The Atlantis Plague: A Thriller (The Origin Mystery, Book 2) Page 3

  The man stood there for a moment, looking from David to Sloane and back again, as if he were a betting man, touring the stables, sizing up two thoroughbreds before a big race.

  Then a rhythmic noise cut the silence and began echoing through the chamber: naked feet slapping the iron floor. David’s eyes followed the sound. Sloane. He was out. He hobbled as best he could toward the dead bodies—and the guns beside them. David looked back at the Atlantean just as his own tube slid open. David leapt free, stumbled on his barely responsive legs, and then trudged forward. Sloane was already halfway to the guns.

  CHAPTER 5

  Orchid District

  Marbella, Spain

  The makeshift hospital wing was divided into two sections, and Kate had trouble understanding what she saw. In the middle of the room, small beds stretched out, one after another, like an army field hospital. People lay moaning and convulsing, some dying, others drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Martin began marching deeper into the room. “This plague is different from the outbreak in 1918.”

  The first outbreak Martin was referring to was the Spanish flu pandemic that swept the globe in 1918, killing an estimated fifty million people and infecting one billion. Kate and David had discovered what Martin and his Immari employers had known for almost a hundred years: that the plague had been unleashed by an ancient artifact her father had helped extract from the Atlantis structure in Gibraltar.

  Kate’s mind raced with questions, but as she surveyed the rows of beds and the dying, all she could manage was, “Why are they dying? I thought Orchid stopped the plague.”

  “It does. But we’re seeing a collapse in efficacy. We estimate that within a month, everyone will become unresponsive to Orchid. Some of the dying volunteer for the trials. Those are the people you’ve seen.”

  Kate walked closer to one of the beds, surveying the people, wondering… “What happens when Orchid fails?”

  “Without Orchid, almost ninety percent of those infected die within seventy-two hours.”

  Kate couldn’t believe it. The numbers had to be wrong. “Impossible. The mortality rate in 1918—”

  “Was much lower, true. This plague is different. We only realized how different when we began seeing the survivors.” Martin stopped and nodded toward a series of semi-enclosed cells along the dining-room wall. To Kate, the people inside seemed healthy, but most huddled together, not looking out. There was something very wrong with them, but she couldn’t quite place it. She took a step toward them.

  Martin caught her arm. “Don’t approach them. These survivors seem to essentially… devolve. It’s like their brain wiring gets scrambled. It’s worse for some than others, but it’s a regressive state.”

  “This happens to all survivors?”

  “No. Roughly half suffer this sort of de-evolution.”

  “And the other half?” Kate almost dreaded the answer.

  “Follow me.”

  Martin briefly conversed with a guard at the end of the room, and when he stepped aside, they passed into a smaller dining room. The windows had been boarded up and every inch of the room was divided into large cells, save for a narrow walkway down the middle.

  Martin didn’t step further into the room. “These are the other survivors—the ones that have caused trouble in the camp.”

  The cramped room must have held a hundred or more survivors, but it was dead silent. No one moved. Each stood and stared at Kate and Martin with cold, dispassionate eyes.

  Martin continued in a low tone. “There aren’t any physical changes. None that we’ve seen. But they experience a change in brain wiring as well. They get smarter. Like the devolving, the effects are variable, but some individuals exhibit problem-solving abilities that are off the charts. Some get a bit stronger. And there’s another theme: empathy and compassion seem to wane. Again it varies, but all survivors seem to suffer a collapse in social function.”

  As if on cue, the crowds on both sides of the room parted, revealing red letters on the walls behind them. They had written the words in blood.

  Orchid can’t stop Darwin.

  Orchid can’t stop Evolution.

  Orchid can’t stop The Plague.

  On the other side of the room, another survivor had written:

  The Atlantis Plague = Evolution = Human Destiny.

  In the next cell, the letters read:

  Evolution is inevitable.

  Only fools fight fate.

  “We’re not just fighting the plague,” Martin whispered. “We’re fighting the survivors who don’t want a cure, who see this as either humanity’s next step or a completely new beginning.”

  Kate just stood there, unsure what to say.

  Martin turned and led Kate out of the room, back out into the main hospital room, and through another exit, into what must have been the kitchen but was now a lab. A half dozen scientists sat on stools, working with equipment that sat on top of the steel tables. They all glanced up at her, and one by one they stopped their work and began gawking and conversing in hushed tones. Martin wrapped an arm around her and called over his shoulder, “Carry on,” as he ushered Kate quickly through the kitchen. He stopped abruptly at a door in the narrow hall behind the kitchen. He keyed a code into a small panel and the door popped open with a hiss. They stepped inside, and the moment the door sealed shut, he held out his hand. “The sample.”

  Kate fingered the plastic tube in her pocket. He was only giving her half the story—just enough to get what he wanted. She rocked back on her heels. “Why are the plague effects different this time? Why isn’t it happening like it did in 1918?”

  Martin paced away from her and collapsed into a wooden chair at an old oak desk. This must have been the restaurant manager’s office. It had a small window that looked out onto the grounds. The desk was covered with equipment that Kate didn’t recognize. Six large computer screens hung on the wall, displaying maps and charts and scrolling endless lines of text, like a stock market news ticker.

