safe side.”

“Dad, are we going to get sick and die?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it. We’re going to get through this as a family.”

Tag heard a knock on the door. He looked out the window and saw a woman standing there with her arms crossed and a sour expression on her face. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore a conservative black dress that extended to mid-calf. Tag released the deadbolt and cracked the door open.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I was supposed to clean the Jew doctor’s house, Goldstein, but he told me to go home. Said that something bad was happening on the island and that people were losing their minds. Must be those damn mainlanders getting drunk again,” she said. “Saw your car in the driveway and figured I’d ask if you could give an island lady a lift home. Twisted my ankle on the way over.”