  Martin rubbed his temples, then shuffled a few papers. “The plague is different because we’re different. The human genome hasn’t changed much, but our brains operate very differently than they did a hundred years ago. We process information faster, we spend our days reading email, watching TV, devouring information on the internet, glued to our smartphones. We know lifestyle, diet, event stress can affect gene activation, and that has a direct effect on how pathogens influence us. Whoever designed the Atlantis Plague, this moment in our development is exactly what they have been waiting for. It’s like the plague was designed for this moment in time, for the human brain to reach a maturation point where it could be used.”

  “Use it for what?”

  “That’s the question, Kate. And we don’t know the answer, but we have some clues. As you’ve seen, we know that the Atlantis Plague operates primarily on brain wiring. For a small group of survivors, it seems to strengthen brain wiring. For the remaining survivors, it scrambles it. It kills the rest—apparently those it has no use for. The plague is changing humanity at the genetic level—effectively bioforming us into some desired outcome.”

  “Do you know what genes the plague targets?”

  “No, but we’re close. Our working theory is that the Atlantis Plague is simply a genetic update that attempts to manipulate The Atlantis Plague. It’s trying to complete the change in brain wiring that started seventy thousand years ago with the introduction of The Atlantis Plague—the first Great Leap Forward. So, we know that the Atlantis Plague manipulates The Atlantis Plague, but there are other… factors. And again, we don’t know what the endgame is. Is it a second Great Leap Forward—forcing us to advance—or is it a great step backward—a large-scale reversal in human evolution?”

  Kate tried to digest this. Through the window, a massive fight broke out on the grounds near the closest tower. A line of people scattered and a group rushed the guards. Kate thought it was the same survivors that had been brought in earlier, but
she couldn’t tell.

  Martin glanced out the window briefly and focused on Kate again. “Riots are common, especially when a new group is brought in.” He held out a hand. “I really do need that sample, Kate.”

  Kate scanned the room again—the equipment, the screens, the charts on the wall… “This is your trial, isn’t it? You’re the voice in the room. I’ve been working for you.”

  “We all work for somebody—”

  “I told you I wanted answers.”

  “The answer is yes. This is my trial.”

  “Why? Why lie to me?” Kate said, unable to hide the hurt in her voice. “I would have helped you.”

  “I know, but you would have had questions. I’ve dreaded this day—telling you the truth, telling you what I’ve done, telling you the state of the world. I wanted to shelter you from it, for… just a bit longer.” Martin looked away from her, and in that moment, he looked so much older.

  “Orchid. It’s a lie, isn’t it?”

  “No. Orchid is real. It stops the plague, but it only buys us time, and it’s failing. We’re having production problems and people are losing hope.”

  “You couldn’t have developed it overnight,” Kate said.

  “We didn’t. Orchid was our backup plan—developed by your father, actually. He made us assume that a plague would be unleashed, and forced us to search for a cure in case it ever occurred. We worked on it for decades, but we didn’t make any real progress until we found a cure for HIV.”

  “Wait, there’s a cure for HIV?”

  “I’ll tell you everything, Kate, I swear it. But I need the sample. And I need you to go back to your room. The SAS team is coming for you tomorrow. They’ll take you to England, to safety.”

  “What? I’m not going anywhere. I want to help.”

  “And you can. But I need to know that you’re safe.”

  “Safe from what?” Kate asked.

  “The Immari. There have been rumors that they’ve moved troops into the Mediterranean.”

  The radio reports Kate had heard mostly talked of Immari forces being defeated in third-world countries. She hadn’t given much thought to them. “The Immari are a threat?”

  “Absolutely. They’ve taken over most of the southern hemisphere.”

  “You can’t be serious—”

  “I am.” Martin shook his head. “You don’t understand. When the Atlantis Plague hit, over a billion people were infected within twenty-four hours. The governments that didn’t topple overnight declared martial law. Then the Immari started mopping up the world. They offered a novel solution: a society of survivors—but only the rapidly evolving ones, what they call ‘the chosen.’ They started with the southern hemisphere, with high-population nations near Antarctica. They control Argentina, Chile, South Africa, and a dozen others.”

  “What—”

  “They’re building an army for the invasion in Antarctica.”

  Kate stared at him. It couldn’t be. The BBC reports were so positive. Subconsciously, she pulled the tube from her pocket and handed it to him.

  Martin took the tube and swiveled around in the chair. He hit a button on a thermos-like container with a small readout and what looked like a satellite phone attached to the side. The top of the container opened, and Martin dropped the plastic tube inside.

  Through the window, the fighting in the camp grew more intense.

  “What are you doing?” Kate asked.

  “Uploading our results to the network.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “We’re one of several sites. I think we’re close, Kate.”

  Explosions in the camp filled the small window, and Kate could feel the rush of heat, even through the wall. Martin punched the keyboard and the screens switched to a view of the camp, then the coast. A group of black helicopters filled the screen. Martin stood a split second before the building shook, throwing Kate to the ground. Her ears rang, and she felt Martin jump on top of her, sheltering her from the rubble falling from the ceiling.

  CHAPTER 6

  Two Miles Below Immari Operations Base Prism

  Antarctica

  Dorian had almost reached the dead bodies—and the guns—in the corridor beyond the cavernous chamber. Behind him, he heard David’s naked feet pounding the floor. Dorian thought of jumping, but David tackled him, sending Dorian face first into the floor. A shrill wail filled the space as his bare skin slid across the cold floor.

  They came to rest in the drying pool of blood around the dead bodies—their dead bodies. Dorian got the jump on his pursuer. He lifted his blood-soaked body just far enough off the floor to throw an elbow into David’s face.

  David reeled back and Dorian seized the opening. He twisted and threw David off of him, then scrambled for the pistol lying six feet away, at the edge of the pool of blood—the same pistol David had killed him with before. He had to reach it; it was his only chance. David was thirty-three, about ten years younger than Dorian, and though Dorian would never admit it aloud, David was easily one of the best hand-to-hand fighters he had ever seen. This was a fight to the death, and without the pistol, Dorian knew he would lose.

  Dorian felt David’s fingernails dig into the back of his thigh the instant before the fist slammed into his lower back. Pain shot into his kidneys and swept up his chest, sending waves of nausea that engulfed him. Dorian gagged as the second blow struck higher up, in the middle of his back, directly on his spine. The pain rushing over him almost subsided as he lost sensation in his legs. He collapsed to the floor as David crawled on top of him, preparing to finish him with a blow to the back of the head.

  Dorian set his palms on the bloody floor, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, he pushed up, throwing his head back. He connected squarely with David’s chin, sending him off balance.

  Dorian collapsed back to the floor and commando-crawled on his elbows, dragging his body through the blood. He had the gun, and he flipped over just as David landed on top of him. Dorian raised the gun, but David grabbed his wrists. He was stronger than Dorian, and he easily overpowered him. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dorian saw the Atlantean pace closer. He stared dispassionately, like a spectator at a dog fight who hadn’t bet on this round.

  Dorian tried to think—he had to regain the advantage somehow. He released the tension in his arms and let them fall quickly to the ground. David lunged forward, but held his grip. Dorian twisted the gun in his right hand, pointed it at the Atlantean, and pulled the trigger.

  David released Dorian’s left hand and grabbed desperately for the gun with his right. The fool was trying to save the Atlantean, as Dorian hoped he would. Dorian formed a straight wedge with his left hand and drove it into David’s upper abs, paralyzing his diaphragm. David gasped for air and rocked back. Dorian broke David’s grip, raised the gun, and shot him once in the head. Then he turned the gun and shot the Atlantean until the clip was empty.

  CHAPTER 7

  Two Miles Below Immari Operations Base Prism

  Antarctica

  The Atlantean stared at Dorian with a look of mild amusement. Dorian’s bullets had gone right through him. Or had his shots missed? Dorian’s eyes went to the other pistol in the chamber.

  “You want to try another gun, Dorian? Go ahead. I’ll wait. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Dorian froze. This thing knew his name. And it wasn’t afraid.

  The Atlantean stepped closer to Dorian. He stood in the pool of blood, but not a single drop stuck to his feet. “I know what you came here to do, Dorian.” He stared at Dorian, not blinking. “You came down here to save your father and kill your enemy—to make your world safe. You’ve just killed your only enemy down here.”

  Dorian tore his gaze from the monster and scanned the room for something, anything he could use. Sensation had returned to his legs and he stood and staggered backward, away from the Atlantean, never taking his eyes off him. The Atlantean fixed Dorian with a smile, but made no effort to move.

  I have to get
out, Dorian thought. His mind raced. What do I need? An environmental suit. His father had worn Dorian’s suit out. Kate’s suit had been damaged, but maybe he could repair it. The suits her two mute children had worn would be too small for him, but perhaps he could use some of the material to patch Kate’s suit. He only needed protection from the cold for a few minutes—just long enough to get to the surface and order the attack.

  He turned and darted down the corridor, but the doors slammed shut in front of him and all around him, sealing every exit.

  The Atlantean materialized in front of Dorian. “You can go when I say you can go, Dorian.”

  Dorian stared at him, a mix of defiance and shock on his face.

  “What’s it going to be, Dorian? The easy way or the hard way?” He waited, and when Dorian didn’t respond, he nodded dispassionately. “So be it.”

  Dorian felt the air drain from the room like a vacuum. All sound faded and a sharp punch hit him in the chest. He opened his mouth and tried in vain to suck a breath. He fell to his knees. Spots dotted his vision. The floor raced up as he fell into darkness.

  CHAPTER 8

  Orchid District

  Marbella, Spain

  Kate rolled Martin off of her and quickly inspected him, assessing his wounds. Blood flowed from a gash at the back of his head. Kate thought he probably had a mild concussion, but to her surprise, he squinted, blinked several times, and leapt up. He scanned the room, and Kate followed his gaze. The computers and most of the equipment on the table had been destroyed.